Unbound and Free

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.

But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her. John 20:1-18 (NRSV)

Have you ever had a deja vu moment? Perhaps you know what I’m talking about. That moment when, for just a second or two, you have a feeling that you have previously experienced what you are experiencing in that exact moment. You have a name for it now. Deja vu. We didn’t. But, it was what I experienced that morning. That first day of the week. 

My name is Mary. No, I’m not that Mary--Mary Magdalene--the woman who was first to the tomb. First to see Jesus alive. First to tell all of us--the first apostle to the rest of the apostles. 

And, no, I’m not that Mary--Mary, the mother of Jesus--the woman who stood at the cross and watched her beautiful baby boy, now grown, being crucified. The mother who Jesus ensured would be cared for by the beloved disciple. The act of a devoted son.

I’m also not that Mary (There are a lot of Mary’s, aren’t there?). I’m not Mary of Clopas or, as you might better know her, Mary, the mother of James, one of the Twelve. Who also stood with Jesus’ mother at the foot of the cross.

I am the Mary of Bethany. Of “Mary and Martha” fame. Sister of Martha and lazarus. You know me. I’m the one who sat at Jesus’ feet while my industrious sister worked to prepare a meal and serve it to Jesus. The one who got into trouble with her. And with Judas, when I poured oil on Jesus’ feet, oil that cost nearly a year’s salary.

I know. I’m not very practical. My sister says my head is often in the clouds. That I’m too emotional. Not level-headed enough. But, it’s my way. And I wonder if it’s because I am the way I am that led to that deja vu moment that morning.

When Mary returned to the place where we had been staying, the place where the twelve and the rest of us disciples who had been close to Jesus over the three years we had followed him. When she returned to the place where we were hiding. And when she announced that she had seen Jesus. And as she continued to tell us the story of her experience. That, at first, she didn’t recognize him. But, then, when he called her by name. Mary. It was as though her eyes had been opened. And, as she was telling this amazing story, it was at that moment that I felt I had experienced this once before.

I had. It was only a week or so earlier that I had experienced all of these same emotions. The deep sadness I felt at the death of my brother Lazarus. The feeling of abandonment by Jesus--that he could have prevented Lazarus from dying, but that he didn’t. The anger I felt when, finally, Jesus arrived and it was too late. The deep grief as I watched him weep, just as I was weeping. And, then, the surprise, when Jesus called his name--just like Jesus called Mary’s name in the garden that morning--and Lazarus came out of the tomb. And, then, the ecstatic joy and freedom I felt for my brother, when Jesus told people to unbind him from the grave clothes. To unbind him and let him go.

When Jesus died on that Day of Preparation for Passover, I felt the same range of emotions. Sadness. Abandonment. Anger. Grief. But, there was one more I felt. One more we all felt. And that was fear. 

Our fear came early that morning after the Sabbath. Mary had gone to the tomb. When she arrived she saw that the stone that had been placed in front of the opening had been removed. She never went inside. Instead, she ran back to find Peter and the beloved disciple to tell them that “they” had taken the Lord from the tomb and that “we” didn’t know where they had put him. Do you notice how she reaches what one could argue is a very rational conclusion? They had taken his body. Grave-robbers at it once again.

That’s what we do, isn’t it? In the middle of irrational moments, we jump to the most rational conclusion. Trying to make sense of everything. Trying to make meaning in the midst of chaos. Trying to fit everything into a neat, little box. Into our neat, little box. Lacking imagination and refusing to be open to the possibility of something extraordinary. 

We should have known better. Because we had already witnessed the extraordinary with the resurrection of my brother. But, we forget all of this, don’t we? Even though, when we look back our our lives and our experiences and we see how God has continuously brought new life out of death and light out of darkness, we fail to remember. We limit our imaginations and the possibilities. We pack them tightly away. In our fear, we pack them tightly away in our neat. Little. Boxes.

Mary went back to the tomb after telling Peter and the other disciple. And, as she stood outside, weeping, angels appeared to her. “Why are you crying?” they asked. “Whom are you looking for?” And then the gardener--or the man she reasonably thought was the gardener--asked the same questions. “Why are you crying?” “Whom are you looking for?”

