While it was Still Dark

John 20:1-18

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, ‘They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.’ Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went towards the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.

But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’ She said to them, ‘They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.’ When she had said this, she turned round and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping? For whom are you looking?’ Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary!’ She turned and said to him in Hebrew, ‘Rabbouni!’ (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, ‘Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, “I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.” ’ Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord’; and she told them that he had said these things to her.

Early on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene arrives at the tomb. Unlike in the other three versions of the story, in this version, Mary comes to the tomb alone. In this version, it is still dark. And in this version, there doesn’t seem to be any specific reason as to why she is there—no burial or funeral rites to perform. Mary, sick with grief, visiting the grave of her Lord in the small, dark hours of the early morning when no one else will be around to see her deep, unknowable sadness. A deceptively peaceful stillness surrounding her before she realizes, to her absolute horror, the stone has been pushed aside. She runs to tell Peter and an unnamed beloved disciple what she’s seen, that she fears Jesus’ grave has been robbed.

In classic competitive young male fashion Peter and this nameless beloved disciple sprint in an absurd footrace to see who is the first to make it to the tomb. Though the beloved disciple wins the race, Peter pushes past him, making sure to be the one to enter the tomb first and sees the linens that should have been wrapped around the body of Jesus. But Peter doesn’t appear to say or even think anything one way or the other; the beloved disciple seems to truly believe that something good has happened, but, as it’s written “…they did not yet understand the scripture…” and Peter and the disciple Jesus loved went home. They just turned around and went home, leaving Mary sobbing alone at the grave.

What did Mary know? What did Mary feel that compelled her to stay in this space of sadness and grief and death? What drove Mary to stay here when these two supposed friends seem to have abandoned her? Whether or not it was conscious, whether it was her own unconscious or God calling her, Mary understood something those who went home did not understand. Mary stayed at the tomb. Mary stood weeping, bravely confronting her trauma, her anger, her unthinkable grief. Mary came to the tomb in the dark. And even has the sun rose, and the two other disciples left Mary, she remained, standing in her own darkness, wailing, keening, weeping about what could have happened to her Lord. Jesus saw her sorrow. Jesus saw Mary bravely giving into her feelings, letting it all go and Jesus revealed himself to her. Overwhelmed by her anguish and her pain, Mary was unable to see, to believe that it could truly be Jesus risen from the tomb, until Jesus says her name. “Mary!” There’s an exclamation point at the end of that Mary, and I imagine Jesus seeing his beloved, his loyal friend and follower Mary, in her grief, and I imagine how much it pained him. I can hear the gentle desperation in his voice, as he says her name so she’ll know, so she’ll understand who he is, and understand and hear his love.  And then, in her deep pain, Mary felt seen. In her deep anguish Mary was seen. She was so deeply and so intimately seen. Mary, in her darkest moment, in her loss and her grief was seen.  

It’s Easter, Church, but it’s another strange one. I know Easter is supposed to be joyful—and this Easter, while still on Zoom, is exciting. We know we’re in the home stretch and that this resurrection, this Spring, this Easter really is ushering in a truly new and triumphant time! But there’s still things we need to face. So let’s get the tough stuff out of the way right now—this year has been hard. This year has been traumatic. This year has been filled with loss and grief and much of that loss and grief has remained in the air, misunderstood and unanswered for. We want to celebrate, we want it to be over, we want to run away from all this loss and this trauma and this pandemic year that we don’t understand, but we can’t. Despite the joyfulness and triumph that comes with Easter, we can’t ignore the fact that this year has been one of loneliness and isolation. And so let’s acknowledge that we’re still in this early morning hours before the dawn. We’re still in the dark waiting, for just a little longer.

Mary went to the tomb alone. I believe she went to the tomb to grieve. I believe she went to the tomb to be alone with her thoughts and her prayers and her memory of her beloved Jesus. It’s hard to face grief and a trauma like that, Church. It takes so much strength. So much bravery. So imagine how shocked and distressed she must have been, to go to the grave to pray, to weep, to find some sense of closure and to find it empty. I always talk about how well and how perfectly Jesus knows each of our pains, and I will talk about that shortly, but I believe Mary Magdalene, the version of her from this story, I believe she is uniquely qualified to understand so many of our pains and sorrows from this year. Thousands and thousands of people this year were denied the opportunity to say good-bye, denied the opportunity to pray at the graveside, denied peace. Mary knows this feeling all too well—to be frantic and grieving and alone.

And then Mary is chosen to announce to the world, I have seen the Lord. Yes, Mary saw the Lord, but the Lord also saw her. The Lord saw her in her time of need and revealed himself. The Lord saw her in her time of isolation and confusion and said her name.

