Resurrection was easy when Jesus was the One doing it. But what do you do when the Life has been killed?
It was easy for dead men to hear when Jesus was the One speaking. But what do you do when the Word has been silenced?
It was easy to remove the cover from Lazarus’ putrid grave when Jesus was the One asking. But what do you do when the Rock has been sealed behind a heavy stone?
The answer for Mary Magdalene was simple. You treasure Him as much as you did when He breathed.
Did she get much sleep that night? Or did she have a million thoughts racing through her brain, wondering what the future held? Did the rooster wake her, or was she already packing her supplies to meet her friends at the tomb before he crowed?
The gospels don’t tell us what happened on the way to the tomb, but I can imagine. Bloodshot eyes with no more tears to shed, throats hoarse from the sobbing, an ache in their chests equal parts physical and emotional, the shared silence splintered only by footsteps. Healings, miracles, and parables had moved from reality to history. Jesus was a memory now, not a man. And yet the women came.
The Sabbath was hardly over and dawn barely breaking when they (the other Mary, Salome, Joanna, and possibly more women) arrived. Priests of a different order bearing anointing spices, scented honor fit for a king. The God of the Hebrews had a soft spot for pleasing aromas. Mary of Bethany had poured out a small fortune on His feet a week prior; Nicodemus had brought seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes for His burial. Many probably called it a waste of money on a cadaver. But for the One who had changed their lives, it was worth it.
But if Jesus was so powerful, why didn’t He do something to stop this? Demons and weather patterns and death trembled in the presence of this Man. Why not politicians and priests? He had predicted His death repeatedly, even just days ago. Clearly, He was a prophet, but couldn’t He have done something with that foreknowledge? He had promised salvation to the nations, but it seemed like a terrible idea for a God to die to save the world.
By the time they arrived at the tomb, though, any philosophical ponderings had faded from their mind. The question was purely practical: who would roll the stone away? An uncounted number of guards were already there who certainly possessed the requisite strength, but why would they oblige the request of these women? Besides, they had been warned that the Rabbi’s ragtag group of misfits would probably try to steal the body, imply a resurrection, and attempt some kind of political coup. The updated guard motto: beware of Greeks bearing gifts and Hebrews bearing spices.
Put yourself in Mary Magdalene’s sandals for a moment. She had nothing more than a fuzzy outline of what she was going to do. All she knew was that her Jesus was in a tomb and she was going to honor Him; the logistics would have to figure themselves out. Until she walked into the garden and the whole plan fell apart.
What was her headspace for the next several minutes? Good news: the stone has been moved. Bad news: the body is missing. Dead men don’t just waltz out of graves on their own accord, so someone’s up to something. It had to have happened yesterday, which was Sabbath, which means the Romans did it. But the Romans didn’t care that much about this Man, so it had to have been at the instigation of the Jewish leaders. Alright, run back and tell Peter and John, at least they’ve been in the high priest’s house and would know who to ask.
Peter and John came, looked at the crime scene, and went home. Mary Magdalene was left with her spices, a gift now fully useless. All she wanted was to give Jesus – the Healer who had chased seven demons out of her, the Messiah who had saved her life – one final offering, and she couldn’t even do that. They had already murdered a righteous man and now they wouldn’t even let His body rest. The tears come back.
She peeks into the grave with blurry eyes, praying to wake up from whatever nightmare she was in. Her only hope was to find a corpse. But instead, a new wrinkle: strange men – neither Jew nor Gentile – dressed in radiant white, spouting cryptic sayings and asking the most obvious questions. Why are you looking for the living among the dead? Because this is a grave and dead men usually stay put once they get here. Why are you crying? Again, this is a grave, where grieving happens, and I don’t know where they took my Lord.
Mary leaves the empty tomb and two angelic riddlers alone to find a gardener. Obviously a hired hand from Joseph of Arimathea. Finally, someone who belongs here. And he has the decency to ask the first sane question she’s heard all day: who are you looking for? She can’t even look at Him straight but she sobs an answer out. Please sir, if you took His body, just tell me where you put it. I have to find Him.
Then the gardener says one word. “Mary.”
And everything changes.