by Andreea Balan
Awake, O north wind, and come, O south wind! Blow upon my garden, let its fragrance be wafted abroad. Let my beloved come to his garden, and eat its choicest fruits.
- Song of Solomon 4:16 -
My favorite time of the day is dusk. It’s the interval between the sun’s sinking beyond the horizon and the twinkling of the first star. Mighty Helios is already in his lair, having finished his great journey across the sky, yet light still lingers for a little while longer. There is something different about the quality of the light and the stillness of nature at dusk. There is almost a sense of danger that comes along with it, when one passes from one stage to another. It’s akin to a liminal stage, a rite of passage if you will—one stands at a threshold, when nature and humanity wind down from a long day and prepare for the night. Yet, paradoxically, it’s as if this time contained both what comes before and what comes after for what seems like mere seconds. The same can be said about its twin, dawn—only in reverse. One must be really still to capture these moments, or they are gone before consciousness can catch up with them.
When I picture Mary Magdalene walking to the tomb of Christ on that first Easter morning, I imagine that time (a few minutes? a few hours?) stood still or was suspended momentarily. It was as if dawn lasted just a while longer before the day burst forth in all its splendor. It was the liminal stage of humanity, when the age of the old human is left behind and the age of the new human takes its place. This faithful woman, having seen her beloved suffer beyond any comprehension; having witnessed his disciples fleeing and abandoning him at the cross either out of weakness or stupidity or simply fear and disappointment (disappointment that he was not the fearless Messiah they were expecting to liberate Israel from the yoke of Roman slavery only to lead them to political independence and prosperity); and having buried his broken and disfigured body, meanders to his tomb to anoint him who has been dead three days. What was Mary thinking at this time? Maybe she was contemplating her chores for the day. Maybe she was wondering who would roll away the tomb stone, something she had not calculated when she left home that morning, while it was still dark. Maybe she was remembering the times she spent with Jesus while he was alive. Maybe she was thinking of his words, still deeply etched in her mind and her heart.
As she approaches the burial place, Mary notices that the stone is gone. In a state of panic, she runs back to alert some of the men that someone stole the Master’s body. She makes the trip back home twice as fast, heart pounding, trying not to engage the grim thoughts that are already threatening to take over her mind. She finds Peter and John, and together they run to the tomb. The men enter the cave, and, having confirmed the woman’s story—no signs of the body, just the linen cloths lying there—they leave. No words of comfort for Mary. No effort to alleviate the obvious pain that she’s experiencing, so easily dismissed as a woman’s hysterics. Ultimately, no reverence for the body—the woman’s “irrationality” is the only one that takes that into account. The two disciples leave her in the garden, just as two days earlier they left Christ at the cross.
The sense of abandonment that Mary felt at that moment must have been crushing and incredibly isolating. Yet it is precisely in this abandonment, which leaves us open to vulnerability, that we find ourselves in Christ’s company. Jesus the man nailed to the cross the ideal of the male as the conquering stoic hero, the man of war who brings home the spoils of battle. He refused to succumb to the seductiveness of power, crushing it under his feet, bruising forever the head of that serpent. And just as humanity’s story begins in a garden, so does it end—but with a twist. The woman is no longer blamed for her actions, abandoned by Adam when she needed him. The New Adam identifies with the forsaken, yet faithful woman, who, in her agony, her face gleaming with tears, peeks into the tomb. She is allowed to see what the men were not: two angels are sitting where Jesus’ body had lain, one at the head and one at the feet. They address her directly, asking her why she is weeping. Their presence cannot have been entirely calming, for who can stand to look upon such heavenly messengers without some measure of fear? Mary hastens to answer, and her response betrays nothing but the utmost love for and devotion to the Lord, even in his death: “Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him” (John 20:13).
Unlike in the Garden of Eden, it is God who hides himself from man when he hears his footsteps, only to reveal himself to the woman, who, in her distress, turns around only to not recognize her Creator standing right in front of her, confusing him for the gardener (the irony!). Hoping that this man can help her, she asks if perhaps he has taken the body—and if so, he only has to tell her where he hid it, and she will carry it back. No tone of accusation. No fingers pointed. Just a burning desire to take care of Jesus, even though he may be a rotting corpse. The same disregard for her own strength that she exhibited earlier (a few minutes ago? a few hours ago?). Christ looks into the shining face of his friend, inwardly smiling. He simply says, “Mary.”
One word—Mary—but in that word she recognizes him. It is perhaps the only word that she has heard since his death without any hint of accusation, exclusion, or condemnation in it. It is fitting that Mary does not discern Jesus’ identity at first: it is God’s prerogative to love first and to know first; we simply follow suit.
In this profound encounter, Jesus reverses the curse brought upon the woman as a result of her eating of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. “Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you,” declared Yahweh to a still nascent creature (Genesis 3:16). The New Husband puts that imprecation to death. No longer is the woman to be subdued, but she is the first to be entrusted with the proclamation of the gospel. “Go to my brethren and say to them, I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God” (John 20:17).
