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Chapter Forty-Three

The Resurrection

The next morning found the disciples recovering from another bout with wine. This time Martha and her sister Mary kept Lazarus cup filled with water. James and I had decided to please our mother (not that she was that much aware of her surroundings) and had drunk sparingly, just enough for a decent night’s sleep. Not long after dawn, as we waited for our breakfast and paced restlessly around the upper room, Mark tromped up the staircase announcing the arrival of an important guest. Behind him, as Mark informed us, was none other than Jeremiah, the temple scribe who had been one of Jesus’ two advocates at the trial.

“He has information about Judas!” Mark said excitedly.

Mark paused to quickly introduce the people in the room before Jeremiah gave us the startling news.

“Before Jesus was arrested,” he began, stroking his beard, “Jude came to the temple.”

“Of course!” John said sarcastically “Where else?” “

“Who did he see?” Philip frowned.

“Caiaphas.” Jeremiah answered with a frown. “Let me finish.” “You might be surprised.”

“Shut up, you two!” snapped Peter.

“It’s like this.” Jeremiah drew in a breath. “Judas and the high priest met at Solomon’s Porch, near the women’s court of the temple. Before Judas offered to betray Jesus, he was carrying on about Jesus. He didn’t sound like a betrayer but someone who wanted Jesus to take a stand. He told Caiaphas that Jesus was the Promised One and believed the hour was right. He simply wanted to give Jesus a little shove. He sounded addled, like a man possessed. Then the high priest handed Judas a bag, which he said contained thirty pieces of silver.

This caused Philip to say, “Ah hah! We were right; he did it for money.”

“I said shut up!” Peter growled.

“I don’t think he did it for money.” Jeremiah shook his head. “Judas said nothing about being paid. I think he felt he was an instrument of God. He handed the bag back to Caiaphas, but the high priest explained that it was a formality. If he didn’t want payment he should give the money to the poor.”

“Did he keep the money?” Andrew cocked an eyebrow.

“Well… yes,” Jeremiah said hesitantly.

“Then he did it for money!” Andrew folded his arms.

“That’s what I said,” Philip said defiantly.

“Very well, Jeremiah,” Peter threw up his hands. “But what difference does it make? He still betrayed him.”

“The fact is,” Philip insisted, “he got paid!”

“He didn’t do it for money, though,” James disagreed, “he wanted to force Jesus’ hand!”

“That’s’ right!” I slammed down my mug. “Judas was a deluded fool!”

“No rational man would do what he did.” Matthew shook his head. “He has to be insane—mad as a bat!”

“Uh-uh, you’re wrong.” Thomas waved impatiently. “Judas wasn’t crazy—not like normal madmen. Look at the way he acted. All those jerky motions of his head, the way his eyeballs rolled around, and when he laughed for no reason at all. He’s possessed, I tell you, controlled by a demon!”

“Or just plane evil!” insisted Simon. “Men blame madness or a demon for bad behavior. Can’t someone, for his own wicked purposes, just yield to temptation as did Cain?”

Thomas reference to a normal madman had struck me as humorous and I laughed impiously a moment, as Matthew and Thomas argued over Simon’s dismissal of their theories. As I listened to the men analyze Judas’ behavior, I grew weary of it, stood up finally, and, with a slight slur, announced, “Shut up! You’re all right. Judas actions are driven by all four reasons: he’s deluded, insane, possessed, and evil. Perhaps what we saw at times, was all four reasons wrapped up into one!”

Peter, suffering from the effects of wine, now regained control of the group, barking irritably, “All right, that’s enough. We’ve established Judas’ frame of mind, but Jeremiah has much more to say!

“After the trial,” Jeremiah continued patiently, “I found myself in the crowd on Golgotha. I’ve never been more disgusted with our people. These were Judeans. I recognized many of them. Among the normal rabble of Jerusalem, many of those shaking their fists and flinging insults at Jesus had been his followers.” “…. I was in a daze.” He paused to reflect. “…. I could scarcely believe what happened to that righteous man. I saw a horde of hissing and hateful people on that hill. Then, suddenly, it was raining. Thunder peeled in the sky. Surely, I thought, God was angry because of the murder of his son. With the help of the Romans, who tried to bring order in our city, the Lord was showing his displeasure to Jerusalem, sweeping Jesus’ tormenters from Golgotha. Then the storm stopped, as quickly as it began. From a distance, I gazed a moment at the three crosses. On one of the crosses hung Jesus, crucified with two common criminals. A shadowy figure appeared not far from me on the hill. Because his hood was pulled over his face, I couldn’t yet see his face. At first, I thought he might be a follower—so few in numbers they were in this city, yet I paid him no mind. What could anyone say at such a time? Turning from this dreadful place, I began retreating from the hill. Hearing one last peel of thunder, as the sky began to clear—one final rebuke from God, I looked back just in time to see the hood fall from the strangers face. Now the storm had ceased, the moon had broken through the clouds. In its eerie light, there was no question who the stranger was. It was Judas Iscariot, the man who betrayed Jesus. Unaware of my presence it seemed, he slinked away, as if he was a fugitive from divine justice, into the darkness beyond the hill. I don’t know what sort of man Judas was before he did his deed, but I’ve never seen a more tortured soul.”

