Going to Movies Must Continue

The Feast of Mary Magdalene

John 20:11-18

          Today’s Gospel opens in the midst of an 48 hour emotional rollercoaster for Mary Magdalene  whose feast day we celebrate today—let me give you a quick synopsis.  We know that Mary was at the crucifixion—she witnessed the soldiers mocking him; she witnessed his physical pain; she witnessed his final words; and she witnessed his death.  Just in that there are probably many emotions—anger, fear, feelings of hopelessness and helplessness, and profound grief. 

          I don’t want to skip around too much, but I think to understand the depth of Mary’s emotions it is necessary to understand her relationship with Jesus.  In the Gospel of Luke we are told that he healed Mary of seven demons—after her healing, she began to follow him and became one of his closest friends.  At a time when women were seen as property, as nothing more than something to be owned Jesus healed, befriended and elevated Mary.  Knowing this, I believe, helps to put into perspective how deep her grief must be.  She is witnessing the cruel, degrading crucifixion of the man who set her free physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

          Mary has returned to the tomb most seemingly full of grief.  We don’t know exactly why she has come, but we can guess that in her grief she just wants to be physically near the body of Jesus much in the same way we visit the graves of our loved ones.  She gets there and sees the stone has been rolled away and assumes Jesus’ body has been taken by someone; possibly grave robbers—possibly the soldiers, but now her intention to be close to Jesus has been thwarted, and this is where we pick up the story. 

          Four times during these seven verses we are told that Mary is weeping—profound and inconsolable grief is all I can imagine.  She is asked by the angels why she is weeping—her grief is highlighted, but they don’t tell her that he is risen.  Mary turns around and is again asked why she is weeping, and it isn’t until Jesus says her name that Mary recognizes who he is.  Now the pendulum of emotion abruptly shifts and there is pure joy—happiness, bewilderment and a whole host of other emotions that we can only imagine.  And Mary wants to cling to him and Jesus says “Do not hold onto me.”  Can you imagine how much self-control, how much will power that must have taken to let go of the person you love so dearly?  How much strength that must have taken to turn around and leave as she was commanded—to walk away not knowing whether she would ever see Jesus again, not knowing what was to come?

          I can’t—I hate to even attempt to compare this, but the only personal way I can is this; when Caroline, our youngest was five, she went missing on the beach.  I had been sitting on the side and counting four little blonde heads continuously.  As they emerged from the water, there was a sudden realization that one of the heads that I had been counting did not belong to Caroline—I can barely describe the panic that swelled and the longest 20 minutes of my life.  I can tell you that when a man came riding down the beach with Caroline on the back of his bike, I grabbed her off before he had even stopped and I am fairly certain I didn’t let go of her for hours.  Our need for human contact is powerful; our need to physically feel the presence of those we love always, but particularly during times of grief, times of fear, times of pain becomes a physical ache, a physical need.

 I can’t help but think of the families of those who were in the theater in Colorado—as they received phone calls or heard about the shootings on the news.  They must have rushed to the theater, desperately searching for their loved ones, desperately praying that  they had been spared—pushing and clawing to get through the crowds and get their loved ones into their arms.  And the emotions that pulsated through their bodies must have also been intense beyond measure—fear, panic and then for some profound relief and for others the deepest grief imaginable. 

If someone had told me to let go of Caroline, I’m not sure I would have been physically capable of doing that.  Jesus was a man; fully human so he too must have understood this need, and yet he tells Mary not only to not hold onto him, but to go.  Jesus’ work was not finished—and Mary becomes a part of that work.  She must go and witness; she cannot hold onto Jesus out of her own needs—she must bear witness—she must do that which seems impossible because she must help to bring hope—to the world.  Mary must be a witness, a testimony, that evil—that suffering and death will not prevail.

In our fears we want to close down.  I was at All Saints camp last week when I heard about the shootings in Colorado.  We were having a wonderful time—a mountain top experience and this tragedy sharply punctuated—the outside world invaded the sacred space of All Saints, and I was angry.  Angry at the intrusion of the world, and also deeply pained for and terrified of being in the world.    One of the first thoughts I had was, “I’m never letting my children go to a movie again.”  I’ll bet I’m not the only person to have thought that.  I was so relieved that three of my four were with me, that I could see them, hear them, and touch them, and I immediately called the fourth—texting wasn’t enough; I needed to hear his voice.  I know that I have wanted to close ranks around my family—around my community.  I feel so incredibly blessed to be here with you all today; to worship in this magnificent beautiful church, and frankly, I would like nothing more than to stay here—to wrap myself into the cocoon of our community.  We can continue to worship together, eat together, play together and love one another and ignore the outside world.  We share the same faith, and we are safe here.

Jesus told Mary and he tells us, “Don’t hold on to me.”  The good news is not for us alone; we cannot hide, cocoon and hoard our faith just because it is safe. We have been called to be the light and the hope to the world; and the world needs us.  We must stand up as Christians and say that we will not let the powers of evil win—we must live--bring our faith, our hope, and the love of God to the world despite our fear.

I imagine that across the country today in many, many churches there are people praying for and mourning for and with those in Aurora Colorado.  We do retreat to our churches and to our communities of faith in times of grief and tragedy.  That’s okay—that’s part of why we are here—to be community, to support and love one another, but we are also here to be refreshed, renewed, and restored so that we may go forth into the world bringing Christ with us.  God calls us to bring a light to the darkness, to bring hope to the hopeless, to weep with those who are weeping, and to bear witness in the face of evil, to stand and together say, “We will not let evil win—we will continue to work to bring the Kingdom into completion.”

We cannot hoard Jesus; we cannot keep him just for ourselves.  We must take the love of God to this broken world.  We must continue to live; we must continue to go out despite our fears, as hard as it may be, we must continue to go to movies, to congregate in public places because by doing so we prove that evil can and will be overcome.  We are the living glimpses of the Kingdom of God here on earth-- right here and right now; we are the light in this world of darkness; we are the hope to those who are hopeless—we must go forth and announce, “I have seen the Lord” and he lives.  Thanks be to God.