I have a gospel to proclaim...

The Lessons Appointed for Saint Mary Magdalene

Judith 9:1,11-14
Psalm 42:1-72
Corinthians 5:14-18
John 20:11-18

It was unfinished.
We stayed there, fixed until the end,
women waiting for the body that we loved;
and then it was unfinished.
There was no time to cherish, cleanse, anoint;
no time to handle him with love,
no farewell.
Since then my hands have waited,
aching to touch even his deadness,
smoothe oil into bruises that no longer hurt,
offer his silent flesh my finished act of love.

The opening lines of this poem, titled, “They have taken away my Lord” by Janet Morley*, draws the reader immediately into the mourning and ritual that Mary of Magdala and her companions were jolted from early on the day they went to visit Jesus’ body in the tomb. This morning we remember Mary Magdalene whose saint day is July 22. In preparation for a baptism this morning, and in events throughout the week I have found Mary to be a worthy companion in the work of saying good-bye – and preaching a gospel of hope and resurrection in the face of death.

Facing the loss of a loved one is one of the burdens that we all have to bear at one time or another. In our physical, bodily nature we are not invincible – addiction, accident, suicide, violence, disease – our bodies are susceptible to failure, and finitude. And with the inevitability of our own death – we must face it each time we witness the loss of another. The ritual of saying good-bye is an important part of that. For Mary, as voiced by the poet, the momentary grief at the thought that this final act of love might have to go “unfinished” - was too much to bear.

Her assumption of course, was that some person had done this – some person had played a terrible prank, had taken a jeering attitude too far. Someone had stolen the body that she had come to anoint, and bid farewell to and this is cause to weep. And in the Gospel there are others there who heard her weeping, who heard her despair. The words were spoken to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?”

In the words of the poet, she replies,

“They have taken away my Lord – where is his corpse?
Where is the body that is mine to greet?
He is not gone
I am not ready yet, I am not finished—
I cannot let him go
I am not whole.”

“I am not ready yet.” These are words that many of us can relate to when the time to say good-bye is upon us. Even when given the opportunity to prepare for death, even if we are in agreement that the fight is too much to bear anymore, even after an unexpected loss, where things seemed to have happened in a certain way for some cosmic reason – the human experience of having to say good-bye to those who have left us behind leaves in its wake sadness, mourning, loss. All that could have been, all that should have been, grieving those future events that will not be shared, realized awareness that what once was normal, will never be the same again. These realities we must face sooner or later, for they do not disappear – whether we are ready or not – we must let go, and we must persevere in the belief that wholeness is still there for us to seek.

The life and witness of Mary Magdalene at Jesus’ tomb that day is one of the reasons we believe in that wholeness – in its possibility, in its promise. Death is in fact the entry point into our life in Christ – as described in the words of our baptismal prayer: [Words that we will hear again as we participate in the baptism of Reagan Leigh, one of our newest members of the parish.]

“We thank you, Father, for the water of Baptism. In it we are buried with Christ in his death. By it we share in his resurrection. Through it we are reborn by the Holy Spirit.” From the Book of Common Prayer pg. 306

But Mary was not there the face the joy of resurrection – she was not there in anticipation of being greeted or recognized, or spoken to by the man she followed, the healer who had relieved her of the burdens she bore in life before he came along. No, she came to say goodbye – and as the story goes, her good-bye was interrupted by an unexpected greeting.

I have been a witness to the unexpected too. I met a man this week who is facing a terminal disease and who came to discuss his own memorial service – one that will likely take place in the next year. He is preparing himself and his family for a death that he knows will come – and to meet the need to say good-bye for those he will leave behind. In times like this I am thankful for gift of community – of baptism and of the hope of the resurrection. Again from our prayer book are these words:

“The liturgy for the dead is an Easter liturgy. It finds all its meaning in the resurrection. Because Jesus was raised from the dead, we, too, shall be raised.

The liturgy, therefore, is characterized by joy, in the certainty that “neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

This joy, however, does not make human grief unchristian. The very love we have for each other in Christ brings deep sorrow when we are parted by death. Jesus himself wept at the grave of his friend. So, while we rejoice that one we love has entered into the nearer presence of our Lord, we sorrow in sympathy with those who mourn.”
From the Book of Common Prayer pg. 507

Saying good-bye, is a holy act – and it is one that, for the closest mourner does not take place in one day – it takes place over time, in the daily awareness of what is now missing. But the promise of the resurrection, the hope that we bear as a community that joins in Christ’s story through our baptism, and through our life together, is in our perseverance of that wholeness – our belief that even in saying good-bye – we have not lost the love that was present in relationship those we no longer see.

I have one last story that took me by surprise this week, and reflects the joy and wholeness that saying good-bye brings. If you listen to the National Public Radio station you may have heard some of your favorite newscasters and hosts giving tributes to a man you would otherwise never have known or heard of. Gary Smith was a doorman in a building that houses NPR. He had a way of greeting each person as they came and went – a greeting that let each person know that he saw them, that he cared – even if just for that instant, that they were passing by.

Why do I know this? Why did I hear of this person? Because in the wake of his death, the truth that his presence affected more lives than one might ever have expected was expressed again and again, by different hosts and members of the NPR staff. And the resounding story that was told of this man – was in many ways a tribute to a love he had for all people.

Hmm. A simple man, touching the lives of many through his love and compassion, and inspiring others to carry on his message, to carry on the love he embodied in his everyday living. Seems a familiar story. It brings me back to the close of the poem I began with – as Mary who came to say good-bye, and is faced with another opportunity to grasp on to the one she loved – instead she is told – do not hold onto me – go and tell the others. And so, like “Mary, I, have a gospel to proclaim.” Amen.

Delivered by The Rev. Mary Catherine Enockson
Sunday, July 20, 2008, The Episcopal Church of Our Saviour, Rock Hill, SC.

*They have taken away my Lord
by Janet Morely

It was unfinished.
We stayed there, fixed until the end,
women waiting for the body that we loved;
and then it was unfinished.
There was no time to cherish, cleans, anoint;
no time to handle him with love,
no farewell.
Since then my hands have waited,
aching to touch even his deadness,
smoothe oil into bruises that no longer hurt,
offer his silent flesh my finished act of love.
I came early, as the darkness lifted,
to find the grave ripped open and his body gone;
container of my grief smashed, looted,
leaving my hands still empty.
I turned on the man who came:
“They have taken away my Lord – where is his corpse?
Where is the body that is mine to greet?
He is not gone
I am not ready yet, I am not finished—
I cannot let him go
I am not whole.”
And he spoke, no corpse,
and breathed, and offered me my name.
My hands rushed to grasp him;
to hold and hug and grip his body close;
to give myself again, to cling to him,
and lose my self in love.
“Don’t touch me now.”
I stopped, and waited, my rejected passion
hovering between us like some dying thing.
I, Mary, stood and grieved and then departed.
I have a gospel to proclaim.