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Br. Lucas Hall
Saint Mary Magdalene
John 20:11-18
In 2009, a discovery was made by archaeologists working near the sea of Galilee. They had uncovered what would become known as the Migdal synagogue, one of the earliest known synagogues in the world. Indeed, to this date, the Migdal synagogue is one of only 10 known synagogues from before the destruction of the Second Temple of Jerusalem by the Roman Empire in the year 70. That destruction would have profound ramifications for the religious scene in the area of Judea; before the destruction, a great variety of sects had existed, leading to rather vibrant debate among them. After the destruction of the Second Temple, only two remained: the Pharisaic movement, which would develop into the Rabbinic Judaism we know today, and the early Christians.
Many scholars have argued that, before the destruction of the Second Temple, synagogues had existed, but they weren’t terribly common, and were not considered to be particularly sacred. They were gathering places, places of discussion, education, and debate, but they weren’t specifically holy. The argument goes that this sense of the sacred was instead limited to the Temple in Jerusalem. But the discovery of the Migdal synagogue opened up a challenge to that line of reasoning. Within the synagogue was a large carved stone block. The carvings on this block are remarkable, because they’re full of imagery from the Temple. Scholars have some disagreements about exactly what some images depict: some see the Inner Altar of the Temple on one side, while others dispute this. Similarly, on two of the sides are a series of arches, but between the arches, there are curved lines which could be sheaves of wheat, depicting a grain offering, or that could be distant arches in the background, referencing the mysterious entrance to the Holy of Holies. Unanimously agreed, though, is the depiction of the Temple menorah, the seven-branched candleholder of pure gold that lit the Temple. This stone is noteworthy for a couple reasons. First, because it existed before the Temple’s destruction, it was likely carved by someone who had actually seen the Temple and the objects within. And second, this stone, and its central location in the synagogue, seem to challenge the idea of synagogues as mere gathering places. To move the central, sacred imagery of the Temple to the local synagogue was likely intended to establish some of the Temple’s own sacredness in that synagogue. This movement of sacredness from a particular place to the communal gathering-place, wherever that may be, would soon be very important; the particular place of the Temple, in its sacredness, was soon to be gone. Only those Jewish religious movements that emphasized a personal and universal approach to God, not dependent on a specific place but on the intention and pattern of life of the individual and community—that is, the Pharisees and the Christians—would survive the Temple’s destruction.
Today is the feast day of St. Mary Magdalene. If it was not already apparent, this Migdal Synagogue and its famous stone—the Magdala Stone—are located in the ancient town of Magdala, where Mary was born. This town, too, would be destroyed by the Romans in the same war that destroyed the Temple. But Mary lived just a few decades before that. We don’t know much about her until her adulthood, where she first encountered Jesus. He is said to have healed her, freeing her from the clutches of seven demons. She financed his ministry out of her own pocket, and remained present for his crucifixion and burial, bringing myrrh to anoint his tomb. And, as we have just heard, she came to his empty tomb, at first heartbroken, then elated to discover the resurrected Christ. She was sent by him to tell the disciples, and as such is often referred to as “the Apostle to the Apostles.”
There is one part of this whole narrative that often causes people surprise, or confusion, and bears explaining. When Mary realizes she is speaking to Jesus, she grabs onto him. You might, too, if a loved one who had died was suddenly alive again. But Jesus tells her not to do so. “Do not hold on to me,” our reading tonight says. Conveying the sense of the original Greek, a more urgent verb might be used, “Do not cling to me.” Some have seen this as a somewhat insensitive retort to an awestruck friend. Some have seen in this a particular sexism, especially when compared to Jesus’s reaction to Thomas, beckoning him to touch his wounds, or at least Jesus’s adherence to gender norms around physical contact. But I don’t think that’s what’s really going on here.
Soon, we will all be invited to receive communion. In doing so, we customarily receive the bread in our hands, in a cupped, open position. This symbol of open-handed receptivity is of practical use, certainly, but more than that, it is instructive. It shows us how we should approach, and receive, God. Namely, we are not to cling. To cling is to close one’s hands. Doing so does not permit letting something go, even when necessary. It similarly does not allow receiving some new thing, even when sorely needed. The posture of closed-handed clinging is a double “no” to the power of God to take away that which is no longer what we are called to, and to give what God is calling us to anew. In short, to cling is to miss God’s purposes, to substitute whatever it is that is the object of your clinging, a passing thing, for God, and the things of God, the things that endure.