“Well, what happened next?” Peter looked at him expectantly.

“I followed Judas into a region of Jerusalem I had never been: down the hill of the skulls, over a field of bones—the discarded victims of Roman barbarity, to a precipice near the city wall. I saw him walk up to the edge of the cliff, which overlooked a great garbage heap of all manner of trash. Because clouds once again covered the moon, it was as if a lamp had been turned off in front of me. One moment, as I stood there watching Judas stand there looking down at the refuse, perhaps comparing it to what his life had become, darkness fell on the scene; and the next moment, as the clouds parted and light returned, he was gone. The space where he stood was suddenly empty. I assumed, after dashing to the scene, that Judas had jumped. Near the crest, I noticed an overhanging tree, its roots clinging to the top of the cliff. The shredded end of a rope hung from one of its branches. After thinking he had leaped to his death, it now seemed as though Judas had hung himself and the rope simply broke. But then, in the moonlight, as I scanned the mound of refuse below, I could see nothing but garbage and discarded junk. Had I not already felt defiled by my experience, I might have ventured down into the abyss. Even so, it would have difficult, maybe impossible to find a corpse in such a mess.”

“What does that mean?” Peter frowned. “Did he jump or not… Is he dead or alive?”

“It would seem he’s dead.” Jeremiah shrugged his shoulders. “Unfortunately, because that place is unhallowed grounds, it will require the Roman magistrates to make sure. Considering the way most crucified victims are treated by them, however, I doubt they would do such a thing.”

Andrew looked at him in disbelief. “So he could still be alive?”

“I don’t think so.” Jeremiah shook his head. “He must be in there somewhere. He could’ve sunk into that quagmire. I can’t believe Jerusalem, our holiest of cities, would tolerate such a place!”

“This is no longer a holy city,” grumbled Philip.

“Well, that place certainly isn’t.” Jeremiah laughed softly.

James heaved a sigh. “Jerusalem, the city of David and Solomon, has always had a checkered history. Now it’s fallen from God’s grace. It’s shining temple and fine buildings mask spiritual filth, no better than Golgotha, a place of the dead. At the heart of this filth is the temple. As a scribe, I once admired it. I once wanted to work there, until Jesus opened my eyes. Now, because of what they did, it’s tainted for us, Jesus followers. It is, like Golgotha, unhallowed ground.”

Jeremiah was shocked by this characterization. “Filth, you say?” his voice shook. “A place of the dead? You’re going too far, James. Let’s hope Jerusalem can redeem itself. Is it really a lost cause?”

“Redeem itself, after killing the Redeemer?” replied James. “Never! It’s dead to me. Jerusalem is lost to God!”

“Lost! Dead!” John agreed. “It let the Romans kill our Lord!”

“Let the Romans have it.” His brother shook his fist. “They deserve it. I hope they burn it to the ground!”

“Burn it to the ground!” Philip cried.

Thomas, Matthew, Bartholomew, Lazarus, and I joined him in this chant. Andrew rose up, clinching his fist, exclaiming with great bitterness, “James is right. I blame those filthy priests! They had him crucified him. It’s their fault!”

“A curse on them!” roared Simon. “They’re evil—all of them, especially Caiaphas, the high priest. I hope they roast in hell!”

After listening intently, I raised my hand impatiently. “It’s not just the Sanhedrin and Romans,” I reminded them. “Let’s not forget that stinking mob: the rabble who turned on him and called for his blood!”