I wonder if, at that very moment, Mary had her own deja vu moment. Because, we had heard Jesus ask that question many times before. “Whom are you looking for?” Yet, she still didn’t recognize him. Only after he called her by name. “Mary.” It was then that she recognized Jesus. Alive. Standing right in front of her. “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”

Whom are you looking for? How are you limiting the possibilities? Do you jump to worst possible conclusions, doubting the life--the abundant life--that God has promised? Do you limit your imagination from believing in the extravagance of God? In your fear, do you seek to control everything around you and keep it in your own neat, little box? Afraid to let loose. To let go and see what God might do? When the Good Shepherd calls you by name, do you follow?

Whom are you looking for?  

Set your imagination free. Unbind it and let it go. And experience the unexpected. Experience the freedom that Jesus gives. Freedom from everything that keeps us away from him. Freedom to answer his call. Freedom to live into your call and to be transformed by the experience. Freedom to let Jesus into your neat, little box. And to blow it to smithereens.

Come and see the possibilities. Come and see and experience what freedom looks like in the presence of Christ, our risen Savior. Come and see that those deja vu moments teach us to move out of our fear and into the joy and abundant life of the resurrection. 

Jesus called me. Jesus calls you. Calls each one of you by name. Come. And see. And be free. Amen.

Preached April 1, 2018, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
Easter 1
Readings: Psalm 118:21-29; John 20:1-18

The Woman with the Long Hair

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, "Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” (John 12:1-8 NRSV)

I knew that visit was different.

Perhaps, it didn’t seem very different.  Jesus had visited our small village often.  It was convenient for him.  You see, Bethany, was so close to Jerusalem, only a mile and a half away.  And it was so small and secluded, just a few hundred people living across the Mount of Olives, east of Jerusalem.  So peaceful.  Full of palm trees rustling in the breeze coming out of the valley.  Hidden away from the bustling noises of the nearly 50,000 people who lived in Jerusalem.  Bethany was a beautiful place.  And it was only an hour’s walk from Bethany into the city.  So, it was a perfect place for Jesus to come and rest and be refreshed. 

He would stop to visit my sister, Martha, and I.  Or he would stay overnight in our village, sometimes with Lazarus, our brother.  Or with our neighbor and friend, Simon, who Jesus had healed from leprosy.  

But, that visit.  Well, there was something different about that visit.  Something different from all of the rest. 

It had only been a few weeks since Jesus had raised my brother, Lazarus, from the dead.  I think you know the story.  How Lazarus had become sick and we had sent for Jesus, who was across the Jordan, east of Jericho.  The road from Bethany to Jericho was 45 miles--a three day’s walk.

We sent for Jesus when Lazarus became sick, thinking that he would respond immediately.  That he would come to heal our brother, who we knew was one of his closest friends.  Yet, he didn’t come until several days later.  Until after our kind, sweet, quiet brother was already dead and in the tomb for three days.  

I’d anointed his body for the burial.  Our family had accumulated a large amount of anointing oil--over a pound of pure nard.  Or, as you measure it, over 12 ounces. 

Nard was a rare oil.  It was imported from Nepal, northeast of India.  We imported nearly all of our spices from the Far East, but nard--well, nard was something special.  Along with frankincense and myrrh, nard, made from the spikenard plant, was very rare.

Because it was so rare, it was also very expensive.  We had saved up small quantities of it, so that we might use it to anoint the bodies of family and friends for burial.  We were so frugal in our use.  Over time, we had accumulated a pound, which was a large amount--an amount that if sold in the marketplace would bring half of a year’s salary, which in your currency was nearly $30,000.  

We were not wealthy people.  This was the most expensive thing we owned.  It was very precious to us.  I kept it in an alabaster jar, stored away in a small cupboard.  Only Martha and I knew where it was kept.

After Lazarus died, I was nearly inconsolable with grief.  The professional mourners in our village had long since left, yet I continued to grieve.  I was so distraught over his death.  But, even more than that, I grieved that Jesus, in whom I had trusted and believed and who loved Lazarus like a brother, had not come when we called.  And there was no message.  Nothing.  Lazarus had died.  So had my faith in Jesus. 

And, then, he came.  My sister, Martha, greeted him with an accusation, in such a loud voice I could hear it from inside our house.  “Where were you?  If only you had been here, Lazarus would not be dead!” 

I went outside.  I was crying.  When I reached Jesus, I crumpled at his feet, sobbing.  He looked at me.  And, then, he, too, began to cry.  He started to walk to the tomb where Lazarus was buried.  We followed him.  When he arrived, he ordered the stone removed from the entrance.  Then, in a loud voice, he called for Lazarus to come out. And he did.  Alive.

Jesus had raised my brother from the dead.