I do not believe Mary was inordinately clingy. But I do believe she was human, and therefore, prone to clinging to things. Perhaps she clung to her demons, those things Jesus liberated her from; maybe that sounds harsh, but I don’t mean it to be so. How many of us have seen someone clinging to a mindset, a behavior, a wound, a certain interpretation of past or present or future, that has been destructive to them? How many of us have been that person, clinging to something that is not giving us life? I have.
Mary did not seem to have a problem clinging to money or material goods. Indeed, she seemed to have a significant amount of wealth, and to be very generous with it. A woman in those days would rarely be able to control such wealth herself, and may have been understandably unwilling to part with it. But Mary doesn’t seem to struggle with that. Maybe the lesson here is that God doesn’t just call us to be challenged. Sometimes God does call us to use our strengths and learn from them. We brothers here, from time to time, switch jobs around the monastery. I often tell people there are three types of jobs: “We gave you this job because we think you’d be really good at it,” “We gave you this job because we don’t think you’d be very good at it, but it will give you an opportunity to improve a skill you need to work on,” and finally, “We gave you this job because you’re a warm body and we just need someone to do it.” I’ve had all three types. And managing money, it seems, fell into the first category for Mary. Not a struggle, but a chance to excel in the work of God.
But what of the tomb? What teaching about clinging was happening there? I believe this to be the final lesson, the capstone class for this long course in clinging and letting go. Because who would have expected Christ himself to tell his most faithful followers to let go? Not to hold on? It’s a surprise, to be sure. But he is able to say in this that he has more work to do, that is, his Ascension. There’s more coming. And to Mary, he is giving the ultimate lesson: “You have experienced me so much in this bodily way, your teacher, your friend, very near to you, in a way that is tangible. Don’t cling to that. It was good. But it will not last. Do not cling to an experience of God as if the experience itself were God. Do not pin your hopes on a particular feeling, or thought, or sensory experience, even one from God. Do not cling to me, Mary. These things are passing away. Instead, hold on to the things that endure.”
Jesus ascended; God’s love endured. The Temple passed. God’s faithfulness endured. War and sickness and poverty and strife rear their head. God’s justice endures. May we, with Mary, learn this hardest lesson, not to cling to passing things, even if those things are good and holy and dear. May we hold on to the things that endure.
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Br. Lucas Hall
Saint Mary Magdalene
John 20:11-18
In 2009, a discovery was made by archaeologists working near the sea of Galilee. They had uncovered what would become known as the Migdal synagogue, one of the earliest known synagogues in the world. Indeed, to this date, the Migdal synagogue is one of only 10 known synagogues from before the destruction of the Second Temple of Jerusalem by the Roman Empire in the year 70. That destruction would have profound ramifications for the religious scene in the area of Judea; before the destruction, a great variety of sects had existed, leading to rather vibrant debate among them. After the destruction of the Second Temple, only two remained: the Pharisaic movement, which would develop into the Rabbinic Judaism we know today, and the early Christians.
Many scholars have argued that, before the destruction of the Second Temple, synagogues had existed, but they weren’t terribly common, and were not considered to be particularly sacred. They were gathering places, places of discussion, education, and debate, but they weren’t specifically holy. The argument goes that this sense of the sacred was instead limited to the Temple in Jerusalem. But the discovery of the Migdal synagogue opened up a challenge to that line of reasoning. Within the synagogue was a large carved stone block. The carvings on this block are remarkable, because they’re full of imagery from the Temple. Scholars have some disagreements about exactly what some images depict: some see the Inner Altar of the Temple on one side, while others dispute this. Similarly, on two of the sides are a series of arches, but between the arches, there are curved lines which could be sheaves of wheat, depicting a grain offering, or that could be distant arches in the background, referencing the mysterious entrance to the Holy of Holies. Unanimously agreed, though, is the depiction of the Temple menorah, the seven-branched candleholder of pure gold that lit the Temple. This stone is noteworthy for a couple reasons. First, because it existed before the Temple’s destruction, it was likely carved by someone who had actually seen the Temple and the objects within. And second, this stone, and its central location in the synagogue, seem to challenge the idea of synagogues as mere gathering places. To move the central, sacred imagery of the Temple to the local synagogue was likely intended to establish some of the Temple’s own sacredness in that synagogue. This movement of sacredness from a particular place to the communal gathering-place, wherever that may be, would soon be very important; the particular place of the Temple, in its sacredness, was soon to be gone. Only those Jewish religious movements that emphasized a personal and universal approach to God, not dependent on a specific place but on the intention and pattern of life of the individual and community—that is, the Pharisees and the Christians—would survive the Temple’s destruction.