“That’s right,” Peter reflected grimly, “we saw the worst of them. Those people chose Barabbas over Jesus. Afterwards, with blood lust, others followed their lead. That makes the people of Jerusalem at fault. It seemed as though the whole town came out in force—Pharisees, priests, and scribes inciting that mob of turn-coat citizens and pilgrims. There were in addition to the locals who gave him a king’s welcome when he entered the gate, people from Bethany, who had been among his followers when he preached in that town. I wouldn’t be bit surprised if all the Jews of Palestine turned on him. Jesus warned us this would happen. Did not Isaiah predict he would be rejected by his own people?” “A curse on those stiff-necked Jews!” He socked his fist. “When it comes right down to it, they’re all to blame!”

Peter had said it best. No one could top that, not even John, who had stood at the foot of the cross. During our rage, most of the women had looked on in stunned silence. Our mother, however, sat there nodding her head as we ranted. After this dark period, she would never visit Jerusalem again. No one could blame her. Mark, the only man not spouting off, seemed to make light of matters.

“Well,” he said nervously, “we got off the subject, didn’t we?” “I’m sorry Jeremiah,” he murmured discreetly, “I hope you don’t report this to the temple.”

Not sure he was serious, Jeremiah managed to grin. “Ho-ho.” he forced a laugh. “Don’t worry. After the trial, as the Romans say, I became, like Nicodemus, persona non gratis!”

Mark had awakened our consciences. Realizing at last how Jeremiah, a temple scribe, might react to our rant, we lapsed into silence. After all, until the trial, he was a faithful officer of temple.

“What about Judas?” a voice broke the quiet. “Blame is one thing, but he betrayed my son. He committed the ultimate crime!” “We all know who’s to blame for the trial and execution of Jesus. It was Judas who sold him out!”

On and on she went, drawing from the report given to her. James and I looked at our mother sympathetically. With the imprint of Jeremiah’s account of Judas apparent suicide, however, my hatred of Judas was tempered by pity. I sensed that James felt the same way. Also playing on my logic, was the notion given to me by Jesus, himself, that Judas was an instrument of the Lord. Mary Magdalene, Lazarus’ sisters, and Mark’s mother stood over our mother cooing kind words, as she carried on.

“We’re back to the subject.” Peter looked into his empty cup. “Did he jump?… Did he hang himself?… You gave us a mystery Jeremiah.”

“I didn’t say he jumped or hung himself.” Jeremiah shook his head. “I didn’t see a body…. No one’s going into that no man’s land to search for him, but let’s look at the logic of it. One moment he was there on the cliff and the next moment he was gone. Where else could he be, unless he jumped onto the refuse heap? Then there what was the tattered rope, implying that he hung himself, and the rest of it broke because of his body’s weight.” “Those are the facts,” he looked at each one of us. “Judas is probably dead…. That’s good enough for me.”

“Me too!” John nodded enthusiastically.

“And me!” his brother agreed.

“We all want to believe this,” Peter said with resignation. “Let us take a vote.”

When the count was taken, everyone raised their hands. Based upon Jeremiah’s inability to see a corpse when he looked down, we had our own doubts, but there seemed to be no other outcome to what the scribe first saw on the cliff.

******

Thus the legend of Judas’ suicide was born. Matthew would write that Judas hanged himself, but I would read one of Luke’s scrolls and find the story that Judas jumped off the cliff, his guts gushing out when he hit the bottom. I never argued with Luke over this garnishment, but if Judas did, in fact, kill himself, I think Matthew was closer to the truth. A rope hanging from a tree seemed too coincidental. On the other hand, the rope had broken, so, in the end Judas might, in fact, have fallen to his death. Jeremiah had given enough evidence for either conclusion. That night, as we sat in the upper room, literally in spiritual limbo, there were other more pressing matters. This was the second day, after Jesus’ crucifixion, which made us wonder what tomorrow would bring. Would Caiaphas ruffians finally discover our hideout? Or had we exaggerated this threat?

After a lackluster meal, in which we finished off the supply of wine, the disciples, including James and I managed, in spite of our mother’s rebuke, to drink ourselves to sleep. Using our packs as pillows this time, we at least found spaces on the floor instead of falling asleep at the table like common drunks. The women were furnished blankets and pillows by Mark’s mother. Because of his sickly condition, Lazarus was given Mark’s bed. I had a familiar nightmare that night, as I lie between James and Bartholomew, in which I stood on a hill looking at three crosses that stood out against a darkened sky. This time the meaning was perfectly clear. All the players were there at the same time, however: Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin in the background, Longinus overseeing the execution, and John and two Mary’s standing below Jesus’ cross. When I awakened the next morning, I was, like the other men groggy with a hammering head. It must have been very early, because everyone except Mary Magdalene was still asleep. What I report for this remarkable woman will contradict John’s scroll. My record of the Resurrection will differ from the other apostle’s portions of this story, too.

