Mary Magdalene

Mary Magdalene Scripture Luke 8:1-3 Soon afterwards (Jesus) went on through cities and villages, proclaiming and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God. The twelve were with him, 2 as well as some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities: Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out, 3 and Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward Chuza, and Susanna, and many others, who provided for them out of their resources. John 18:25-27 Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. 26 When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” 27 Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home. Introduction For us tonight, it is nearing the end of Lent. For six weeks we have been waiting and preparing, knowing that Palm Sunday and then Easter are around the corner, the completion of the yearly cycle. We are used to living in a state of knowing/not knowing, listening to scriptures of Jesus’ ministry but knowing that God did, indeed complete his plan of salvation in the sacrifice and resurrection of Jesus. But our witness tonight, Mary of Magdala, does not know Easter morning is coming. She was the recipient of a new life when Jesus healed her. She spent two years following Jesus in his ministry, drinking in his teaching, growing in faith. And though she does not feel it now, Jesus honored her faith by making her a witness to his death and burial. Even more, come Easter morning, before even John and Peter, Jesus will appear to Mary and call her by name. No other disciple—and Mary is a disciple—will be honored this way. And through Mary, we can again experience not knowing. What if Jesus never rose from the dead? What would be the point of life and death then? Mary Magdalene I am called Mary of Magdalene. I was with Jesus. And I can truly say, if it were not for him, I would not be alive. Let me tell you my story: As a child, and for as long as I can remember, I was tormented by demons. I know that probably sounds strange to you. Much of the time, I could live a fairly normal life. Then, one day, I would hear a buzzing in my head. And then, I did not know what would happen. People would tell me I turned on them suddenly, biting, kicking and screaming all sorts of filthy and abusive language. I tried to hurt people. I tried to hurt myself. They said it was as though I had the strength of a man, and it would take five or six people to restrain me. My parents were exhausted. As hard as it was for them, I was still living with them as a young woman. They had tried every cure, potion, and medicine available, but nothing helped. I felt alone in the world. I remember my parents talking about a prophet in the region. But, then, others had prayed, and nothing had happened. Still, they said, it was worth a chance. I’ll never forget the day he came to the house. He came with some other men. They were rough looking, like the fishermen of the village. But he was different. They said he had been a carpenter, and his hands were calloused from working with wood. His skin was bronzed from the sun, and he smelled like the summer breeze blowing through cedars. Most of all, it was his eyes, piercing, yet full of love. It was as if he could look right through me. Before I could say one word, I felt my body tense, and the buzzing began again. I started to go blank, but he took my hand and said in a commanding voice, “Come out of her; come out of her and never return.” My body shook uncontrollably, and I collapsed on the floor, completely limp, but for the first time in my life, completely whole. I looked at Jesus, my eyes wide, and I knew that my horror was over. I felt I had been reborn. Others were skeptical, but in time they saw it was true. For the first time I felt I had a life to lead. Sometime after that miracle, I joined a group of women disciples who followed Jesus and shared his ministry. What a privilege to travel from place to place with Jesus, hearing his marvelous teaching, witnessing countless healings. Each time I felt a thrill in my own body, just as when he touched me. We told others who would listen, what we had experienced and pointed them toward Jesus. We always felt Jesus’ teachings were meant for us as much as for the men. And in a way, I think we understood things that the men did not. We accepted the differences. They were to have a more public role and we a more private one. Still, we helped in any way we could, even providing for the group out of our own purses. The one called Judas, he collected the money we brought to help with the ministry, but he never considered us as real followers. I think in his heart he believed only strong men who could carry swords were useful. When I heard Jesus had been arrested, my heart sank. I knew he was always in danger. As mild and loving as his teaching was, it seemed to threaten so many who wanted to maintain power: military power, political power, control of money. I can’t begin to tell you what it was like to follow him to a hill outside Jerusalem called Golgotha—the place of the skull. Yes, the place was deserving of its name. They had arrested Jesus, set up a mock trial, and condemned him to death. How anyone could treat Jesus the way they did was far beyond my wildest nightmares! When I saw his bloodied and weak body trying to carry that cross, it was as if life left my own body. We arrived at the scene of the execution, and screamed and cried as the cross was raised. All day we stayed at the foot of the cross, weeping. I felt that buzzing again, but it seemed now that the evil that had once inhabited my body had taken control of the whole world, and his pain was the result. But it was also obvious that he meant for this to happen and was at peace with it. Oh, he was not in some sort of a trance state or blind to reality. He felt every second of that horror. This was another of those evidences of great power under control for a higher purpose. Still, we were all confused and full of sadness. We women stayed at the cross. Most of the disciples fled for fear of their own lives. Only John was left. I suppose no one thought a group of women were a threat. Some of the men made fun of us. “Take a good look,” they said, “and see what happens to blasphemers and imposters!” When they saw we would not be intimidated, they tired of their taunts and left us alone. When it was all over, a few of us stayed to bury Jesus. At the end it was just me, Jesus’ mother Mary, Joseph of Arimathea, and Nicodemus. We took the lifeless body of the one who had given us life down from the cross. We wiped the blood and grime of that horrible day from his body as best we could and carried him to Joseph’s tomb where the soldiers rolled a huge stone over the entrance. We walked without saying a word, each trying to fight off the hopeless feeling inside, each wondering how life could ever go on. At one point I stumbled to the ground, and I could not get up. “Let me die here” I said. “There is nothing left to live for.” And it was Jesus’ mother who came to me, her dress still stained with Jesus’ blood, who wrapped her arms around me and whispered “you have the life he gave you, a life he means to be filled with love. That is what he wants for you. There will be purpose, and there will be joy again.” I let myself be led to John’s house, where Mary and I have rested and tried to recover. To tell the truth, I do not want to find joy and purpose in life. I only want to mourn. Everything else seems so--- stupid and pointless. There is only one last thing I must do. Tomorrow I will go to the tomb and try to persuade the Roman guard to open the tomb so we can fully anoint Jesus’ body with the funeral oils and wrap him in linens. After that, I---I don’t know. .

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