I know it initially sounds a little morbid, but I actually love Holy Week, the week that leads up to this perfect triumphant day. And the reason I love it so much is not because I’m some kind of masochist—I love it because it shows Jesus at his most deeply human, and as someone who at times has struggled with anxiety and depression, it helps me feel not so alone. Even at my lowest, I know Jesus is with me, I know Jesus weeps with me, I know Jesus’ stomach gets tied up in knots with mine. And I feel a real bond and a solidarity and a love with Jesus in this. Everything horrific thing that happened to Jesus leading up to this day was is Jesus letting us know he is with us—it’s Jesus letting us know that he stands with the little guy, the oppressed, the downtrodden, the suffering. And it is no different after Jesus is risen. When Jesus reveals himself, he doesn’t chase after Peter, he doesn’t chase after even this disciple that he apparently loved best. He reveals himself to the person who stayed weeping at the tomb. He reveals himself to the person who came to the tomb to cry and to grieve and to really feel. 

But Jesus also says to Mary, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father.” I imagine Mary goes to embrace Jesus, to hug him as tightly as she possibly can, but he stops her—it’s a little ambiguous here, what he means by this; it’s not explained the reason she can’t embrace him between this brief time back on Earth before he goes back to God—but Mary is not offended by this. I believe she understood that this was Jesus essentially saying, “Yes, I am here, yes, I will always be here, but not in the way you are used to. Things will be different from now on.” Mary then goes out to tell everyone the news. That Jesus is ascending—that Jesus conquered the oppressive forces that killed him—that Jesus conquered evil and conquered death. And that this world both without and with Jesus will be a new and different one. Jesus may not be physically here, but we must continue to spread the word and do to the good works that he has always called us to do.

What will the new world look like when we emerge from this pandemic year, from this quarantine? When we emerge from our own respective isolations? And what can we do to ensure that this won’t happen again? What can we do to ensure that no one will ever have to feel so afraid and isolated and alone? What can we do so that people no longer are teetering the brink of homelessness, of joblessness? What can we do?

I think church, that we are about to rise to see a different world from the one we remember from last March. And I think, as our eyes get used to the brightness, as we make our way out of the dark early dawn, I think as we ease into a new world on unsure footing, I think we need to take some pointers from Mary Magdalene. Before we can spread the good news, we need to face our own surely conflicting and confused feelings. We need to check in with ourselves, to cry it out, to be angry at the loss of this year. And while we do this, we need to know and trust that Jesus is with us. That Jesus did not conquer death and evil himself to abandon us in our time of need. We need to know and trust that Jesus is always with us as we make it through this last stretch of waiting, this last stretch of difficult times. We need to be like Mary and be patient and not rush away to the next thing. We need to be like Mary by not ignoring the difficulties and traumas of this past year.

I often times join in on a COVID clergy support group on Zoom on Tuesday mornings, in which clergy just vent and discuss how we’re all faring during this strange COVID worship era. One of my colleagues in the group got some advice from a friend recently that though we clergy may not be able to really celebrate the resurrection in the chaos that Holy Week often is for us, we don’t have to, and we can find some other way to celebrate it at a later date, once things have calmed down. But this year, I don’t think that only goes for clergy. I think this goes for everyone celebrating, or trying to celebrate Easter right now. We’re so close to Easter coinciding with this perfect joyous time! So close to a real renewal of spirit of each of us, so close to a second chance for this society, this world to get it right! But as of right now, it’s still the dark before the dawn.

I think this Easter can be a time to celebrate the perpetual hope that Jesus brings us. This Easter can be a reminder that Jesus reveals himself to those who are honest, to those who are troubled, to those who confront the tough stuff. I think this Easter can be a reminder of what’s not yet here, but what’s coming—as Jesus even states at the end here, the cycle is not yet complete; he must still rise to be with God in Heaven.

The cycle is not complete today church. We’re not done yet. This world doesn’t get fixed with one or two jabs in everyone’s arm. This normal that we came from last March isn’t good enough, it’s not what we go back to. To get to where we need to be, I think we start by being honest with ourselves, by being honest with each other and making an effort to really see each other. As we emerge from isolation, from our grief, we must see Jesus in the face of every person in need. We must see Mary Magdalene of every person who has lost someone.

And as we remain in this dark for just a little longer, as we suffer and struggle and keep our heads above water for just a little longer, we can feel strengthened, buoyed, by the presence of Jesus—by Jesus calling us each by our names… by Jesus truly, completely seeing us.

We are still in the darkest hours before the dawn. We’re still waiting for the full ascension of the sun; we are still waiting. But just as we know Jesus rose today, we can now know the light is truly on the horizon. And while it is still dark, we will know Jesus sees us and stands with us in our sorrows. And as the sun rises slowly but surely, we know that the promise of the resurrection remains with us always. Soon this darkness will be in the past tense. Soon, church. This promise is eternal. Amen.