I’m glad I was a witness to this sacred day, but it has left me with a special burden. As scrupulous as I tried to be with the details, I must rely on other men to fill in the gaps. This, the most sacred day for Jesus’ followers, has been recorded differently by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. For example, Matthew has two women visiting the tomb, Mark has three women, John only one, and, inexplicably, Luke has five women at the scene. For Mark and Luke, there were two men telling them that Jesus had risen; for Matthew one angel, and John two angels giving them the good news. While Matthew and John reported different versions of Jesus appearance to the women, Mark and Luke mention nothing about the women’s encounter with Jesus, a serious discrepancy if weighed against Matthew, John, and my accounts. Of the other apostles, only John gave Mary Magdalene an important role in this story. Even John, however, appears to have muddled the facts. It was John, who came the closest to the events I saw unfold that day, and yet his and my own account differ sharply. I have too great a respect for this apostle to question his authority on Jesus’ life, and yet I question his account of this day. John, who admired Mary greatly, has her saying to the angel at the tomb, “…They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they put him?” How completely absurd! Mary wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t a doubter like Thomas and some of the others in the upper room. More importantly, I’m certain, she had taken to heart Jesus prophecies, memorizing each of them, including the prediction of his death. And yet, in John’s account, even when she encountered the supposed gardener of the crypts, John has Mary saying inanely, “Sir, if you have taken him away, tell me where you have put him, and I’ll go get him!” Utter nonsense. Where did John hear this misinformation—surely not from Mary, herself.

I wonder if Mary Magdalene ever read that portion of his work. If she had, she would probably have given him an earful. Of all of Jesus’ followers, Mary had the greatest faith. If you have read my writing, you would understand this. What I have tried to do in my chronicle, from the beginning of Jesus’ ministry on earth to its end, is give credit to the other chroniclers without showing the conflicts in their accounts of his life, but when I find such conflicts in the most important portion of his life—the Resurrection—I’m left scratching my head. Unfortunately, even I couldn’t give an accurate account of what I didn’t personally see. What was in front of my eyes and heard by my own ears is what I know as fact, but what I glean from others is based on faith.

On that day, I was blessed to hear Mary Magdalene announce happily, “It’s the third day. You know what that means!”

“Mary,” I replied, rising up sluggishly, “wait till everyone gets up and has breakfast. Don’t go running off.”

“I’m not waiting, Jude,” she called over her shoulder. “I tried waking John and Matthew, but they’re too drunk.”

“Wait!” I called out hoarsely. “You shouldn’t go there alone.”

Pausing a moment at the stairwell, she held out her palms. “No, don’t try to be brave, Jude. During the crucifixion, you and the others ran away like frightened sheep!”

“No we didn’t!” I said indignantly. “We were there, too: Peter, James, and I. I saw Jesus die. I heard his last words.”

“Really?” She gave me a dubious look. “I didn’t see you. Why didn’t you tell us?”

I looked at her, trying not to frown, annoyed by her energy, unable in my current frame of mind to think of a good excuse.

“It doesn’t matter.” She said airily. “They won’t notice one lone girl visiting the tomb, but Jesus disciples are wanted men. Please, don’t complicate things, Jude. Jesus needs you to spread the word. Stay here where it’s safe.”

Though I wanted to prove my manliness, I knew she was right. The women had gone outside without incident before, but it was just my luck I would get caught. That moment, Lazarus’ sisters Mary and Martha rose up from her makeshift pallets, grabbing their robes and sandals. Though half asleep, like myself, they quickly Mary Magdalene at the foot of the stairs, muttering, “Wait! Wait! We wanna go too!” Before I could protest very much, the three women moved quickly down the steps and through the door, leaving me standing like a coward in the room.

“What was that all about?” James looked up from his pallet.

“Mary Magdalene decided to visit Jesus’ tomb.” I answered guiltily. “Lazarus’ sisters went with her. I should’ve gone with them.”

“No, you shouldn’t!” he said, with yawn, “… They’ll be safe. The women were at the tomb before. Caiaphas’ henchmen are still out there, Jude. They tried to get us during the crucifixion. They’d love to stone one of Jesus disciples or tear them to bits.”

