"Personality of the Passion -- 'Mary of Magdala!"

BACKGROUND:
Mary Magdalene. Just saying her name evokes Hollywood images we’d rather not talk about. This popular image of Mary Magdalene has been told and retold in countless ways in art, poetry, sermons, movies like “The Last Temptation of Christ” and “Jesus Christ Superstar”.

The problem is, the images simply are not true. Mary is mentioned seven times in the gospels and in none of them is there any indication of Mary being an immoral woman. She is spoken of with fondness.

So, how did she get such a reputation? Part of the problem is her home town. Magdala is known for being a city of fabric, feathers, fish and flesh. So, by association, Mary gets a bad reputation. Furthermore, this Mary is often merged with an unnamed “sinful woman” who anoints Jesus’ feet with oil and Mary, the sister of Lazarus, who also anoints Jesus with oil.

What we do find in the Gospels is that Mary is the only figure whose presence is recorded in all four Gospels as being among the first witnesses to encounter Jesus after his resurrection. This is the truth Mary tries to tell as we hear her story from her thoughts and perspective.

In order to hear Mary’s story from her perspective I’ve created this “Letter to the Editor” for The Jerusalem Daily Post, several weeks after Jesus’ resurrection, AD 33.

Editor:
I know what you think. What is “that woman” doing writing a letter for the “Public Pulse”. But I hope you’ll give me a break. I hope you’ll at least listen to what I have to say.

Several weeks ago, there was a crucifixion of an innocent man. He was a man that I had followed and traveled with for much of the three previous years. This man was believed to be “The Son of God.” At his death, he was buried, too late on the Sabbath eve to receive a “proper burial.” I was there to see him laid in that borrowed tomb.
In light of the fact that his burial wasn’t “proper” as soon as I could, when it was light enough to do so, I joined two other women to go to the tomb to do a proper anointing of Jesus’ buried body.

Really, I don’t know what we were thinking. I don’t know what we thought we’d really do there. In our culture, tombs are sealed up tight with a large stone rolled in front of the doorway. It is virtually impossible to get in. Who did we really think would be there to help remove the stone from the door of the tomb so we could do the work we intended to do? Furthermore, how did we think we were going to get the tomb sealed up again?

But when we got there, the stone was moved away, and his body was gone. Where this man had lain, sat a man, I think he was an angel. He had a message. The man we had buried had risen from the dead. The angel said he was alive, living, raised!!

Jesus, God’s Son, always taught that he would be put to death, buried and on the third day be raised from the dead. Indeed, it became true. Indeed, the tomb was empty, the stone was rolled away. Indeed, Jesus was displaying yet another miracle. Jesus was becoming more and more an instrument of the power of God. Jesus had fulfilled what God had promised, new life.

To be public about our truth, we were scared to death. We were so confused we were bewildered. And we were afraid, very scared. Here we were three women witnessing something extraordinary. And there were no men there to collaborate our story. Indeed, you, dear reader, might not believe much of this. “A woman’s tale, what does she know?” you’ll say – if this even gets published.

So we didn’t say anything. Not at first. We told the men in his group but they didn’t quite know what to think either.

But since then, they have seen him alive. WE have seen him alive. What he said has come true. He died, was buried and has risen from the dead.

That’s why I’m talking these weeks later. The men aren’t ready to admit this, but it was me who was the only one to accompany Jesus through these last days and hours. The others had deserted him or hidden in shadows. But I was there. I accompanied him to the crucifixion. I saw him die. I was there at his burial. I was among the first to see that the tomb was empty. And I have experienced his risen presence.

No one else can say that – man or woman. No one else can speak with authority about the resurrection of Jesus, the Son of God. No one else has my perspective, my truth.

And let me say this. It is true. I’m telling you the truth. I’m telling it now, publicly, here. Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God. And Jesus, the one thought to be dead, by the power of His father been raised from the dead, just as he said it would be.

And let me say this, whether you read this now, or by some miracle a couple of thousand years from now, it will be my witness to all of these things that will become a foundation for what is already a budding group of people who not only believe, but understand an Easter faith.

It is true. Jesus did rise from the dead. I saw it all. I was there. He is risen. He is risen indeed.

I was afraid then. I was too afraid to speak. But I’m not afraid anymore. I want everyone to know the truth. He rose just as he said he would.

So, whether you want to believe me or not, he is alive. God’s Son walks alive on this earth. Because he lives, I have a new life.

