Gospel: Matthew 28:1-10
The two women were on the road early, approaching the tomb perhaps before many others were even yet awake. We don’t find in the text of this passage any clue about what prompted them to leave home before sunrise. It was the tradition of their people to spend time mourning at the graveside of one who had recently died, so we do have one likely reason. But maybe there was something more. Their religious obligation was undoubtedly tinged with grief, and perhaps even some anxiety. Maybe what had happened just a few days earlier was still so unbelievable that they needed proof, a visible reminder that their friend and teacher had been crucified, died, and was buried. Why go so early? Maybe they wanted time alone at the tomb; maybe they were afraid of being recognized and chose to go when others wouldn’t see them.
We simply don’t know the answers to any of the questions or have an idea about what to write in the narrative blanks, and that’s alright. What we have is sufficient. We have the two Marys, and they are on their way.
It is enough.
As the women approach the tomb, we also consider the guards stationed there. Just as we don’t know how many Magi paid homage to the infant Jesus in his youth, here we don’t know how many guards have been assigned to keep watch after his death. For traditional Roman burials, a tomb would have been watched by a single guard; the tomb of someone with more wealth or prestige would have had from two to four guards. But this was different. The one sealed in this tomb was different. The fear of what his followers might do was different, the fear that they’d come remove the body and then claim he’d risen from the dead. With that in mind, it’s conceivable there were quite a few Roman and Temple guards keeping watch.
As with the women, we don’t have all the answers or know how to fill in the blanks. Again, though, what we have is sufficient. We have the guards, likely uncertain about what’s taking place, but they are there.
It is enough.
Then, an earthquake. When he’d died that Friday afternoon the earth shook; rocks were split; tombs were broken open. Now, the earth shook once more – but this time only a single rock was shifted. Only a single tomb was opened. This tomb. Amid the shaking a figure descends from the sky, a figure who shifts the rock and opens the tomb before taking a seat. The Old Testament prophet Daniel saw this figure as the great angel Michael, appearing at the time of the resurrection. Perhaps this angel is indeed Michael; we don’t know. What we do know is the fear this appearance caused, a fear so great the guards at the tomb fell into a state like death. It was a fear so great that the angel had to quickly tell the women not to fear. Do not be afraid! They are words of both greeting and reassurance.
I know why you’re here – but he isn’t here. The angel invites the women to look into the darkness of the tomb, to find the proof in what may have been their moment of unbelief that their friend was indeed alive once more. But they don’t do it; there’s no mention that they ever look inside. Instead, they focus on the angel’s other words, words of instruction: Go, tell the others he’s risen and will see them in Galilee. And they do; they run.
Even with the invitation to look inside, they instead leave quickly to find the others. I think saying that they ran to tell the disciples is downplayed here; I think they ran as they’d never run before. But why didn’t they look inside first? Had their unbelief been instantly replaced by faith? Was it the rush of that sudden burst of joy after days of sorrow? Was it more anxiety stoked by the lingering fear? We don’t know. Again, questions are left unanswered and blanks left unfilled. What we do have however is sufficient. We have two women, two among all the women who in that time were completely disregarded as viable witnesses or spokespersons, tasked with serving in that exact role. They’re to witness and speak the truth of what they’ve seen.
It is enough.
Then, he is there. The final moment of witness; the final bit of truth. He greets the women, and they’re so stunned to see him that they rush to him, fall at his feet, and grab hold of him. The love included as an instruction to the disciples at his final meal with them; the love that seemed to be absent at the cross and yet not only surrounded the cross but was on the cross; the love that seemed absent from the world in the time he was entombed: that love was present for these women once more, and they did not want to let go. As with the angel before him, he greets them with words of reassurance: Do not be afraid. Then he again echoes what the angel had told them. Find the others and tell them to go to Galilee. Tell them what you’ve seen.
Here the passage ends. There’s still more to come, of course, remaining questions to be answered and remaining blanks to be filled in at the end of this final chapter of Matthew’s Gospel. But for us today, what we have is sufficient. We have the witness and testimony of those two women, women traditionally silenced who were chosen to speak. We have the words of the angel, one linked in past scripture with the day of resurrection. And we have the greeting, and the hope, and the love of the risen Christ.
It is enough. It is more than enough.