“I know.” I looked forlornly at the empty space where Mary had stood. “But I feel like a coward…. I care about her, James. She’s quite a woman. She’s been with us from almost the beginning. No one took her seriously, and yet she was there with our mother below the cross, there when they carried him to the crypt, and the only one who believed he would rise from his tomb…. I’m glad they’re going with her. I still wish I’d gone along.” “What do you think?” I looked at James, as he rose shakily to his feet. “…This is the third day.”

“Well, that’s true.” He shrugged his shoulders “We shall see…. Let’s not waken the others yet. I’m sure they’ll do that when they return!”

James and I sat on the tabletop watching the others stir. A pallet had been prepared especially for our mother in the room below and, according to Mark when he arrived sleepy-eyed in our midst, she was still asleep, as was Lazarus in his room. Mark’s mother, the next one to rise in the house, brought up towels, asking us to inform the others that hot water for washing was being prepared. Ever since this ordeal had begun, we had remained unwashed, she complained. Jesus would want us to honor this time. When we left Jerusalem we should leave clean, with food in our bellies, not sneak out like thieves on the run. I wished the others had heard her. She was right, I thought. While the women in the house remained strong, we had fallen to pieces, let ourselves go, and become drunks.

******

James, Mark, and I waited anxiously for the women to return. Just as Peter raised his woolly head and peeped around the room and Bartholomew let out a massive yawn, Mary Magdalene charged up the stairs shouting, out of breath, “He’s risen! He’s risen!” Echoing her words, her namesake, added the exclamation, “Jesus has risen from the dead!”, followed by Martha’s repeating what the other women had said.

“Not again,” Peter grumbled, still half-asleep. “What’re they carrying on about now?”

Panting after dashing from the tomb, Mary Magdalene began relating to us their mission from the moment they slipped away this morning. James and I helped the three women onto the tabletop, as she began her account. While the men approached the speaker in various stages of wakefulness, Lazarus and our mother hastened quickly to the scene, followed by Mark and his mother. Until the report was finished, no one interrupted them. This was the moment we had waited for. Taking turns, the three women told us an amazing story.

According to Mary Magdalene, she and her companions found the stone to the tomb rolled away. The guards nearby were asleep and no one was about. When they entered the tomb, they discovered that it was empty. Though Mary Magdalene was convinced Jesus had risen from the dead, Lazarus sisters weren’t so certain. They were afraid Caiaphas’ henchmen had stolen Jesus’ body. Yet his grave clothes lay on the slab. If they stole the body why would the leave those behind? They talked about this a moment, wondering if Caiaphas was behind this mystery, swayed by Mary Magdalene’s belief that Jesus’ prophecy had come true.

“Suddenly,” said the second Martha, clasping her hands, “two men appeared in white robes that glistened around the edges. Their golden hair also glowed like crowns of light. “Knowing we were in the presence of angels,” the second Mary continued, “we bowed down before them, but one of the angels asked us, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He isn’t here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you that the Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’”

“Yes!” they both cried. “You see!” Mary Magdalene looked around the room. “It’s all true. Jesus has returned as he said he would. He’s risen from the dead!”

“I don’t know,” Thomas shook his head, “this is hard to believe.”

Andrew and Philip nodded in agreement. “You didn’t actually see him,” Andrew suggested. “The Romans or Caiaphas’ men could have stolen his body.”

“Wait a minute,” John raised a hand. “Martha said Jesus grave clothes were lying on the slab… She’s got a point, men. Why would the conspirators leave that behind?”

“That is strange,” Peter scratched his head. “I want to see this for myself.”

“What about Caiaphas?” Andrew caught his sleeve. “He might think we stole him. He’s aware of the prophecy too!”

“Let’s go!” I looked back at James.

“I want to believe them.” James nodded solemnly.

“No!” Peter shook his head. “We’re not going together. Let John and I go first. We go out there at the same time, and they’ll spot us for sure.”

Once again, as the two men departed, I felt cowardly. In truth, despite a brave well-meaning front, I was, in fact, afraid. So were James and the remaining disciples. Not long after Peter and John descended the stairs, Mary Magdalene, insisted on returning to the scene. We all tried to stop her, but it was no use. Off she went.

“Mary!” Martha called after her. “He’s gone. He’s risen. All there is now is an empty tomb!”

“I don’t care,” she called back, surging forward and racing to the stairs. “I have this feeling; I can’t explain it. I want to see him for myself!”