No let me tell you. When you hear the words, when you come to believe, your life will be changed to. You will know that death does not have any power. You will know that the grave is simply a door to eternal life. You will know, believe and proclaim the truth: Jesus is alive. Christ is risen. God’s promises have been fulfilled.

s/
A true believer
Mary of Magdala

"Light in Dark Places"

Somewhere along the line in my childhood, my family toured a cave. I was awed by the wonder of the gigantic stalagmites and stalactites. When I close my eyes and remember the damp chill of the innards of the earth I shiver a bit.

But then there is the memory of the moment when our guide had all of us find a place to sit down and - after warning of what was about to happen - turned off all the artificial lights.

I couldn’t believe how dark it got. I couldn’t seem to have a sense of which direction was up. I groped around and finally found the familiar feel of my Dad as I grabbed his hand.

As I remember it the tour guide didn’t allow this to last long. She turned on a flashlight. And to my fear filled eyes it just as well have been a searchlight. The light was so bright in comparison to utter darkness I had just experienced.

You know, when you think about it a simple flashlight, a tool that might not cost more then five bucks, can push back the overwhelming, scary darkness of the deepest cave. A simple beam of light that might not even be visible at ground level on a sunny day can become a laser beam in deep darkness. A pin prick of light in utter darkness sets the world right again and calms fears.

We recall that when God created Planet Earth to be our home, he came onto a scene that was dark and void. The first thing God did was to push back the darkness with light and then brought order to the chaos. He created light as a means for life to survive and to thrive.

We recall that God sent Jesus to be the light of the world. He sent Jesus to re-create the fallen human race and to restore hope to people in despair. Essentially Jesus came onto a scene that had been made formless and dark by human rebellion and humanity’s inhumanity. Then Jesus, in his birth, teaching, lifestyle and personal victory over death on Easter morning, pushed back the darkest dark of all, death and satan’s power, with the light of heaven’s glory. To use the language of John, the gospel writer, Jesus was the light shining into our darkness; the darkness could not conquer the light he brought.

These days it isn’t to hard for us to get the head-over-heals sensation of that comes from the darker corners of life. It isn’t too hard to lose our sense of direction in a world that is topsy-turvy with distractions and befuddlements.

Easter invites us to look from the dark cave of life to him. Jesus is the Light of the World, living still in our midst. Jesus is the presence of the light, the only light in which we live, grow, and flourish.

"I am the light of the world," he said. "If you follow me, you won't have to walk in darkness, because you will have the light that leads to life" (John 8:12 NLT).

"Personalities of the Passion -- 'Joseph of Armathea -- I Loaned Him My Grave' "

Hi:

My name is Joseph. No not THAT Joseph. You probably don’t know me or even know much about me.

I’m from Armathea, a village in the land of Ephraim, about 20 miles northwest of Jerusalem. The land of Ephraim was the land of Samuel, the prophet, who anointed kings and was instrumental in pointing out the Kingdom of David, our great ancestor.

You might not be able to tell it from looking at me, but I’m well to do. And I’m well known in Jerusalem. I have a fair amount of power and prestige. That power and prestige got me a place on the Sanhedrin, the most powerful religious court in all the land. It put me in a position of having special access to the cemetery where I spent a great deal of money to have my own tomb carved out of the rock. It was solid rock, mind you. The tomb I had dug was mighty nice, if I do say so myself. It was next to a beautiful garden with a full size door. The interior was the height of a full grown man and about 5 cubits (that’s 9 foot or so) square. We, I mean my slaves, took a lot of rock out of that hole. Then we carved a wheel of rock that could be rolled in front of the door to seal the tomb after I had been buried. The wheel, with a circumference big enough to cover the entry door, was about a cubit (20 inches or so) thick. It would roll down a slight incline and be blocked in front of the door. No one would ever be able to mess with my body.

Why, you ask, did I have my own tomb dug? Well, it was a matter of prestige. It was a matter of being able to enjoy talking about it before I got to use it. It was just one more thing to say I am rich and poweful.

But I get ahead of myself here.

I had secretly become a follower of this Jesus fellow. As a Jew, I was longing for the promised Messiah, the coming kingdom. The Romans, of course, were not at all supportive of any “kingdom” talk. And the religious authorities found their positions threatened by one who came from humble beginnings, certainly not the beginnings of the “Messiah.”

