Mary Magdalene

I really love her story. I find it touching, and mysterious, and so very, very human. The alternate Easter gospel lesson (John 20:1-18) is for me, one of the most beautiful vignettes in all of the Bible, simply because of the recognizable humanity of its central character, Mary Magdalene.

Poor Mary. She's been so maligned over the centuries. In 591, Pope Gregory the Great got it into his head that Mary Magdalene was the same woman as the sinful woman mentioned in Luke 7:36. Ever since, Mary M. has been considered a reformed prostitute--a conclusion which could never have been reached by an honest reading of Luke's text. I wonder if old Gregory, head of a male-dominated institution, just couldn't get over the fact that the first Christian evangelist was actually a woman.

What we do know about this wonderful saint, however, is that Jesus had healed her of "seven demons (See Luke 8:2 and Mark 16:9)." What we don't  know is what on earth "seven demons" actually meant in the world of the text. Was she menatally ill? Depressed? Physically sick? Who knows? All we know is that she was sick, she got well, and, as a result, formed a devoted attachment to Jesus whom she supported from his ministry in Galilee all the way up to his crucifixion and beyond.

The early church had a lot of veneration for Mary. She's mentioned as being close to Jesus in a lot of early Christian gnostic texts, and she's often been the subject of early Christian artists. You can always pick out Mary Magdalene at the foot of the cross or at the empty tomb.  She is color-coded in red gown or veil in order to distinguish her from Mary, the mother of Jesus, who was painted wearing blue. Later, Renaissance artists got more creative and painted her with red hair (In Trimark's 1999 made-for-television film Jesus, Mary Magdalene is portrayed by the brilliant redheaded actress Debra Messing--and depicted as a prostitute.)

I suspect that the term "scarlett woman," referring to a woman of questionable sexual morality, owes a little something to Mary Magdalene. Also, our English word "maudlin," meaning something tearfully sentimental, is a direct referrence to Mary weeping at the tomb of Christ. Whether old Pope Gregory liked it or not, Mary Magdalene has infiltrated herself into our culture.

But it is her involvement in the crucifixion story which gives her her lasting importance. Can you put yourself in her place? She has witnessed the man to whom she is devoted, to whom she owes her life, brutally and unjustly tortured to death. She witnesses this act of barbaric cruelty along with her friend and teacher's mother. What must have been going through her mind? I think the very experience must have been traumatizing. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if, when we meet her in the 20th chapter of John, she is suffering from PTSD.

The inspiration of her life is gone, thrown into a grave before she could even prepare his body. She stumbles through the pre-dawn blackness just so she can be close to his lifeless form--the only thing that's left of this man who has been so significant in her life. To her horror, she sees that the tomb has been opened, and, assuming the worst without even investigating, she runs to tell his friends. I find it significant that she doesn't take the time to look in the tomb herself. Her grief is so overwhelming that she jumps to the not-far-fetched conclusion that this opening is the work of grave robbers.

The men who investigate are no help to her. They enter the tomb, come to their own conclusions, but do nothing  to console this stricken woman. They desert her in her pain, as her grief has become isolating. She is left to weep alone.

Looking into the tomb, Mary sees two angels who ask her why she is crying. She doesn't care that they're angels. She does not wonder at the sight, cast down her eyes at their splendor, or throw herself on her knees. All she cares about is that Jesus is gone.

Turning away in pain, she sees a man she takes to be the gardener. "Sir," she says, "if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away." Picture that for a second: a Jewish woman, ritually defiling herself by carrying the corpse of her dead teacher. It is an image both grotesque and pathetic--and yet it speaks to a love so profound that it transends reason and dignity. To me, it is heartbreaking.

And then the man--really the resurrected Jesus--does a very simple, very loving thing. He addresses her by name. By my count, Mary is one of only four people in the gospels whom Jesus calls by name. Overjoyed, the woman throws herself into his arms, but Jesus tells her not to cling to him. He has not yet ascended to his Father.

This means, of course, that his absence from her has only been postponed. She will lose him again.

Or will she?

He has called her by name. He knows her. Isn't it all of our secret desires to be intimately known--recognized, understood, loved for who we truly are? Can a love like that ever be taken from us? The physical body of Jesus may be taken from her, but the spiritual reality of the ascended Jesus is her permanent reality.

I think Mary's story is the story of us all--grief has robbed her of judgment, peace, and dignity. Love has restored and empowered her. God has seen her, known her, touched her, and become part of her. She is broken and restored, wounded and healed, and, like Jesus, killed and raised.