Mary Magdalene Witnessing the Resurrection

It’s hard to grasp the depth of grief Mary Magdalene faced that fateful morning. The air was heavy, the silence deafening. Her heart shattered, a swirling mix of disbelief and sorrow. The man who transformed her life was gone. Jesus, her teacher, companion, and friend, lay lifeless in a tomb. The weight of this loss crushed her spirit. Late-night video calls with friends couldn’t fill the void. Text messages buzzing on your phone during a remote work meeting can’t remedy this pain. This was a reality too stark to ignore. Mary stood there, a woman seized by anguish, knowing that hope had slipped through her fingers.

The Sacred Right to Cry

Grief is sacred. It’s essential. Mary Magdalene’s cry in the garden shows us this. It’s a valid response when everything feels dark. Toxic positivity often tries to gloss over pain. “Just stay positive,” they say. But real life doesn’t work like that. Check the Psalms of lament. They get raw and real, echoing our heartbeats in times of trouble. Psalm 13 dives into darkness with the writer asking God, “How long, O Lord?” Jesus wept upon hearing about Lazarus, showing us that tears are a part of faith. Lament isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a necessary process. It’s the sacred right to cry. Think of it like diving deep into debugging a complex issue in code. You’ve got to confront the problem to find a solution.

Mary’s tears were not only an expression of sorrow; they were an invitation to something deeper. Mourning can be a communal experience. Think about how we gather in virtual meetings, sharing our screens to connect. Yet, in moments of grief, we need the safe space to voice our pain. Biblical mourners, like Job and Jeremiah, spoke frankly about their turmoil. We can do the same. Share your frustrations, your fears, your questions. You don’t have to have it all figured out to be faithful. Mary didn’t. She stood there, broken, and God met her right in that chaos. That's where the miracle begins.

The Language of Loss

So, how do we articulate this pain? The structure of biblical lament provides a solid framework. It often includes an address to God, a complaint, a request for help, and a resolution or assertion of trust. Picture this: You’re on a video call, presenting a problem to your team. You outline what’s wrong, express frustration, and then suggest a solution. Lamenting is similar. It’s a process of laying out your heart.

Lament Psalms, like Psalm 22, start with an honest cry: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” This is the ultimate expression of loss. Yet, they don’t stop there. They transition into hope. Prophetic laments, like those in Lamentations, follow a structure that highlights both despair and longing for restoration. Think about how Mary felt when she searched the tomb, her heart racing. The very emptiness around her mirrored her own shattered dreams.

Personal laments can be woven into your daily life. Consider the last time you faced a major setback—maybe it was a job rejection after hours of preparation or a failed project that left you feeling defeated. Write it down! Use your journal as your lament space, much like developers use code comments to track what’s broken. Pour out your thoughts, and then let the words guide you toward a place of resolution. In every lament, there's an opportunity to process pain while inviting God into that space.

Meeting God in the Darkness

Yet even here, God is present. Lament isn’t just a phase; it’s where divine presence meets human pain. Think about it—when Mary stood in the garden, she didn't realize Jesus was right there with her. God meets us in the messiness of our grief. It's so easy to miss that connection. In our modern world of apps and instant communication, we sometimes overlook the power of silence and stillness. Mary was caught in the heaviness of her loss, not recognizing that the very source of her hope was approaching.

God’s responses to lament reveal a profound truth: His tears mingle with ours. He doesn’t just send a notification of comfort. He enters into our pain. The suffering servant, as depicted in Isaiah, takes on our burdens, walking with us through the darkness. Think about playing a game where the character faces defeat, only to rise again stronger. Mary’s experience mirrors this narrative. She didn’t just receive a message of hope; she encountered the resurrected Jesus, bringing her the joy of being restored.

The Mysterious Turn

Something shifts at this point. The pivot from lament to trust seems mysterious, almost magical. Mary was mourning, but suddenly, her eyes were opened. It’s like reaching the end of a challenging level in a video game, only to find that the next stage is brighter and more enriching. In Psalm 30, the psalmist declares, “Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Job’s narrative, fille