The first verse from Matthew Chapter 28 reads like this:
“After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb.”
On first blush, given all the profound verses in the last chapter of Matthew, this hardly seems the most likely candidate for a post. But the anniversary of my mother’s death and her birthday both fall in early October, so when I read this chapter for the first time a week ago, those memories drew me here.
The truth is, I have never gone to visit my mother’s grave. I often wonder, if I admit this to people, will they think me odd or strange? Will they think that I didn’t love her as much as I should have, or that I don’t care about preserving her memory?
I don’t feel that’s the case at all, and I think this chapter confirms my sentiments. This is because I am certain that just like Jesus wasn’t in his tomb, my mother is not in her grave.
As her son I am surely biased. But if my mother isn’t in heaven, then no one is. Just putting up with me as a teenager had to guarantee her admittance.
While I might miss her on occasion, I don’t mourn her. I honestly think that to mourn her would be selfish on my part. If I sincerely believe that Jesus died to make salvation possible, then how can I mourn when death is not death, but simply a transition to a place where the ultimate promise is fulfilled?
When I think of my mother, I am filled with happiness to know that she is with Jesus, rewarded for all the love and kindness that she engendered in this world. How could I put any personal feeling of loss or emptiness or angst or woe in front of the perfect love that she must now bask in? How could I wish for her to be anywhere else?
Its not easy to lose a loved one. But as usual, the Gospels give us the recourse we need to deal with whatever troubles us.
One of the basic tenets of successful prayer is the ability to place yourself in the scene. I have never understood myself to inadvertently do this before, but after praying over this chapter its clear that I’ve already found my way into this scene, assuming the role of the Marys. They approached the tomb on the first morning of the week deep in mourning. But before that morning was over, their mourning had turned to jubilation.
They saw and understood the mystery of the life of Christ. They knew death had been conquered by Jesus not just for Jesus, but for all.
And I find myself privileged to share some small part of that jubilation when I think about my Mom. I just don’t feel the need to be at her graveside to do it.