But I had different thoughts. I had followed Jesus at a distance. I had listened to his sermons, seen his miracles, and watched how he lived a life of servanthood and love. I knew in my heart, no matter what others wanted to say, that this Jesus was the real deal. Jesus was who he said he was, the Messiah, who had come to the world to usher in a spiritual kingdom over which he would resign eternally.

But, with my membership in the Jewish Court I kept my distance from Jesus. I had to keep all of that to myself. I couldn’t’ go public with what I thought. It would ruin my position.

But here is what I did do. When Caiaphas called that special early morning (illegal) meeting of the Sanhedrin, I didn’t go. I couldn’t have supported the action they were railroading through. I couldn’t have spoken my mind. And even if I had, it would have done no good.

I was powerless to stop what Jesus had talked about as “necessary”, that “the Son of man must suffer and die and be buried.” Of course, he also said that on the third day he would rise. I didn’t know about that if he was buried in my tomb, but that’s another story for another day.

And, while I was powerless to stop the crucifixion, I was bold enough to ask for Jesus’ body so that I could give him as proper a burial as I could, given the late hour. You see, after sundown on the Sabbath, work is prohibited for Jews and since a proper burial took time and is work, I could only wrap him in a nice cloth and lay him in the tomb. We’d come back later and do the rest.

I knew what happened to common criminals. Their bodies were often left unburied, or, at best, hastily disposed of in a dishonored place, like a pauper’s field. Sometimes a relative would ask for, and receive, a body and give it a more proper burial. One had to be careful, though, and get the right permission, one that confirmed that Jesus was dead. Many people had taken bodies from the cross before they had really died and then revived them. I didn’t want that to happen, but, of course, that is what was charged about Jesus’ resurrection).

But I got proper permission; Pilate himself gave it to me. He even summoned the centurion be sure that Jesus had died. The centurion said he had. So I got the body.

I know it was a bold move. But there wasn’t anyone else to do anything. Jesus’ closest followers had left him. They certainly weren’t very bold given the circumstances. And even if they had, no doubt they would have run into resistance.

So it was left to me. And I had the ability to be so bold, with my position and all. Of course, it wasn’t without risk. By the very request I could have revealed my support of Jesus. It could have gotten into some trouble. But, you know, Pilate didn’t want to get himself any deeper into this mess, so he was quick to give permission. He was willing to take this step to distance himself even a bit further from the innocent one who he had a part in sending to the cross.

So, I took it upon myself to take my best linen cloth, wrap up Jesus’ body in a respectful way and lay it in my tomb. I could do no less. Jesus, though he was servant of all, deserved the burial of a King. Jesus had earned a proper, respectful resting place.

Let me tell you. I’m not sure how I got that stone in front of the door. God must have been with me on that one. But somehow I got the tomb sealed up proper.

When I left, I noticed that the two Mary’s had been watching all along. Now isn’t that interesting. The women were the only ones who stayed close to him in his last moments.

Now, the funny thing is, I never got to use my own tomb. When God busted open that tomb for Jesus to come back to life, the stone was moved in such a manner that it would never fit again. Besides, I think it would have been blasphemy for anyone to be buried in the same tomb as the Son of God, the tomb that became empty and useless by the power of the eternal one.

I’ll have a grave some day. It will be just as nice as the one Jesus used. But it too will eventually be empty and uselwess Jesus promised that he would overcome the power of sin, death and the grave.

But for now, we lay Jesus to rest in my tomb this Good Friday await the news we long to hear, the news that the tomb is empty.

"Personalities of the Passion -- Simon, the Cyrene, 'I Carried His Cross!'"

Simon of Cyrene is an individual who only gets a short line in Scripture, Mark 15: 21, and only Mark mentions him.

From what we can gather, Simon was a faithful Jew from the area of Cyrene in northern Africa. He was the father of two sons, Rufus (Red) and Alexander. By the way that Mark refers to Simon, he seems to have been a familiar figure in the Jewish community.

Some speculate that he may have been black, but with a son, whose name is “Red” (Rufus), we might tend to think otherwise.

His residence in Cyrene leads one to believe that he was one of the Jews of the “Diaspora”, those scattered from Jerusalem during the exile that began some 500 years before Jesus. He had come to Jerusalem with thousands of others to celebrate the Passover, the main feast of Judaism, recalling the freeing of the Israelites from Egyptian rule. Such a pilgrimage was required by the law for all Jewish males.

As we listen to his testimony tonight, let us remember that Simon and his sons were Jews, not Christians. We also remember that we know the whole story of Jesus but they had never heard it.

