Welcome to the Resurrection
by Pamela J. Tinnin

            Years ago they called me Mary Magdelene, but now I am just Old Mary, the story teller. It is a good disguise—who is threatened by an old woman who tells tales? I keep to myself, travel the back roads, and no one the wiser.

            I would not be the first to fall to the wrath of the Romans. If they find you are a follower of Jesus, they do all manner of things—chain you in the dungeons, throw you to the lions, cut off your head. But even that cannot keep me from telling what I know. Yet I must warn you. This is a hard story—there is death in it, but listen and you will also hear of life.

            The day Jesus died, we women kept together, not far from the cross where he hung. We heard the ring of the hammers, saw the blood that spilled from his hands and feet. At the last, when all hope was gone, we prayed for a miracle—after all, Jesus had done miracles enough.

            But there were no miracles that day. The soldiers tortured him—one dipped a sponge in vinegar, put it on the end of a stick, and pressed it against Jesus’ lips—vinegar was what he tasted as he died, vinegar bitter on his tongue. At the end, Jesus called out, his voice breaking in agony, “Why have you forsaken me?” When he breathed his last, his mother wept, her heart broken beyond mending.

            Hour after hour we stayed there near the three crosses. We stayed when the darkness came; we stayed when the earth shook, and stones fell from the rooftops. In the screaming and weeping and the roll of thunder, I looked to the cross. His body shown pale in the flash of the lightning. We women clung together and cried, but we could not leave the place where he hung; we could not leave him alone in his death.

            We were still there when night came, Joanna and I. John had taken Jesus’ mother. I saw her stumble and John called to Peter and they carried her away. We were hiding in the shadow of a large rock when we saw Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus. They carried a scroll and when they showed it to the soldiers, the soldiers lowered the cross where Jesus hung. We heard the screech of the nails as they pulled them from the wood.

            When Joseph and Nicodemus carried his body away into the darkness, Joanna and I followed. They walked down a rocky path to a place of caves. There was a garden there, next to where Joseph had carved his tomb into the stone cliff. That’s where they took him, Joseph’s own tomb, and placed him there on a ledge.

            Nicodemus pulled a tiny lamp from his bag, but hid the flame so it would not give off much light. Then Joseph brought out white strips of cloth and a jar of spices and ointment. He soaked the cloth and wrapped Jesus’ face, his hands as gentle as a woman’s. The two worked for a long time, until the body was completely covered, with no sound except the whispers of their prayers. They were busy and did not notice us hiding there. We fled when we saw their work was finished.

            We spent the night at Miriam’s house—she let us sleep on a pallet if we promised to leave before the sun’s first light. We could not blame her—people were frightened and did not know what was to come. As we crept through town in the gray light of morning, the merchants were setting up for that day’s market as if nothing had happened at all. We stopped at a fruit stall and got figs to go with our bread.

            But we could not stay away—we knew it was foolish, that it could bring trouble on our heads. We made our way back to the garden down a path that no one used. But when we got there, the stone had been rolled away. The stone that took three men to move had been rolled back and lay against the rock. There were no guards, and the tomb was empty—empty. We were so frightened—who could have taken his body? We ran back to the place where Simon Peter was staying with Jesus’ closest followers. “They have taken our Lord,“ we cried, “we do not know where they have laid him.”

            It was sure to cause trouble with the Romans, and the people would believe we had conspired to trick them. Peter called to another disciple and they went to see for them-selves. We followed them but not too close. The other disciple ran ahead and we heard his shout, “There is no one here—he is gone!” And when Simon Peter ran in, he saw the burial cloth lying there, rolled up and put aside. It was so strange, they fled, and Joanna along with them.

            I could not leave, but stood next to the cave, thinking of all that had happened. How I had seen him give sight to a blind man and raise a cripple to his feet. How we had all lived together as a family, and our loneliness had ended. How Jesus had touched me and my life was never the same. How it all ended. I stood there remembering and weeping.

            Suddenly I saw a man standing near the cave. He spoke and there was something in his voice that sounded so familiar, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom do you seek?” In the dim light I could not see his face, so thought he was the gardener. “Oh, sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where and I will go to him.”

            “Mary,” came the voice again. Just “Mary” and suddenly I knew. It was him—it was our Lord and all that he had told us was true. He had been dead but was dead no longer. He was alive, and would live on through the ages, and his teachings would live on in us. He was the very son of God.  The last thing he told me was “Go to my brothers and tell them, I am going away to be with my Father and your Father; my God and your God.”

            I ran all the way to the house where Simon Peter was, and could not contain my joy. “I have seen the Lord, I have seen the Lord.” I told them all that had happened.

            They looked at me as if I was a mad woman. My heart was crushed—they did not believe me. After all, I am just a woman. They did not believe me until they, too, had seen him—there by the water when he fed them fish and bread, and again on the road to Emmaus.

            Of course, you may say, these are only words. But listen well—I have spent thirty years living off the charity of others with no place to call my own. I have wandered to villages no one has heard of, spreading the word, telling the story. I knew he was more than a man the first time I saw him. My life had been nothing but suffering and no one ever reached out a hand to help me, no one but him. He touched me, that is all—just touched me, and I was made whole.

            You may say, we were not there—we have not seen him. How are we to believe? But you can, you can—he is here, now, whenever people listening for his word gather together. If you only look, you will see him in the faces of your brothers and sisters; you will hear him in the silence, and in the songs, you will feel his presence when you gather at the table. He is here this morning; he wants to touch you and heal you—why do you hesitate? Do not be afraid—just open your heart to him. When you do, it will be a holy moment; whatever is broken will be brought back together, and you will find resurrection.

(Comments to Pam at pamelatinnin@EARTHLINK.NET )

Guerneville Community Church-UCC
Guerneville, California