The Apostle to the Apostles

a Mary Magdalene narrative

Photo by Karen Gilmore

My steps are slower today, weighed down by my grief and pain. Yesterday was the Sabbath and though we rested from the work of preparing Jesus’ body, my heart was unsettled. I longed to be near him, to be doing something. My rest felt hollow without his peaceful presence alongside me.

I am grateful for the women who have joined me in the task of anointing his body for burial. Salome carries the bulk of the spices, the Zebedees inherited their strength from both parents. Salome’s strength of character and body have proven necessary through these past days. Joanna walks alongside her, counting the bags and ensuring we have all that is needed. I thought Joanna would simply supply the coin for the burial supplies, I never imagined she would take part in the preparations. But here she is, day after day, serving her Savior. Mary, the mother of James, looks bereft without Mary, Jesus’ mother. They usually walk together but today Mary chose to stay behind with John. She has taken to heart Jesus’ instruction to see John as her son, and she feels his grief as keenly as her own.

My mind casts itself into familiar waters of confusion. Jesus said that he must die, he prepared us for this, but what now? He spoke of rebuilding a temple, of rising again, but what does that mean? How do we carry on without him? Did he mean to leave us like this: lost, confused, afraid? The men still hide in their lodgings; afraid to be recognized and crucified too. This fear seems wrong, but I cannot cast the first stone, my heart quakes as well.

An oily voice in my mind whispers my selfish worry: what if the darkness returns? What if my demons take hold again, who will cast them out without Jesus here? I shake my head, that path leads nowhere helpful.

I focus my view ahead, one more turn and we will arrive at the tomb. We can ask the soldiers to move the stone aside and… It’s gone. The skies are still dark but enough hazy light has dawned to reveal a gaping hole into the tomb where the stone should have been.

I feel a slight weight strike my back and an “ommph” as Salome bumps into my still form. “Mary?” she asks. “What is it? Why have you stopped?” Joanna gasps, seeing what I have already noticed: Christ’s body is gone. Mary the mother of James whispers, “No!”

I turn to look at each of them, “They have taken him. The guards are not here. We must tell the men.” Mary sinks to the ground, Joanna bending to comfort her. Salome looks to me and says, “Go, now. Tell them and warn them. I will get the women back to our lodgings. Stay safe and meet us back at the house. Do not try to find him by yourself, hear me? Do not do it, Mary.”

My shaking hands clench. She has read my very thoughts. I’ll find the gardeners, I’ll track the footprints, I will find Jesus’ body.

“Go to Peter. Don’t let this news reach Jesus’ mother from any other source.” Joanna says quietly. That shakes me from my plans. Mary, Jesus’ mother, cannot hear this from someone who would use it to hurt her. I nod, my hands already lifting my skirts to run. “Be safe.” I whisper to my friends, and I’m sprinting towards the house where the men are staying.

“Peter!” I yell. “Peter, it’s me, please open up.” My hands tingle as they beat on the door, the wood feels rough as I knock again. Suddenly, the door swings inward and a frazzled Peter stands before me. “Shhh, Mary it is not safe to be shouting so!” he reprimands. “We need to talk, it’s urgent!” I reply. He shakes his head and draws me inside, “Not out here, not where others can overhear.”

We pass into the ground level and make our way up the stairs. “Peter, please listen to me: they have taken his body! I don’t know where, but the stone is rolled away. I don’t know where he is!” My voice cracks on this final sentence. Peter stops mid-step. “What?” His eyes are huge, round discs of brown hidden beneath scraggly brows.

“The tomb is empty.” I repeat. A door upstairs opens and there stands Mary, John close behind her, the other disciples are gathered around a low table. “Empty?” she repeats. I run to her, throwing my arms around her. Now is when my tears fall. Through my wet eyes I see John staring down at her, at me. He gently asks, “Will you stay with her?” I nod. He looks at Peter and the two of them sprint down the stairs. I hear the front door slam as they race towards the tomb.

Mary pulls back from my embrace, I’m not sure who was supporting whom in that hug. “I want to go see.” She states. “Mary, no, there’s nothing to see. He’s not there.” I hear my voice wobble, the emotion building up behind my words. “Walk me there, I need to see.” She repeats. I nod slowly, understanding some piece of her need. There is chaos in the house, the disciples talking and arguing over who should stay and leave. Would a large crowd draw too much attention? Should they flee now? Mary takes my hand, and we walk toward the front door.

Our walk is slow and silent. Both lost in our own thoughts. When we arrive Peter and John are both departing from inside the tomb. Peter seems agitated, confused and worried, but with energy pulsing through him. “Three days…” he repeats again and again, like a knot to be untangled. John comes up to Mary, takes both her hands, and shakes his head. She nods slowly, an expression of graceful acceptance on her face. He wraps her small shoulders in his cloak and gently guides her back the way we came. “She needs rest.” He whispers to me. I squeeze her hand as they depart.