Things began to change from that point.  The story spread.  Large crowds of people began to follow Jesus and his small group of disciples.  Crowds numbering in the thousands.  It was as though this sign--this raising of my brother from death to life--this was the sign the people needed to truly believe that Jesus was the Messiah to us for thousands of years.  It was him!

The more people saw my brother, the more the story spread.  And the greater the crowds became.  Our religious leaders began to feel threatened.  You see, Jesus had not hesitated to challenge them.  He had not hesitated to stand up to them and to publicly accuse them of corrupting our beliefs.  They hated him.  And, then, when Jesus said he was the Messiah and they saw Lazarus alive, and the crowd of believers growing--well, things began to happen.  Their hate turned into action.  They made a plan, a plan to kill both Jesus and Lazarus.  A plan that even involved Judas, our friend and one of the twelve.

But, at the time Jesus came to our house on that Saturday evening, six days before the Passover, I didn’t understand all of this.  You have a saying--that hindsight is 20/20.  That’s very true.  I understand everything now.  But, then, I didn’t. At least not fully.

Yet, I could feel that this visit was different.  There was something in the air.  Tension, sadness, excitement? All of these wrapped into one? It’s hard to name, but I could feel it.  I could feel it just like I feel the wind blowing.  And, perhaps, it was the wind that blew into me that evening, that breathed in me and caused me to do what I did.  

You see what I did was completely improper.  No woman of good standing would have let down her hair like that.  No woman of good standing would have even considered anointing a man with oil.  Men anointed men.  Kings anointed kings.  Women--well, women only anointed dead men and dead kings. 

Yet, Jesus never seemed to care about these rules and conventions. He never seemed to see me, a woman, in any way that was different from from any man or from anyone else.

So, as Jesus and Lazarus and the others reclined around the table after dinner--a dinner served, of course, by my dear sister, Martha--as they reclined there, I went to that small cupboard and I took out that alabaster jar that contained everything of value to us. 

And I broke it open and poured it onto Jesus’ feet.  Not his head, but onto his feet.  As a slave would have poured oil onto the feet of her master.  And, then, I let down my hair and I used it to wipe Jesus’ feet. 

Perhaps, my gestures were too intimate.  Perhaps, they were too extravagant.  Yet, in that moment, I looked into his eyes and I knew that they were right.  And, in that room filled with the beautiful fragrance from the oil, I knew that I was deeply loved by him. I felt like the bride hearing the bridegroom speak the poetic words to her from Song of Songs: “Your plants are an orchard of pomegranates with pleasant fruits, fragrant henna with spikenard, spikenard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon, with every kind of incense tree, with myrrh and aloes, and all the finest spices.”

The reaction from the others was immediate.  Judas--that betrayer, that non-believer--led it, condemning me for using all of this expensive oil on the Jesus’ feet, instead of selling it to help the poor.  As though I had never helped the poor in our village. 

But you know what that’s like--when you give wholeheartedly to help the poor or the hungry and are immediately criticized by those who talk about helping others, but do nothing about it.  It seems that good and true actions always bring immediate criticism. 

Jesus’ reaction was immediate, too.  He told Judas to leave me alone.  And then he said these words, words that I didn’t understand then, but do now.  “This perfume was to be used in preparation for my burial and this is how she has used it.”  I didn’t know then what I know now--that we would never have had the opportunity to use this oil to prepare Jesus’ body for burial.

Jesus said something else, something that may seem confusing.  “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”  Those of with him, we knew what he meant.  We understand that he was quoting only part of a verse from Deuteronomy, a verse that reads in full, “Poor persons will never disappear from the earth.  That’s why I’m giving you this command: you must open your hand generously to your fellow Israelites, to the needy among you, and to the poor who live with you in your land.” (Deut. 15:11, CEB)   

We understood at least this much then.  But there was so much more to understand.  And that’s why this visit was so different.  Because, from this visit things began to happen that allowed me and the others to understand why Jesus had come to earth.  It began with this visit. 

You see, the very next day, Jesus would ride a donkey into Jerusalem, into the crowd of thousands gathered from the countryside to celebrate the Passover and to celebrate this man about whom they had heard so much.  And then, just as quickly, to turn on him and crucify him. 

In hindsight, I now understand everything.  I understand that Jesus generously and abundantly gave his own life on the cross for me and for you.  Generously and abundantly.  Sparing no expense.  

And I also understand that I should live and serve just as he did--giving generously and abundantly of myself and my gifts to serve others, especially those in need. 

That’s why this visit was so different.  May you go and do the same.