SermonStudio

Bass M. Mitchell

Mary Magdala as the first witness to the resurrection.

My name is Mary. Many call me "Mary Magdalene" or "Mary of Magdala," for I grew up in the fishing village of Magdala on the west coast of the Sea of Galilee.

My name, "Mary," comes from the Hebrew word "Marah," which means "bitter." So my name literally means, "Bitter one."

And the name was a fitting one for much of my life. In fact, for a long time I had no life at all. Everyone said I had demons, seven of them. I do not remember that time very well. All I know is I felt complete powerlessness and hopelessness for so long.... And then, he came to our village, came to Magdala, and nothing has been the same for me since then. His name was "Jesus" of Nazareth, the son of a carpenter and some said a teacher and healer. Oh, but he was much more.

In many ways he seemed like just a normal man. Yet, there was something about him. It was in his eyes, a power, a love that looked right into my soul. But it was his voice that touched me the deepest, a voice of such power yet gentleness. When he spoke, healing and wholeness for the first time came into my life. He set me free and at the same time enslaved my heart, for my heart from that moment on would be his.

I became his disciple, you see, following him with many others throughout Galilee. And I heard that same, wonderful voice continue to bring healing, hope, and sweetness into my life and the lives of so many others. Oh, the stories I could tell you. But I must hasten to tell you what happened over the last week.

As we made our way to Jerusalem, I sensed in him a deep sadness. As we approached the city, I saw him standing on a hilltop and that wondrous voice of his saying, "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often I have desired to gather your children as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing...."

And I saw the tears streaming down his face....

I felt the tears stinging my own eyes, too, at his pain. And my heart was frightened, afraid of his words then and afterward, for he spoke of how he was going to die. I did not understand him. No one did. No one believed such a thing could happen to him. Not now. Not in the holy city. Surely this could not be.

Oh, the last traces of bitterness fled my heart on that joyous day we entered Jerusalem. I think you call it "Palm Sunday." Everyone greeted him with singing and shouting, "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!" I knew something wonderful was about to happen....

How quickly things changed....

I saw him cast the moneychangers out of the Temple. I didn't understand why, but I knew it made the leaders angry. I heard their whispers; I saw them plotting against him. I began to fear for him.

Then, sometime on Thursday night, all my fears became reality, for news came that he had been arrested. How could this be happening? It had to be a mistake. Surely they would see this and release him. If only they had asked me, I could have told them about him. I could make them see in him what I and so many others saw. But they would never listen to a mere woman. They would not allow me anywhere near him. And some of the old bitterness and powerlessness began to creep back into my heart....

What was happening? Why was it happening?

I was there when Pilate brought out Barabbas and Jesus. I could not hold back the tears as I saw him standing up there, bruised, beaten, a crown of thorns around his head. Pilate asked the crowd, "Who do you want me to release to you -- Barabbas or Jesus?"

I cried out, "Jesus!" with all that was within me, but it was a whisper in a thunderstorm as the crowd shouted, "Give us Barabbas! Crucify Jesus!"

"Crucify Jesus?" How could anyone dare speak such a thing? How could this be happening?

I watched in horror as Pilate washed his hands and gave the order for Jesus to be crucified....

Deep down I wanted to run away. It was more than I could endure. The other disciples, even Peter, who said he'd die with Jesus, had denied him and fled at the last. But I could not.

I watched as they placed the heavy crossbeam on his back and led him through the streets of Jerusalem. My heart broke anew into a thousand pieces when I saw him fall on his face beneath its weight. I was powerless once again ... so useless. The demons had returned.

I stood as close as they would allow me when the procession finally stopped outside the city walls. Golgotha. I hated that place. I looked up and saw the three stakes already in the ground. Roman stakes. Why had God allowed those pagans to conquer us? And why would God allow my Lord to be led to such a fate as this?

Oh, the bitterness filled my heart and mind then. A bitter numbness came over me as I saw the soldiers lay him on the ground. The pounding of the nails through his wrists sent waves of pain through my heart. He was then raised and fastened to the stake, a nail driven through his feet. A sign placed over his head, "This is Jesus, King of the Jews." The soldiers gambled for his only piece of clothing. And people shouted for him to save himself. Wasn't it enough that he was dying? Did they have to mock and curse him, too? I hated them bitterly.