Today is the feast day of St. Mary Magdalene. If it was not already apparent, this Migdal Synagogue and its famous stone—the Magdala Stone—are located in the ancient town of Magdala, where Mary was born. This town, too, would be destroyed by the Romans in the same war that destroyed the Temple. But Mary lived just a few decades before that. We don’t know much about her until her adulthood, where she first encountered Jesus. He is said to have healed her, freeing her from the clutches of seven demons. She financed his ministry out of her own pocket, and remained present for his crucifixion and burial, bringing myrrh to anoint his tomb. And, as we have just heard, she came to his empty tomb, at first heartbroken, then elated to discover the resurrected Christ. She was sent by him to tell the disciples, and as such is often referred to as “the Apostle to the Apostles.”
There is one part of this whole narrative that often causes people surprise, or confusion, and bears explaining. When Mary realizes she is speaking to Jesus, she grabs onto him. You might, too, if a loved one who had died was suddenly alive again. But Jesus tells her not to do so. “Do not hold on to me,” our reading tonight says. Conveying the sense of the original Greek, a more urgent verb might be used, “Do not cling to me.” Some have seen this as a somewhat insensitive retort to an awestruck friend. Some have seen in this a particular sexism, especially when compared to Jesus’s reaction to Thomas, beckoning him to touch his wounds, or at least Jesus’s adherence to gender norms around physical contact. But I don’t think that’s what’s really going on here.
Soon, we will all be invited to receive communion. In doing so, we customarily receive the bread in our hands, in a cupped, open position. This symbol of open-handed receptivity is of practical use, certainly, but more than that, it is instructive. It shows us how we should approach, and receive, God. Namely, we are not to cling. To cling is to close one’s hands. Doing so does not permit letting something go, even when necessary. It similarly does not allow receiving some new thing, even when sorely needed. The posture of closed-handed clinging is a double “no” to the power of God to take away that which is no longer what we are called to, and to give what God is calling us to anew. In short, to cling is to miss God’s purposes, to substitute whatever it is that is the object of your clinging, a passing thing, for God, and the things of God, the things that endure.
I do not believe Mary was inordinately clingy. But I do believe she was human, and therefore, prone to clinging to things. Perhaps she clung to her demons, those things Jesus liberated her from; maybe that sounds harsh, but I don’t mean it to be so. How many of us have seen someone clinging to a mindset, a behavior, a wound, a certain interpretation of past or present or future, that has been destructive to them? How many of us have been that person, clinging to something that is not giving us life? I have.
Mary did not seem to have a problem clinging to money or material goods. Indeed, she seemed to have a significant amount of wealth, and to be very generous with it. A woman in those days would rarely be able to control such wealth herself, and may have been understandably unwilling to part with it. But Mary doesn’t seem to struggle with that. Maybe the lesson here is that God doesn’t just call us to be challenged. Sometimes God does call us to use our strengths and learn from them. We brothers here, from time to time, switch jobs around the monastery. I often tell people there are three types of jobs: “We gave you this job because we think you’d be really good at it,” “We gave you this job because we don’t think you’d be very good at it, but it will give you an opportunity to improve a skill you need to work on,” and finally, “We gave you this job because you’re a warm body and we just need someone to do it.” I’ve had all three types. And managing money, it seems, fell into the first category for Mary. Not a struggle, but a chance to excel in the work of God.
But what of the tomb? What teaching about clinging was happening there? I believe this to be the final lesson, the capstone class for this long course in clinging and letting go. Because who would have expected Christ himself to tell his most faithful followers to let go? Not to hold on? It’s a surprise, to be sure. But he is able to say in this that he has more work to do, that is, his Ascension. There’s more coming. And to Mary, he is giving the ultimate lesson: “You have experienced me so much in this bodily way, your teacher, your friend, very near to you, in a way that is tangible. Don’t cling to that. It was good. But it will not last. Do not cling to an experience of God as if the experience itself were God. Do not pin your hopes on a particular feeling, or thought, or sensory experience, even one from God. Do not cling to me, Mary. These things are passing away. Instead, hold on to the things that endure.”
Jesus ascended; God’s love endured. The Temple passed. God’s faithfulness endured. War and sickness and poverty and strife rear their head. God’s justice endures. May we, with Mary, learn this hardest lesson, not to cling to passing things, even if those things are good and holy and dear. May we hold on to the things that endure.
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