I didn’t sleep very much that
night. Jesus had cured me and changed my life. I was confident that he had healed me permanently, but he had always been there as a rock to lean on – just in case. Now he was gone. My faith was shaken. Yet that wasn’t all I had lost. My entire world view was shaken. I knew that Jesus was the Messiah, born to be king of Israel and the world. Although Jesus never spoke about it much, we all knew God’s prophecies and were eager to see them fulfilled.
Urgently.
Now he was dead.
My mind went round and round in circles with an endless series of questions, all of which seemed to have unpleasant answers. From time to time, I would take a deep breath and try to slow down. To pray, starting from what I knew and trying to match it with what had happened. Each time, however, within moments I would find myself back in
that spiral of unproductive questions. Sometime towards morning, undoubtedly with God’s help, I managed to find a state of mind where my certainties finally balanced my surging doubts and allowed me to rest in my experience of the presence of God. I slept.
I can’t say that I was able to maintain that peace throughout the next two days.[1]
Several of us wanted to prepare
spices to give Jesus’ body a proper burial, and we spent a lot of time talking as we did so. Jesus’ death was both devastating and demoralising for all of us. Devastating because we loved Jesus as a loving, gentle, trustworthy and utterly wonderful person. Demoralising because we couldn’t comprehend how God’s plans could permit Jesus’ death.
We talked about his character and behaviour. We talked about his teaching
and his amazing understanding of God. We discussed the horrific events of the crucifixion and the frightening outpouring of hatred against Jesus from those who had found him such a threat to their power.
I found that night little better than the first, and the following day was a real struggle. We still talked, but everything was getting harder and harder. While Jesus was around we had followed him, willingly ceding
control over the pattern of our lives to him, trusting that he knew best. Now we would have to choose our own paths again without his guidance. And what would we have to show for our commitment to Jesus?
The day was an ordinary Sabbath, so our religious customs directed our behaviour, but some were beginning to rebel against those constraints. I feared that some were ready to discard God completely, their disappointment
too great for them to bear. For myself, I knew that I must keep my commitment to care for Jesus’ body. Any further decisions could wait until that was finished.
By that evening, when the Sabbath ended, we were all ready to go to the tomb, but news travels quickly in busy Jerusalem during feast times and we’d heard that a squad of soldiers was guarding the tomb. We didn’t dare go near them at night, so instead, we planned
to leave very early so that we would arrive at the tomb as it was getting light. Looking back at that decision now, I’m sure God was guiding our choice. Without doubt, it led to the best outcome.
It wasn’t yet dawn on Sunday morning when Jesus’ mother, her sister Salome, I and a few others hurried towards the tomb. Before we made it out of the city, however, another earthquake shook the ground. It was so strong that
I almost fell over. We all stopped and joined hands, looking at each other wide-eyed. Another perplexing occurrence to add to the growing catalogue this weekend! Fortunately, none of the nearby buildings fell on us, and after a while, the swaying stopped and we hurried on. As we passed through the gate, we were wondering out loud how we could roll back that massive stone at the tomb with none of Joseph’s big muscular servants to help us. Perhaps we could convince
the soldiers to help. After all, they couldn’t possibly fear that we might steal the body without them noticing!
Arriving at the tomb in the half-light of dawn, we saw something completely unexpected: the stone had already been rolled back from the doorway! Looking around, I noticed that the guards we had heard about were lying around as if they were dead, not far from the doorway. None of us knew quite what was going on,
so I went to look into the tomb and saw that Jesus’ body was not in the place where I had seen it laid. I couldn’t help squealing in surprise, and as I stepped back from the entrance, my squeal became a scream when a man suddenly appeared sitting on the rolled-back stone, and another on the other side of the doorway. They were both in white clothes, somehow shining in the half-light. I was terrified and fell on my knees with my face to the ground.
Jumping down off the stone and standing next to me, the first man said, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? He isn’t here, because he is risen.”
The other added, “Remember what he told you when he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified, and rise again on the third day?”