Then I heard that voice again, this time as the soldiers and others cursed him ... "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

But I could not forgive them. The bitterness was too great.

Then his voice reached my ears again, as he spoke to one of the thieves ... "Today, you will be with me in paradise."

Then I heard him speak to Mary, his mother, and to John.

Of John he said to his mother ... "He is now your son."

Of Mary he said to John ... "She is now your mother."

And then I heard what I thought was bitterness in him as he cried out ... "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

"God had forsaken us all," is all I could think and feel.

Then, in a whispery, dry voice he said ... "I thirst."

And I wasn't even able to do anything about that.

And finally, the last words I knew I would ever hear him speak ... "It is finished ... Father, into your hands I commend my spirit."

And his voice was silent. I would never hear it again....

I followed Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus as they took his body down and placed it in a garden tomb not far from Golgotha. We had to hurry for Sabbath began at sunset and they had to be finished before then.

For the rest of that Friday night, and all of Saturday, I could not sleep or eat. Finally, I arose well before dawn on Sunday morning and decided to go the garden tomb. Perhaps, if I was literally closer to him, even though he was dead, it would give me some peace of mind, some relief from the bitterness and grief.

When I reached the tomb, I knew immediately that something was wrong. The great stone that I had seen several men roll in front of the tomb had been rolled aside. In fear, confusion, and anger, I ran back to Jerusalem and awoke Simon Peter and John.

And in trembling voice I told them, "They have taken the Lord's body from the tomb and I don't know where they have put him!"

Wasn't it enough that they crucified him! Did they also have to desecrate his body? New bitterness filled my heart again.

All three of us raced back to the tomb. John and Peter both went inside. They said they only saw the linen burial cloths resting on the rocky ledge on which Jesus' body had been laid. The clothes were not torn or in disarray but lying there as if the body of Jesus had simply passed right through them.

I was too upset to even go inside the tomb. Peter and John came out, confused and bewildered. They went back to the city. I stayed. I was alone again. And I began to cry.

Suddenly, something told me to look inside the tomb. I did and I saw two beings in white sitting at the head and foot of the place where Jesus was laid. They asked me, "Woman, why are you weeping?"

"They have taken my Lord away, and I do not know where they have put him!" I said through my tears. And suddenly they were gone. I must have been seeing things. Was I going mad again?

Then I became aware of a presence behind me. I half turned and glanced at him through my tears, thinking he was the gardener. The man asked me, "Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?"

"If you took him, sir," I answered, "tell me where you have put him, and I will go and get him."

Then, in the quiet morning stillness of the first Easter, I heard, "Mary!"

"Mary," the voice said again.

That voice. I knew that voice. That voice knew me.

And I realized somehow that it was Jesus standing there with me. And my first thought was that I was going mad after all.

"Mary," he said tenderly again.

"Rabboni," I managed to whisper, which means "My Master" or "My Teacher."

"Mary," he said, looking at me. I would know his eyes, his voice anywhere. I was not mad. He was there! He was alive!

I had thought I would never hear him say my name again. He was alive! And he called my name, "Mary!" That voice, that one word brought a flood of sweetness back into my soul, washing away all the bitterness, pain, anger, and grief. He had set me free again. This time, forever.

And he told me to go and tell his friends that he was alive and that he would meet them in Galilee. I did not wish to leave him, but did as he commanded. I found them and shouted with all the joy in me, "I have seen the Lord!"

And they did not believe me, not until they, too, saw him.

This is my hope, my prayer for each of you this Easter. That this very day in this place, or in your own garden, or even in the midst of your own bitterness and grief, you will hear the Risen Lord speak your name.... For the Risen Christ knows you, loves you, too.

So, listen for your name. I don't know how, when, or where it will come. But he will call your name. You will encounter him. And listen for the task he has for you. Then go and share with joy, "I have seen the Lord!"