They say that every good story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.
The Gospel of John begins big: “In the beginning, was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. And the Word became flesh and dwelt in the midst of us – in us – full of Grace and truth.”
The “middle” of the Gospel tells all the life that Jesus lived in the midst of us – Word made flesh – all the signs that have pointed us to something more. Early on, Jesus turns the water into wine. He heals a man born blind, and one who cannot walk, and so many more. He feeds the 5,000. He welcomes those others would cast out – sits with the Samaritan Woman at the well, sharing truth and sips of cool water on a dry dusty day.
Jesus gathers a community – and says, “I am the good shepherd, I know my own by name, and they know the sound of my voice.” He says other strange things that they will only later understand:
· I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry.
I bring living water, whoever drinks will never thirst.
· I am the way, the truth, and the life.
· I am the vine, you are the branches
· I am the resurrection and the life.
Jesus gathers a community and calls them friend. And when they die, he stands at their tomb, and Jesus weeps. He raises Lazarus from the dead.
Jesus enters into Jerusalem to shouts of “Hosanna!” And as he settles in at the Last Supper, we sense that we have come to the beginning of the end. The writer of the Gospel pretty much tells us so: “Having loved his own to this point, he loved them into the end.” Jesus washes his disciples feet, and gives them a new command: “Love one another as I have loved you.”
And over the course of Good Friday, we watch as he loves them all the way to crucifixion. He loves the one who betrays him. He loves the one who denies him. He loves them though they all flee into the night.
He loves them from the cross. Another gospel tells us that Jesus comforts the two men crucified on either side of him. He prays for the forgiveness of those who brought him to the cross, “for they know not what they do.” John tells us that Jesus sees his Mother standing in the crowd at the foot of the cross, and, with his last words, he makes sure she is cared for. He asks for a drink, “I am thirsty,” says “It is finished – complete,” and breathes his last.
Having loved his own to this point, he loves them into the end. Jesus loves them all the way to crucifixion. And then, two followers of Jesus, two friends, come and take the body, wash it, wrap it in spices, and lay it in a garden tomb. And they roll the stone in place.
That’s where we find Mary Magdalene this morning, back in the garden at the tomb – in what must have felt in every bone in her body – like the end of this story.[1] She comes while it is still dark. Different from how the other gospels remember it, Mary comes alone – not with other women. I wonder what she comes seeking. There’s nothing left to do for the body – it’s already been washed and loved and sealed in the tomb. But even so, Mary comes. Mary rises in the deep dark of early morning – maybe she hasn’t slept – and she staggers to the tomb, stunned, silent, and weeping.
She arrives at the tomb, and finds the stone rolled away – the first hint that things are not what they seem. And Mary runs – runs to find her people – runs to Peter and the Beloved Disciple –“They’ve taken the Lord, and we don’t know where they’ve put him.” And the three of them run back.
The Beloved Disciple gets there first – comes to the lip of the tomb – sees the burial linens – but can’t go in. Mary watches as Peter goes in – sees the burial linens, the face cloth neatly folded, but no body. And the Beloved Disciple goes in too – he sees and believes – but neither of them knows or understands what has happened. And they go back home.
But Mary stays. Mary lingers, and we linger with her. She stands outside the tomb, weeping. Nothing makes sense, there’s just pain. And as she weeps, Mary goes to the mouth of the tomb and looks in, to see for herself. She sees two angels – two messengers – who ask her, “Woman, why are you weeping?”
Now for us – standing with Mary – the answer to that question, in a sense, is so obvious that the question feels almost cruel. We know why Mary is weeping. Someone she loves has died. And we know what that is like – the stunned disbelief – the ache of not knowing how to get up in the morning in a world that doesn’t have them in it. We know those moments where no words can help – the expanse – the abyss of loss and weeping and silence.
“Woman, why are you weeping?” “They have taken my Lord, and I don’t know where they have put him.” She has lost someone she loves, and now even his body is gone too.
In that moment, Mary turns, and Jesus is standing there. At first, she doesn’t know it’s him. He asks the same question, “Woman, why are you weeping?” and then another, “Whom do you seek?” Thinking him the gardener, “Sir, if you’ve moved the body, no worries, just show me where he is and I will move him.”
And then Jesus says, “Mary.” He calls her by name. And maybe all those strange things he said come rushing back. “I am the good shepherd – I know my own by name, and they know the sound of my voice. I am the way, the truth, and the life. I am the resurrection, and the life.” And Mary knows. Jesus speaks her name, and she knows that this is Jesus, she knows he is alive.
Standing here in this story with Mary, what we see with her, in this moment, is that the end is not the end.
She thought this story had ended like so many stories do –
the powers have crushed the people –
evil has triumphed over good –
life has been swallowed up in death –
that old story that we know so well – beginning, middle, and end –
the end is not the end – not any more – not ever again.
Jesus – whom she watched die on the cross – comes to her weeping at the mouth of the tomb – and speaks her name, “Mary.” And she knows – “Rabbouni! Teacher!”