I’m left alone at the tomb. The yawning gap where the stone should have been mocks me. I fall to my knees, the dirt and dust billowing around me. Tears flow down my cheeks, hot and fast, coating my lips in salt. I peer inside the tomb and, through the dust still settling around me, I see two figures sitting within the tomb. I rub my eyes, knowing dirt and grime will join the tears on my face.

“Woman, why are you crying?” They ask. I answer shakily, “They have taken my Lord away and I don’t know where they have put him.”

The figures within the tomb remain silent but I hear a rustling behind me, someone’s feet crunch leaves as they approach. I whip around to see, to beg any information that another may have. The sun’s beams have reached the height to peek over the trees and a strand of light lands in my eyes as I struggle to see the approaching stranger.

“Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?” a deep voice asks. This must be a gardener, perhaps he saw someone attempting to steal Jesus’ body away, perhaps he hid it for safekeeping? “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.” I plead, clasping my hands caked in mud and salty tears. I don’t care if it’s far from here, if it puts me in danger, if I lose my own life. I need to find my Savior.

“Mary.” The voice speaks my name with such love, such tenderness. This voice sees me, knows me, loves me. And I know this voice.

“Rabboni!” I scream as I launch myself up from the ground and into his arms. I feel his chuckle as I hold him tightly. My dirtiness never phased him, even when I was lost and filthy, he still searched me out. Even when I feared that he was lost, he still found me.

My tears soak his tunic as I weep. I feel his hands come up to cup my face, his thumbs stroking away the tears and dirt. “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father, and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

I release my hold on him, looking up into his eyes. They shine with life and love. “Must I go now?” I ask quietly. He laughs and nods. Holding each of my hands in his he says, “Mary, I am with you always.”

My heart swells at this, I feel it’s truth. I have been given a mission, to go forth and tell the others. With one final squeeze of our hands, I step forward. Jesus empowered me and I must go.

---

This piece has been a dream and research project for quite some time. I love the intrigue of the women at the tomb, the conflicting narratives in the gospels, the fascinating historical components of having women discover the empty tomb, and this incredibly tender scene between Mary Magdalene and Jesus.

My imaginative prayer inspired narrative was based on the resurrection story found in John 20:1-18. Others from which I read and took elements of inspiration, particularly in the identities of the women present, were Luke 24, Matthew 28, and Mark 16. If you’d like more information on the women present and how they are described in each gospel this is a great resource. My information on Salome (not to be confused with the daughter of Herodias by the same name) was gathered from scripture and this lovely article. As a fishermen’s wife and the mother of two sons, I figured she had some muscle on her, and I like to envision the women in scripture as whole people with physical as well as spiritual traits. I discovered this fabulous article on Joanna, a well-known financial provider for Jesus’ followers and the early church. It references her as a “forgotten witness of Christ’s resurrection” which feels apt for many of the women in this story.

The two primary points of contradiction between the gospel narratives of women discovering the empty tomb are: (1) which women were there and (2) at what point did the angels appear? I appreciate that commentaries note how the accounts likely differ due to various second-hand retellings, clouds of grief, and a historical mistrust of women’s words. The gospel of Luke even states how the disciples “didn’t believe the women because their words seemed like nonsense to them” (Luke 24:11).

So, in response to which women were present, all gospels name Mary Magdalene and a smattering of “other women,” likely a combination of the names listed such as Mary mother of James, Salome, and Joanna. Accounts and scholars differ on whether Mary the mother of Jesus was present to help prepare the body of Christ; she may have been for some days and needed rest for others. Overall, we don’t know; I liked imagining her as giving comfort and support to the grieving disciples.

In response to the timing of the angels, some gospels have the angels appearing to the women when they first discover the empty tomb while John has the angels appearing to only Mary Magdalene after Peter and John have left. Personally, I feel that the angels could have been there the entire time and chosen to whom and when to appear. The article linked earlier from Cold Case Christianity does a great job explaining the difficulty with eye witness accounts and I think the previous historical difficulties around women’s testimonies could have made these gospel accounts trickier to hammer down.

Finally, I chose the gospel of John for this piece since it included the moment when Jesus speaks Mary’s name, and she knows him. This ties together so many threads of importance throughout scripture for me (not the least of which is Genesis 16:13 and Hagar’s naming God) and I find him calling her by name a beautiful way of identifying himself.

The concluding scene with Mary Magdalene asking if she needed to go immediately and Jesus replying that he is always with her comes from Matthew 28 and the great commission, which I firmly believe Christ was including Mary in when he sent her as the apostle to the apostles.

While Easter is unequivocally about Jesus’ resurrection, I think it’s also important to note and honor the women who were vital to his mission and spreading the word of his resurrection. In Martin Scorsese’s new series, The Saints, Fr. James Martin SJ notes during the Mary Magdalene episode that from the time Jesus sent her to when she reached the male disciples, Mary was “the Church on earth.” So, this Easter I am celebrating that my Savior rose and that he appeared to Mary Magdalene first, the apostle to the apostles.