Church of the Incarnation

Mary Magdalene first came to Jesus when she was possessed by demons and was desperate for a miracle. The demons had plagued her for as long as she could remember. Even as a small child she'd had periods when her eyes would go blank and her memory would fade and times when she couldn't quit picking at her clothes. But when she began to writhe and foam like a dog, the priests declared her possessed by seven demons - the most they'd ever seen.

Because Mary's family had means, they were able to pay priest after priest to try to free her of the demons. But no matter how far they traveled, or how much they paid, the seizures always returned. Then they heard about the rabbi Jesus who had miraculous healing powers. Her father packed the family and they set off to see this healer.

A large crowd gathered hours before dawn: beggars and blind men, lepers wrapped in filthy bandages and those with all kinds of demons. One man kept shouting out the most appalling obscenities. And a woman was curled up in a ball, hugging her knees and rocking herself, moaning gently. Mary's father stood off to one side from the others, but Mary joined the crowd of outcasts and sinners. She knew she belonged there. When Jesus appeared, Mary boldly pushed her way to the front of the crowd. "Jesus," she shouted over the shoulder of a leper, "heal me. Heal me." Jesus turned to her and looked deep into her eyes. Then he took her hand and whispered soothingly, "my sister, your faith has made you well." At once her body was flooded with warmth, and she knew the demons were gone. Mary also knew she never wanted to leave Jesus' side. So she joined the small group of women who were part of his disciples. She helped fund his ministry with her family's wealth, and whenever she felt unworthy or inept she looked into Jesus' eyes and knew she was loved.

Mary stayed with Jesus all through his trials in Jerusalem, and she stayed on that windy hill the whole day he hung on the cross. She watched him gasp for each rasping breath, and as he gave up his spirit she fell to the ground by his feet, clinging to his cross. He had given her back her life, and he had become her life. Without him she had nothing, she was nothing.

Mary tried to pass the night with the other women, but long before dawn she found herself walking toward the tomb just to be near him again. By the brightness of the moon she could see that the enormous stone had been rolled away from the tomb and that the body was gone. She was losing him all over again! A moment ago she had at least known where to go to be close to him - but this was too much to bear! She ran to get Peter and John, hoping they would find him and set things right. But when they entered the tomb, they seemed to find peace in Jesus' absence.

When the men left, Mary stayed there at the entrance to the tomb. She felt numb and hollow. The tears came in a gentle rush and she had no energy to stop them or to figure out why she was weeping. In her grief, she spoke with two angels and told them she wept because she couldn't find her Lord. She needed to know where he was, to be close to him the way she had been for so long now. She turned and saw the gardener nearby, but when he spoke her name, her heart leapt. It was Jesus! Instinctively she reached out to him, to touch him, to cling to him so he wouldn't leave her again. She wanted things to be the way they were.

It's human nature to cling to the past, to hold on to the things that are familiar and comfortable. They say that women marry men just like our fathers, even if our fathers were alcoholics or abusers. They're still the men that feel the most familiar. And don't we hold on to the things we were told as children, things like, "you'll never be as smart as your sister" or "you're definitely not the athlete of the family," or any of the cruel taunts we all heard on the playground? In times of crisis we discover that those voices are still echoing in our heads. As Episcopalians, we're particularly rooted in our past. We cling to the liturgy we know, the hymns we can sing without looking at the book. The familiar is comforting, it's grounding. It's our firm foundation and the rock to which we can cling when the whole world feels uncertain.

But when Mary reached out to hold on to Jesus, he stepped away from her and held up his hand, saying, "don't cling to me, Mary. Don't hold on to the way you used to know me, but see me as I am now. I'm resurrected, and the life I offer you now is different from anything you've known. Don't cling to me; follow me."

Sometimes we have to let go of the past in order to see the new possibilities the future holds out to us. Sometimes we have to let go of our old picture of who we are in order to see the new person God has turned us into, our new abilities and possibilities.

But it's hard to let go of what we know and trust that resurrection, that new and even more wonderful life, will come. It's hard to leave a destructive relationship or to let go of a dying friend or to say good-bye to a beloved pet when all the evidence says we'll be alone if we do. And that's why today is so important. Because today we remember that, as St. Augustine put it, Jesus "departed from our eyes so that we might return into our own hearts and find him there."1 Today we remember that, when all the evidence suggests that we'll be alone, God comes even closer than we imagined possible. Easter gives us courage to let go of the old and to reach out for the new, confident that God will never leave us and that God will always bless us.

Disturb us, Lord, 
	when we are too well pleased with ourselves, 
	when our dreams have come true because we have dreamed too little, 
	when we arrived safely because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, 
	when with the abundance of things we possess we have lost our thirst for the waters of life; 
	[when] having fallen in love with life, we have ceased to dream of eternity and 
	[when] in our efforts to build a new earth, we have allowed our vision of the new Heaven to dim.
	
Disturb us, Lord, 
	to dare more boldly, 
	to venture on wider seas where storms will show your mastery; 
	where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars. 
	
We ask You to push back the horizons of our hopes; and to push into the future in strength, courage, hope, and love.  2 

Amen.

References:

1. St. Augustine, Confessions Book 4 Chapter 12: 19.
2. Prayer attributed to Sir Francis Drake, 1577