Why do you weep?

They took my master, and I don’t know where they put him.

I can hear the desperation, the last-straw emotion in Mary Magdalena’s voice. Dawn had finally come — finally! Saturday was over, and finally she could go and care for her Lord, she could serve him one last time.

I imagine the hope-dread with which she faced this task of embalming Jesus. The way she could not wait to hold his hand — even cold — one more time. The way she was afraid to see him lifeless, that shine that made him who he was gone. She’d steeled herself for this moment, and at the same time could not wait for it. All that emotional preparation, the trying not to cry, the absolute frustration at not being able to care for him properly after his death, the unending Sabbath when the busy work of distraction was forbidden, and all they could do was sit with their grief, stare it down as it came to consume them in wave after wave.

To arrive and find him gone — oh.

That’s a stick-a-fork-in-me-I’m-done kind of moment. That’s a moment when your knees just go out from under you and any attempt at strength, dignity, stoicism evaporates. Here is where the grief is, in its truest form. The ultimate frustration of death, the I-don’t-know of it all.

Woman, why do you weep? Who are you looking for?

I sense the tenderness in his voice. The gentleness, how he doesn’t want to frighten her. I hear the slight teasing, like a big brother. An anticipatory smile at her coming reaction. I sense his complete and utter peace in his victory.

She didn’t recognize him right away. Was the sun in her eyes? Were there too many tears? Was the sheer emotion simply blocking her vision? She said to the man she thought was the gardener:

Mister, if you took him, tell me where you put him so I can care for him.

She had one purpose, continually frustrated: to care for Jesus. The longing in this one sentence pulls at my heart even now. Tell me where he is! Let me care for him!

And then, one of the single most beautiful moments in the scripture. Jesus says her name.

Mary.

When God calls you by name, you recognize him for who he is. Like Mary, that is the moment you want to run and cling to him for dear life. But most of us are like the rest of the disciples — we may hear the story, we may suck on our Easter candy and eat our Easter ham (there may be some irony there, but I’m not sure) but when God calls our name, we may not really believe.

We may need to be like Thomas, who had to poke around in the holes in Jesus’ body before he would believe. We may be like Peter, who while we believe, we get frustrated by his persistence with us, mistaking continued redemption for rebuke. You know I love you, Master.

Some of us just don’t care.

But Mary. Mary could not wait to cling to him again. I feel it, too. Oh if Jesus were to walk into my office right now, I would cling to him and never let him go. He is my hope and my call, my redemption and restoration. He is everything I could ever hope for. I wish — how I wish — I could make you all understand the sheer joy it is to know him. Oh, that I would be better at sharing him with you, explaining it. But words fail.

There are no words for the resurrection. There are no real words that capture this mystery. This joy is like describing the blue of the sky to a blind person, this joy is something that can only be caught.

All I can do is pray that, when you stand outside the tomb, confused, hurt, and stick-a-fork-in-me kind of done, when the sun is reflecting off your tears and blinding you, all I can do is pray that you’ll hear him, turn, and cling.

Why do you weep?

And then, he says your name.