Resurrection Sunday
Jesus died on Friday, and Mary Magdalene wanted to show kindness to her friend Jesus.
She drug herself out of bed, still in disbelief; hoping it was a bad dream. This man who had radically rearranged the trajectory of her life … this man she and so many others had looked to for helping their people, their nation Israel, had been killed, like so many other would-be leaders before him.
His other disciples had scattered, left him alone, abandoned him. Even after they said they never would. Their fledgling movement was most definitely over. Snuffed out like any other challenge to Rome.
So she was getting up while it was still dark, to do the last thing she could do for her very great friend Jesus; she was heading to anoint his body for burial. It was one final act of kindness, one last time to show her loyalty.
She had become a different person because of him, and this is the least she could do.
Mary shut the door behind her and headed into the garden, headed to where she saw them put him in the tomb. On the way she wondered: how am I going to move the stone in front? She’s trudging, that slow, determined yet dreadful walk, expecting full well what she’d see: Jesus, cold and lifeless, stashed in a borrowed tomb.
