Christ had risen, but joy only came later
Sister Teresa White FCJ follows her Lenten meditation on the Stations of the Cross with a reflection on the 'strangeness' of the Resurrection

The Resurrection, 1499, by Pietro Perugino

The entrance antiphon for the first Mass of Easter captures the essential message of this day and of the whole of the paschal season: "Resurrexi, et adhuc tecum sum. I have risen, and I am still with you." All the post-Resurrection appearances emphasise the continuing presence of Jesus: he is with us now and will remain with us always. This assurance is what his Resurrection means for us. This is the source of our joy. "Resurrexit sicut dixit. He has risen as he said he would. Alleluia!"

Great Christian painters such as Piero della Francesca have presented us with spectacular images of the victorious risen Jesus. Many of the well-known Easter hymns of the Church do likewise, and Jesus is addressed as the "risen, conquering Son", described as having "risen triumphant from the grave". Understandably, these artists and writers wanted to invest this momentous event - clearly central to Christian faith - with due and solemn significance.

Today we live in an age in which some Christians, even some religious leaders, seem disposed to question the historical authenticity of the Resurrection, no doubt prompting this verse from John Updike's "Seven Stanzas at Easter":

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping
transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

Without "sidestepping transcendence", and with every intention of walking "through the door" of faith, we believe that Christ was truly raised to life. Yet the fact remains that the Gospel accounts of the Resurrection of Jesus are simple and undramatic. There are no witnesses to the actual moment of the rising, although the symbols tell the story clearly: the stone rolled back from the entrance, the empty tomb, the discarded clothes. And then the words of the angel: "Why look among the dead for someone who is alive?" Death does not have the final word.

No wonder, then, that the Resurrection of Jesus has traditionally been the source of such rejoicing among his followers. The harshness and severity of suffering and death has been replaced by the gentleness and wonder and energy of new life. Yet, as Alister McGrath points out, an air of "strangeness" surrounds the Resurrection accounts in the Gospels. He notes that, for the women visiting the tomb on the first Easter Day (Mark 16: 5-8), "the vocabulary of joy is completely, conspicuously absent. The dominant tone is that of fear - a fear that reduces them to silence, and impels them to flight." What they experience is a revelation of the divine, the glory of God, and the human response to this, it seems, is to be overwhelmed with fear. The joy comes later.

Julian of Norwich, in her contemplation of the Passion of Jesus, is given a foretaste of the glory of the Resurrection and is filled with joy: "Suddenly (I, beholding the Cross), his expression changed to blissful cheer...And I was full merry!" But Julian, unlike the women in the Gospel accounts, had been prepared for the Resurrection of Jesus by her Christian upbringing. That is why she could later say with ringing confidence: "All manner of things shall be well."

On the other hand, Mary of Magdala, lacking the benefit of the hindsight of later Christians, was not prepared for the Resurrection. Whatever she may have heard Jesus say about rising from the dead, she, like the other disciples, had not understood. Clearly, for her, Jesus's death was the end. No wonder she did not recognise him on that first Easter morning. Yes, she saw a man standing near the tomb, but in her mind the one person this man could not possibly be was Jesus. Had she not followed Jesus on the Way of the Cross? Had she not watched him die in agony and been present with his mother at his burial? Quite simply, she did not expect him to be alive.

It was the custom among Jews for relatives and friends to visit the tomb of a dead person for three days after the death. They believed that the spirit of every dead person hovered round the tomb for three days after they had been laid to rest. After that, it was thought, the person's spirit departed, because the body would by then have become unrecognisable through decay. Against the background of this custom, it is easy to see why Mary of Magdala came to the tomb with such urgency: this was the third day since Jesus had died.

It was very early on the first day of the week, John tells us, when she came. It was that expectant time before the first blush of dawn, still dark, but no longer night - on the cusp of day. She found what she thought to be evidence of the theft of Jesus's body. This increased her grief, and she could not face it alone. She went back to tell Peter and John, who came running to see for themselves what had happened. They went inside the tomb, and although John seems to have had an inkling of the truth, he nevertheless says that the two returned to their homes, still not appreciating the full import of what they had seen.

Mary had returned to the tomb with Peter and John, but this time she did not go in. Instead she stayed outside weeping, and so she was not part of their first awakening to faith in the Resurrection. When they went back home, they left her behind. She was in the garden, still mourning because the one she loved had died. She stooped down to look inside the tomb and saw two angels in white sitting where the body had been. Though one of these addressed her, she was inconsolable. "They have taken my Lord away," she says, "and I do not know where they have laid him."

She turned then, and saw a man standing there. Why did she not immediately recognise Jesus, she, who loved him so much? Mary appeared to have been so wrapped up in her misery at the death of Jesus, that she wasn't looking at anyone properly. Her tears blinded her to anyone and anything. She was so busy grieving that she was unaware that there was no longer any cause for grief. And, as we have said, she had no thought, no hope, no expectation, of Resurrection. (Interestingly, in Duccio's painting of this scene, signs of Resurrection are all around - even the sharp, harsh rocks are beginning to sprout with new plants and grasses.)

A person whom we love and who loves us has a special way of pronouncing our name. When Jesus called Mary by name, there was no hesitation; she recognised him at once. This man whom she had taken to be a gardener said a single word to her: "Mary!" She knew his voice, and she too responded with a single word: "Rabbouni!" (Master!) He roused her faith in calling her by her name. She must have reached out to embrace him, but he tells her not to be afraid, that he is still with her. Then he sends her back to tell the disciples that he is risen. For that reason, Mary of Magdala is sometimes called Apostola apostolorum (Apostle to the apostles). Desmond Tutu's little verse simply but clearly proclaims the message she brings them:

Goodness is stronger than evil;
love is stronger than hate;
light is stronger than darkness;
life is stronger than death;
victory is ours through Him
who loved us.

Still, after all these centuries, this remains the message of Easter.