“You’ve
seen where he was lying,” said the first, “so now go, tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He goes before you into Galilee. There you will see him, as he said to you.’ ”
Despite their reassuring manner, their presence was frightening, so the moment they finished speaking, I jumped to my feet and we all fled. After a while of terrified running, we slowed to a walk and tried to work out what to do.
Some of the women were afraid and had no intention of telling anyone about what had happened. Not immediately, at least. They knew they would not be believed.
I felt that I had to do what we’d been told, and since I’m younger than most of the others, I offered to go on ahead and tell the apostles. They agreed, and so I ran off while the others proceeded more sedately.
Finding Simon Peter and John, I told them that Jesus’ body was gone, and they immediately raced off to the tomb to see for themselves. Rather short of breath by that time, I followed as quickly as I could, meeting the other women still making their way towards the city gate. I told them what I had done and continued back to the tomb, arriving just as Peter and John were leaving, also without having found the body. I could have left with them, and if the guards
had still been there, I wouldn’t have stayed, but they were gone, and I wanted to rest and think. As I stood by the tomb, I wept again. Not only was Jesus dead, but now his body was gone too. What could I do?
As I wept, I ducked and looked into the tomb again, and suddenly saw two angels in white, one sitting where Jesus’ head had been and the other where his feet had been.
“Woman, why are you weeping?” The voice was gentle and calmed my fears a little.
“They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they have laid him,” I answered as clearly as I could, before I heard a sound behind me. Turning around, I saw dimly, through my tears, a man standing behind me.
“Woman, why are you weeping?” he asked. “Who are you looking
for?”
I guessed that this must be the gardener, checking up on the strange early morning happenings, so I said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”
“Mary,” he answered.
I will never forget that word, that moment. In that instant, I knew that Jesus was alive.
And nothing else mattered. The shock of the crucifixion, the burial, the weekend of questions; nothing mattered any more.
“Teacher!” I said, and my voice sounded very strange.
I was about to fall at his feet, to touch him. I wanted to hold him so that he couldn’t leave us again, but he held out a warning hand towards me.
“Don’t hold me,” he said, “for I haven’t yet ascended to my Father; but go to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’ ”
With that, he disappeared. I can’t describe how I felt. This was obviously the start of everything we’re hoping for. Jesus is alive – and surely it must be forever! He will soon be king, fulfilling all of those parables he told
about his kingdom.
Once again, I had to obey. I ran.
I ran to the gate and raced through the streets to the houses where the disciples were staying. I ran to find Peter and the others. I couldn’t breathe, but I couldn’t stop either. Jesus, my Lord and Saviour, was alive, and he had told me to tell them.
I
found them alright, but my news received a mixed reception: some believed, others didn’t. A few were obviously wondering if I was slipping back into my old problems. Going mad.
I suppose I could’ve been very upset about that – except that I was far too happy that Jesus is alive!
Later that day, others saw him as well. The other women met him not long after I did, and
Simon met him too. Others met him walking to Emmaus, and most of the twelve met him that night.
So the problems of the world don’t really matter anymore, because their days are numbered. Jesus is alive! I don’t know exactly what will happen next, but what matters is that he is alive. He may be king of Israel within weeks! But however long it takes, he will solve the world’s problems.
King of the world? Oh, yes! What could be better?
Notes
[1] In Moses’ law, the Passover was followed immediately by a special Sabbath to mark the first day of the Feast of Unleavened Bread. Under the law, this could fall on any day of the week and would vary from year to year. The most likely timing for the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus is for the
crucifixion to occur on a Thursday (the Day of Preparation for the Passover) and a special Sabbath to occupy the Friday (first day of Unleavened Bread), followed by an ordinary Sabbath (Saturday) before Jesus rose on the first day of the week (Sunday). This suggested timing means Jesus would have been in the grave for 3 days (3 hours of Thursday, all day Friday and all day Saturday) and 3 nights (Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights) as prophesied. There appears no way to count 3
days and 3 nights if he died on a Friday afternoon and was only dead for about 39 hours.