The end is not the end – but not just that – this story that we thought had ended in death opens up into life. Now remember, John had told us at the Last Supper that Jesus, “having loved his own to this point, loved them into the end.” Well, yes, but let’s look again. That’s usually translated “he loved them to the end,” as if Jesus loved them to the edge of a cliff. But, in the Greek, the preposition is really “into” – Jesus loved them into the end – and the word for “end” really isn’t end, like the edge of a cliff – but end like a goal – like “means and ends” – Jesus loved them into the end – into the goal – into the fulfillment. Having loved his own to this point, Jesus loves them into fulfillment – Jesus loves them into life.
The end is not the end, but not just that – look what happens next. Mary embraces the Risen Christ. She grabs hold. Jesus says, “Mary, don’t continue to hold on to me.” He says that because she is holding on to him – there they stand in the garden, next to an empty tomb, Mary embracing Jesus, alive.
But not just that, Jesus sends Mary to go tell the others – she’s the first apostle.[2] He tells her to go tell the others – his brothers, his siblings – that he’s alive – that he’s going to his parent, their parent, our parent. In the midst of that garden, next to the empty tomb, a new family springs to life – those once called friends are now family – all of them – all of us – children of God.
The end is not the end – and it doesn’t stop there – the Risen Christ appears here to Mary. And then he will appear to the disciples without Thomas, and then to Thomas with the other disciples. The writer of the Gospel of John – tells Resurrection story after Resurrection story, and then takes a breath and says, “Jesus did so many miraculous things even beyond what I’m writing in this book – but these are written so that you might believe, that you might trust, and that trusting, you might have life.”
And even that, is not the end. The Gospel goes on, John tells one more story of how the Risen Christ feeds and has one more meal with the disciples, and then the writer of the Gospel, in its last verses says – “Oh, Jesus did so many other things that I suppose that if every one were written down there would not be books enough to hold them.” The Gospel of John ends by opening up into a world so full of life that there are not books enough to hold all the stories.
They say that every good story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Film director Tim Burton puts it this way – he says, “Every good story does have a beginning, a middle, and an end – just not necessarily in that order.”
In this moment, in the garden at the open door of an empty tomb, it’s almost as if we have come to the end, only to find, all of the sudden, that we are back at the very, very beginning – Jesus and Mary in a garden like Adam and Eve – in the bright dawn of a brand new day.[3] But then, it also feels like an entirely new beginning – a new story opening up – a new family[4] – a new creation – full of new, abundant life. Or maybe we’ve never left the beginning: In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God – and the Word became flesh dwelt in Jesus, in life, in death, in resurrection, in us. The beginning, the middle, and the end – it’s all right here in this moment – full of grace and truth – made flesh – alive in us.
The end is not the end – but in those moments and days after crucifixion – it sure felt like it. Mary feels it. In the dark of that morning, when it felt like everything had come to an end, I wonder what Mary came seeking. What got her out of bed, and compelled her to come in the night?
I wonder what we come seeking. On this Easter morning, what do we come seeking? To be sure, we come to celebrate Easter – to hear this story once again – to lean into the sure promise of Resurrection. But we come in a still-bewildering world – full of stories that too often feel like endings, questions too big for pat and simple answers: We’ve put in peril the earth we love; our work for justice feels like three steps forward, and two steps back. Way too often, it feels like power has won again.
Maybe we come with our own stories, seeking something more. Our own stories that feel like they have come to an end – with our own loss – our own hurt – our own ache. One of the things I love most about this particular Easter story is that it takes Mary’s suffering seriously – it doesn’t rush by her weeping it too quickly. We linger there with her. Maybe, like Mary, we come seeking something bigger than all that. Maybe we come seeking healing or comfort or love. Maybe we come seeking hope.
I don’t know for sure what Mary came seeking. But what I do know – what we know – is what she found.
What Mary found was the stone rolled away and an empty tomb.
What she found was the Risen Christ, calling her name, and loving her still.
What Mary found on that Easter morning was God’s love for us in Jesus Christ bigger and stronger than anything that does us harm – God’s love for us bigger than anything in all creation – bigger than the beginning, the middle, and the end – stronger than any power –stronger even than death.
What Mary found on that Easter morning – in the experience of Resurrection – is
the astonishing truth that propels us forward, together, in this bewildering world –
the truth that brings this story to life in our lives, again and again –
the Word come to life in our flesh and our bones,
the truth that sends us out into the bright hope of a brand new day,
and, that truth is this:
In the power and promise of God’s love for us in Jesus Christ,
everything that lies ahead is life.
© 2023 Scott Clark
[1] For background on this Scripture, see the following (each its own witness to the Resurrection): Herman Waetjen, The Gospel of the Beloved Disciple: A Work in Two Editions (New York: T&T Clark Publishing, 2005); Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her: A Feminist Reconstruction of Christian Origins (New York, NY: Crossroad Publishing, 1983), pp.323-34; Gail O’Day and Susan E. Hylen, John (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006); Thomas Long, Commentary in Connections, Year A, vol. 2 (Louisville, KY; Westminster John Knox Press, 2019). [2] See Schüssler Fiorenza, p.332 (“Thus in a double sense she becomes.. the apostle to the apostles.”) [3] See Waetjen, pp. 417-18. [4] See id.
Photo credit: Pisit Heng, used with permission via Unsplash