In the Garden with Mary

Courtesy of M Nota, Free Images

I hide among the olive trees, gazing at the weeping woman, Mary Magdalene. She stoops, peers into Jesus’ tomb. Her chest and abdomen shudder with every sob.

I want to run to her, take her in my arms, tell her what I already know, but something restrains me. So I wait in wonder for the moment I know is coming.

Then she spins around and sees Him! But sadly, through tear-filled eyes, she doesn’t recognize Him.

Jesus realizes this and plays along. “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?” A mix of tenderness and firmness fills His voice.

Thinking He is the gardener, she says, “Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where you have laid Him, and I will take Him away.”

I smile from my hiding place. My heart swells at her persistence, much like another woman, Anne Graham Lotz, who generations later would write, “Just give me Jesus; you can have this whole world but give me Jesus!”

I wonder where Mary will take Jesus if she finds Him. I get the impression in her crazed grief, in her frantic search, she will do anything. She’s not thought through all the details; she simply wants her Lord. She wants the security of knowing where He is, so at least she can be close to His body.

“Mary!” The one word that breaks through her grief and ends her search. The one word from the Voice she knows and loves, the Voice that quiets the singing birds who lean in to listen to their Creator. The loving Voice of authority which she’s chosen to follow. The Voice that spoke to her troubled soul, delivered her from sin, and established her identity in Him.

“Rabboni, Teacher!” is her joyful cry as she falls to her knees, grips his feet, and washes them with her thankful tears. She peers into His reassuring face. His hand extends, lifting her.

“Do not cling to Me, for I have not yet ascended to My Father; but go to My brethren and say to them, ‘I am ascending to My Father and your Father, and to My God and your God.’”

I shrink into the shelter of the trees, pondering His words. Clearly, He loves Mary, but He redirects her display of physical affection with a commission. Time to focus, Mary, on the task at hand. There will be plenty of time for embracing when I call you to my heavenly Kingdom; for now, go and tell what you have seen and heard. Tell them, remind them, that I must go and prepare a place for them, but I will come back for them, for you, Mary, and take you to heaven to be with Me.

I touch my cheek. It’s wet. I’m weeping! Are my tears a result of watching this tender, personal encounter that I’ve read so often in Scripture unfold before my eyes?

Or do I weep because the risen Christ chose to first appear to a woman, one who clearly sought Him with her whole heart, who loved Him much because He forgave her much?

Or do I cry joyful tears at Jesus’ promise to her, to all His followers . . . to me?

Yes, on all counts. Yet, I sense an even deeper reason for my tears: Holy Spirit conviction. The gift Jesus would soon give Mary and the other disciples. The member of the Godhead who would fill her with power from on high, who would be closer “than breathing and nearer than hands and feet,” writes poet Alfred Lord Tennyson. Her Comforter, Teacher, Counselor, Helper . . . Friend. The Holy Spirit—Jesus’ down payment on her heavenly inheritance.

Among the shadows, I sigh, thankful that though conviction stings, it’s also a comfort, affirming that I, too, am one of His disciples. I breathe deeply, square my shoulders. I must stop hoarding Jesus in my house. I must go and tell others what I have seen and heard, assured by His Spirit within me that Jesus is with me wherever I go.

With robe lifted, Mary sprints past me. Our eyes lock for a moment. Is that a twinkle in her eye? I cock my head. She knows something. Something more. 

I blink, sweep the tears from my cheeks. For a second, it seems she wants to run to me, take me in her arms, tell me what she now knows from her heavenly grandstand, centuries removed from this garden encounter. Things I do not yet fully know as I look through a glass dimly. But she presses on, perhaps in wonder, waiting too for the moment when her Lord and my Lord will break through the blue to gather all His redeemed children to Himself for all eternity.

So, I too run.

And tell.

For further reflection, read John, chapter 20 and John 14:3.