Forthright Fixation

Peter burst through the door, John stumbling after him.

“She’s right,” Peter gasped, bending to rest his palms on his knees. The early morning sun shone from behind the open door. He looked each of them in the face. “It’s empty.”

“I told you!” Mary cried, laughing. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands together with joy. “I told you! Oh God, he’s alive!”

James, his face downcast, slammed his fist on the table he was sitting at. “Just because he’s not there doesn’t mean he’s walking around, woman.”

The one standing in the doorway with Peter looked at James solemnly. “Be quiet,” he said to his brother. “Don’t speak to her in that way.”

Mary, bewildered, looked from face to face. What was wrong? Did they think she was delirious? She ran to the older woman who was sitting silently in her chair, tucked away from the rest of the men. “Mother,” she said, clasping the woman’s hands and kneeling at her feet. “Surely you believe me.” Mary’s own mother had died long ago in Magdala, and giving this woman the affectionate title eased her own heart. They all called her Mother.

The woman’s brown eyes were swimming in tears, but were wide open, gazing pensively. They did not bespeak doubt, nor pity. But fear. Hope. She said nothing because she was afraid. Mary understood. A tear slipping down her own cheek, the young woman rested her head on the older Mary’s lap. She could fear the older woman’s trembling.

Andrew stood awkwardly, hating to see the women so distressed. Running his hand through his black hair, he looked at Peter. “He is gone, then?”

Peter nodded. “And of course we know who the finger will be pointed at.”

Mary shuddered, curling her knees closer to her body. They had been so afraid these past few days. Threats and rumors circulated all over. Now, with Jesus’ body gone, people would charge them with the act. And how would others believe the Lord had risen if His own friends wouldn’t even believe her…?

James growled a curse under his breath. Mary remembered how Jesus had called him and John the “Sons of Thunder” for their coarse talk. It almost brought a smile to her face to remember Him rebuking them. But now….now…

They were all together- save Didymus. Joanna and the other Mary had fled home after meeting the men in white. But Mary couldn’t contain herself. She had expected the disciples to rejoice with her. And now they didn’t even believe her.

“John,” she called out weakly, lifting her head from the Mother’s lap. Her dark hair hung in her face. “I saw him.”

Bartholomew’s head jolted up. “What?”

James growled in his throat, but Mary stood slowly, undaunted. Peter rushed over to her, his eyes glinting. “Mary?” he asked, taking her hands in his large, rough ones.

“I thought He was the gardener,” she explained. “I didn’t understand.” She had been so afraid. The Lord was gone…even their right to mourn over his body had been snatched away. Her voice rose in excitement. “But then He opened my eyes. It was He! How could I not recognize the man who healed me?”

“Hush, Mary,” said Phillip, his scared dark eyes glancing toward the door. They had all been afraid of discovery and arrest since the crucifixion. So they hid like dogs.

“No!” she cried, unable to contain herself. Tears poured down her cheeks. Walking to Phillip, she put her hands on his face, his rough beard prickling her palms. “We don’t have to be afraid, brother,” she whispered. Looking around to each of them, her eyes shone. “We don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

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Mary heard the Mother’s sharp intake of breath. Turning to look at the woman, she saw that her eyes were dazzled, fixed on one corner of the room. Mary turned and saw many of them gasp at an alien figure in their midst. Had they been discovered? Who could have crept in so silently without their notice?

The man stood, and Mary instantly dropped to her knees.

“Peace be with you!”

They all cried out at those familiar tones. The deep, rich voice of Jesus had greeted them. Jesus. Jesus who was their Lord. Jesus, Son of God. Jesus, who had died before their eyes. Jesus- alive!

Raising her eyes, she saw wonder and fear in the faces of the brothers. They looked….so frightened. Some of them even as if they were looking upon a ghost. Mary’s bones shook so violently that she could not move.

Jesus looked at every person in the room, speaking as he did.

“Why are you troubled…?” his eyes locked with hers. Instantly her body seemed to calm, and she rose from the ground, aching to be closer to the Lord. ”…and why do doubts rise in your minds?” He turned his head to look directly at Peter. Mary saw the disciple’s head droop, and a tear run down into his beard. Jesus stepped forward. “Look at my hands and my feet.” He held his palm toward Andrew, who was standing closest to him. Andrew’s eyes grew wide, and his mouth opened. “It is I myself!” Jesus continued. “Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see I have.” Andrew tentatively brushed a finger against the scar on Jesus’ wrist, falling to his knees and bowing his head.

“Lord, Lord…” he murmured.

Peter dashed forward, all the others following. They shouted cries of joy, laughing, touching Jesus. Jesus looked on each of them, giving a deep laugh Himself. Mary seemed to see that His face shone with a light that had never been there before. Creeping towards him, she managed to lay her hand on His foot. It was if a surge of lightning shot through her. Pain and pleasure and joy and sorrow- and majesty, all at once.

She knew she was in the presence of God.

Bowing her face to the floor, her hands on His feet, Mary whispered a name she had never called Him before:

”Abba.”

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References:
Matthew 28; Mark 16; Luke 24; John 20 [NIV]

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