Turning from death to life: a biblical reflection on Mary Magdalene - John 20:1-18 - "Turn to God - Rejoice in Hope": Unfolding the Eighth Assembly Theme

Ecumenical Review, The, April, 1998 by Dorothy A. Lee

After the sabbath day, I stand in the garden outside the cave, turned to the darkness and the open mouth where no stone protects me. Just as I stood on the bald hill, only three days ago, beside the cross. A life-time ago, an aeon, an eternity of disbelieving. There in that hour I saw the glory, the priceless cloth, the presence of the mother, the open wound which is also a womb, the life pouring through. Bleeding in the darkness on the holy day. The red glow of pain which is also life: breathing in and out, giving and letting go, surrendering the spirit.

Unquestionably a glorious death, suffused in love, vibrant yet terrible. We gathered around in a small group, our sole companion the disciple he loved who chose to stay, not with the others -- his companions -- but with us the mourning women. There was grief and pain, but the breath of the dying man fell upon us: passion, tenderness, confidence, holding us to the end.

And then the burial which I watched, hiding like Miriam in the bushes of the garden, guarding what lay in rivers of blood. The great ones came to exclaim, to gather up, to wrap around and around. They bustled about, bringing gifts for his body. It was too late for them, of course, but they scorned renown and poured their wealth instead on his feet, his hands, his burning wounds. A turn-around indeed, I told myself in astonishment. A burial fit for a king; the fragile body cradled in myrrh, fragrance to shield an alien truth.

But here today in this garden I see only emptiness and loss. That which was present is absent. I face the emptiness of the vault which is nevertheless terrifyingly full; the stench of death, the soft corruptible flesh ending all my dreams, the dry bones, the fine dust poured on the earth like a libation. The very beauty and tranquillity of this garden offends; sublimely indifferent to crypt and cross, to ugliness and desolation. The tall, slender trees, the tangled blossom, everywhere the amber air fragrant with wattle and eucalypt. The chime of currawong and bellbird, as if in exultation. Yet to me all this no more than a fierce reminder of Paradise forever lost. Why couldn't this place be a desert, a burning centre far from water that only the ancient ones can trace? Or a wasteland of bruised rocks and trampled dreaming?

It is to my brothers that I first turn when, taking my courage in my hands, I peer into the gloom and find it emptier than I had imagined. Oh his body gone! Oh the sound of the lover's footsteps turning from the threshold! Nothing to touch or hold onto; no fleshly consolation. My brothers come to my aid but they do not help me. They run and clamber to see what I have seen -- perhaps see more -- but speak no word of healing. They turn away in silence and I am again alone, the tears blinding me, washing down my skin like the breaking of drought. All my pain, all the pain of the world, from the beginning of time until now, lies in that dark cave; in that loss, in that denial even of the last consolation. Like the mothers of tortured sons, I beseech anyone who will listen for the lacerated, lifeless flesh to be given back; fruitless to anyone else, but all that is left to me. And people futilely question my tears and I have no defence, no strength to separate the sorrowful interior, no mask to convey a happiness and solidity that are not there.