The women survivors of Ikirezi tell stories of the violence in 1994 at night in the fields in Rwanda. Maryna, the head of Love Rises in Ukraine, describes the terrifying and exhausted state she feels shuffling in the night to huddle in bunkers, to wait for dawn and bombs to cease.
One of the brave potters from Bethlehem told me of leaving in the night along the Jericho Road, with only the moonlight to guide them. At every moment she feared a soldier might stop her family from crossing the dangerous and curvy mountain road.
It is gut-wrenching to hear stories of survivors like Penny Hall, a graduate of Thistle Farms, who on NPR, for all the nation to hear, described growing up in a beer hall. Before dawn as a child, when the doors finally closed, she ran to take shelter under a bridge or anywhere she could find until the sun eased the terror of another night of violence.
The idea of heading to the tomb while it was still dark, only lit by the reflection of the sun off the moon, paints a different cast on the story. This year, I am seeing the story from shadowed lenses, and it paints a picture of undaunted faith that feels almost heartbreaking.
Magdalene, the only consistent character in the resurrection, walks along a dark garden path. She left before dawn because she didn't want to be seen by soldiers, and so she probably didn't carry a lamp. She carried oils and spices to anoint the body, and she clutched them close to her chest to breathe in aromatic courage.
Magdalene's walk feels like part of an ancient parade: women who have gotten up and walked even after the violence this world imposes on them may cause them to want to huddle in darkness. The walk feels like an act of defiance in line with countless women heroes who have said, “You can’t kill hope."
Magdalene was grieving as she walked, and besides the cloak of darkness, she must have been looking through the salty prisms of love. Contemplating the moon at Easter feels like a deep dive into brave deeds, hopeful visions, and certain truths.
No wonder Magdalene had a hard time understanding the dimly lit scene unfolding. No wonder she ran for Peter to help. No wonder when the others fled, she stayed and cried as surely the dawn was finally breaking.
And no wonder, that in the early morning light after a dark two days, Jesus lingered for her. He stayed long enough to call her name in the darkness. Through the darkness, through the fullness and emptiness of the moon, Magdalene saw that even there is an abiding love.
Let the knowledge that darkness and fear are overcome by the brilliance of love sink in. It is the most freeing joy we can allow ourselves in the moon's shadows.
I remember, early in the history of Thistle Farms, walking with a graduate who stepped into the ocean for the first time. Feeling the tide pull against her legs, she raised her hands and asked, “Has this been happening my whole life?”
As long as the moon has been spinning around the earth, the tide has been going in and out. But older, deeper, and more powerful than that tide is love.
When we follow in the footsteps of Magdalene, we don’t just feel fear, we feel the power of love that carries us through our darkest night. She is the first and most perfect preacher of resurrection. She, above all, can say by the light of a moon, that the stone rolled and all those who have died live on in love and the memory of God.
All we grieve rises. There are plenty of nights we have all spent over hard and hallowed ground, but today we sing with Magdalene and trust that we can make our song at our own Easter morning, Allelulia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