To hear Simon tell his story I created this “e-mail”.

To: Rufus of Cyrene (thered@yahoo.com)
CC: Alexander of Cyrene (alex7381@hotmail.com)
From: Simon of Cyrene (papasimon@aol.com)
Time: Friday, the Passover, 33 a.d.; 1:42 p.m. (local time)

Subject: I carried Jesus’ cross

Boys,

Things haven’t gone so smoothly on this trip. As you know, I got started late yesterday. So, by the time I got here I was plenty behind. With the crowds of people I was having a hard time finding lodging.

Then, of all things, I got into a traffic jam. I was not far from the place outside Jerusalem called "Golgotha" because it looks like a skull. I could see a large mob of people and what looked like a parade. I pushed my way through the crowds, elbowing and pushing until I was right at the curb. All I could see was a man trying to carry a cross. He had been badly beaten. I’ve seen badly beaten in my life – you remember the stories that young Samuel kid there in Cyrene. Well this made that beating look like a little spanking.

It was all he could do to carry the cross. He was bleeding. The thin toga he wore kept slipping around and tearing open the scabs on his wounds. He must have been terribly dehydrated. He eyes were lifeless and blank. It looked like he had fallen before now. There was no way he could make it up to Golgotha.

I noticed an acquaintance from a previous trip, Ananias, a Pharisee. I asked him what was happening.

He said, “This man thinks he is the Son of God.”

That made me so mad, that I shouted and shook my hand, "YOU BLASPHEMER!"

Ananias also said, "He calls himself the King of the Jews." I couldn't control myself. In my anger I shouted, “YOU TRAITOR! YOU HYPOCRITE! YOU'RE GETTING EXACTLY WHAT YOU DESERVE ...."

I was just about out of my head when Jesus fell, right there in front of me. One of the Roman soldiers reached out and grabbed my arm. He said, “You carry this Cross.”

I wasn’t about to carry no cross, especially the cross of a blasphemer. First off, I was late. I didn’t have a place to stay. I was stuck in this miserable traffic jam. I didn’t have time. Moreover, as far as I’m concerned a convicted criminal should carry his own cross.

But, under the circumstances, I had no choice. So, with anger, impatience and many other emotions all worked up, I bent over to pick up the cross.

Boys, this was the magic moment. As I stooped, I touched him. And some of his blood blotted over onto my skin. I don't know if I’m crazy or what, but I immediately remembered how our ancestors put the blood of the lamb on their doorways and the children of the Israelites were spared.
Not only that. As I bent, our faces came within inches. I saw his eyes. I will never forget what I saw there. I saw that he was not a violent man. I saw that he had heard my insults just a few moments earlier. Oh, how sorry I am for that now. Yet his eyes seemed to say, “God has forgiven you because you don’t know what you did.”

His eyes forced love to flow from them. It was like light from a flame. It penetrated me and made me feel like I counted. It made me forget myself. No longer did I remember that I had a hurried schedule. No longer did I have something else to take care of. Nothing else mattered. Somehow I felt like I was surrounded by love. It’s funny. It was like being in the presence of God himself! I wish I were an artist so I could paint a picture of that love in his eyes. It was so priceless.

Sons, something else happened while I carried that cross. I got a taste of his suffering and pain. And I got a taste of his loneliness and humiliation. That cross was heavy. It cut my flesh. I struggled to breathe under its weight. But I didn’t have to be crucified on it.

As I walked I heard the insults, I felt the hostility of the crowd. I got pelted with rocks, and even spat upon. And the loneliness, he was all alone. If he had any friends, they had deserted him to watch from the fringes of the crowd. I couldn’t see anyone offering encouragement.

But here is what is important. It was like I was a “scapegoat”; you know the lamb we sacrifice in Judaism for the sins all.

I was a stand in to carry his cross. And he was going to become a stand in for me with his innocent suffering and death. Those people, yelling the insults, were killing him for their own sins. While I carried that cross I knew this was no game. This was for real. No doubt, God was at work here. I was in the presence of God. Jesus blood was that of the Passover lamb.

Right now they are nailing him to the cross. The crowds are still in an uproar. He is being mocked and beaten some more. And still in his eyes, I see love. Jesus must be more than a carpenter.

Something is changing in me. I’m feeling like a different person having looked into his eyes. Like I said, I’ll tell you more when I get home. And, from the looks of things, by the time I get done here and get back to Cyrene there will be a lot more to tell ….

TTYL (That's "talk to you later")

Dad