******

At the table on which Jesus ate his last supper, we waited anxiously for Peter, John, and Mary Magdalene’s return. No one asked the obvious question that moment, “What did Mary mean, ‘I want to see him for myself?’” She had always been spontaneous and headstrong.

That hour Mark’s mother brought up bread, cheese, and well-water up for breakfast. We had drunk all her wine and eaten almost all of her food. Despite our physical condition and hunger, we ignored the meal set before us, much too excited to eat. Lazarus’ sisters chattered continually about their experience. James and I, who had seen Jesus die, wanted to believe them, as did the other men. After awhile, though, their chatter grew irritating to us. Our mother, who had a practical mind, couldn’t understand why the alleged angels they spoke of did not appear to her, Jesus’ mother, instead of such flighty girls. Ironically, the mother of Jesus, who bore him and raised him, had, in the company of her other children, tried to talk him out of this ‘foolishness.’ Now, as we waited for Peter and John’s corroboration of what the women discovered, every sound outside the walls—voices or hoof beat caused us to bolt upright and perk up our ears, until finally, we heard the door slam below and two pairs of feet clamoring up the stairs.

When Peter and John entered the upper room, they merely repeated what the three woman had already told us, which might have been disappointing, for on their faces there was still the lingering doubt that had been expressed by Andrew and Thomas. The difference was this time, however, was that they brought the grave clothes back with them. The room broke into excited chatter as we gazed down at them. Not long afterwards, as we marveled at these sacred things, a third pair of feet, clomped up the stairs. Because Mary Magdalene was always saying strange things, no one paid attention her much attention.

“He’s back!” I thought I heard her exclaim. “Jesus rose from the dead!”

“It must be true!” Peter was saying that moment. “He’s gone all right. We found his grave clothes like they said.” “Look at them,” he shook them irreverently. “Phew!” He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like a Syrian whore.”

“You silly man!” Mark’s mother pulled them from his hands. “It’s myrrh and aloes!”

“It’s still smelly.” John confessed. “Nicodemus was generous in his supply. We saw it for ourselves, though… The stone was rolled back and the guards were gone. The tomb was empty just like they said.”

“I remember that smell,” Lazarus stirred, staring into space. “It’s stifling. It makes me shudder just thinking about it. When I die again, bury me quickly. Next time, let me sleep. Let Jesus awaken me in his kingdom. I don’t need evidence that he returned.” Looking around the room, his gazed fixed upon Mother Mary’s eyes. “Your son lives!” he said to her. “If anyone in this room knows for certain, it’s me!”

Her breath left her momentarily. “… Really?” she murmured, her eyes filling with tears.

“Really.” He nodded faintly. “You know this in your heart.”

By his words, I realized Lazarus was clearly back among the living. He wasn’t addled, as I suspected. His words swept away my doubts. It was true, I thought. Who more than Lazarus would know?

“I believe it!” I shouted happily. “Look at him!” I pointed at Lazarus. “He was resurrected, too. What more proof do you need?”

“Yes,” James cried, socking his fist. “Jude’s right. Why do we have to see Jesus again? He’s with his father in his kingdom. Simple men have to see things and feel them in order to believe, but that’s wrong. Our brother once said ‘More blessed are those who believe but don’t see.’ You don’t sound completely sure Peter and neither do you John, and yet you both were at the tomb.” “But you two believed!” He looked over at Lazarus’ sisters. “Without seeing Jesus, you knew he had risen… And he has!” “Open your hearts men!” His gaze turned to the disciples. “Your eyes can’t see the kingdom, so why must they see our Lord?”

******

As we sat in the upper room pondering this great miracle, James appeared to have had the last inspiring word, and yet the Resurrection had not been seen. In our excitement we had forgotten Mary Magdalene, standing uncharacteristically quiet in the background in rapt silence. Suddenly, the special fondness I felt for this women swept over me again. I almost tripped as I rushed over to her.

“Wait a minute everyone,” I cried, “we forgot Mary. Once again, she’ll have the last word!”

Rushing over to take her hand, I kissed it as if it, too, was a sacred thing. “Mary, Mary. What did you just say?”

“I said ‘he’s back!’” She looked at me tearfully. “Jesus rose from the dead!”

“You saw him?” I gazed at her in astonishment.

“Yes, I saw him!” She nodded excitedly.

“I knew it! I knew it!” Mary ran over to embrace her namesake as did her sister Martha.

“Blessed are you Mary Magdalene, the first to see him rise!” Jesus’ mother wept with joy.

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