My favorite pericope in the entire Bible is John 20:11-18.
Days after the Crucifixion, Mary comes to visit her friend Jesus in the tomb, only to realize his body is no longer there. In shock and confusion, she races back to town and brings two male disciples with her to investigate the situation. And although they, too, witness the empty tomb, the other disciples simply shrug and go back home.
But not Mary.
Mallory Challis
No, verse 11 tells us Mary “stood weeping outside the tomb.” I imagine something in her spirit was calling her to stay. Telling her there was more to see. Another truth to tell.
John tells us two angels appeared to Mary. She laments to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” The angels do not answer.
Still, Mary searches for the truth.
She searches until she finds a person, seemingly the gardener. He asks why she is weeping, and she responds with a question: “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”
I imagine, in her grief over her friend Jesus, Mary’s eyes were filled with tears that obstructed her vision, preventing her from recognizing him. Certainly, she was looking for a body wrapped in funerary cloth, not one that ambulated its limbs, enunciated its words or seemed capable of tilling the soil.
“Mary!” replied the gardener.
Shock. Grief. Confusion. Truth. All she needed was to hear her friend call out her name, the same way he surely did on many beloved occasions before his crucifixion.
“Suddenly, she knew the truth. And ever so clearly and concisely, Jesus instructs her to tell this truth to the disciples.”
“Rabbouni!” replied Mary, the same way she always had.
Suddenly, she knew the truth. And ever so clearly and concisely, Jesus instructs her to tell this truth to the disciples. The Greek word he uses — lego — literally means “to gather,” “to say,” or in this context, “to make an address.” Jesus is telling her, a woman, that she will be the first to preach the good news of the Resurrection.
And in verse 18, she does this boldly, knowing some may not believe her.
This was one of the Scriptures I chose for my ordination service, and it’s one I’ve preached on multiple times. I believe it gives theological and scriptural life to the core of my faith and calling as a storyteller of God’s truth.
Let’s get more specific about the truth in this text.
Mary Magdalene and the other disciples witnessed Jesus — our brown, immigrant, poor, marginalized, truth-telling Jesus — get arrested in the night, physically and sexually abused by Roman soldiers, publicly humiliated and murdered by the state. They watched his torso get speared by the same soldiers who abused him — just to ensure he was really dead. Then they wept as his dead body was taken to the grave.
“The story of resurrection Mary is telling here is about surviving what seems unsurvivable.”
The story of resurrection Mary is telling here is about surviving what seems unsurvivable. It is good news that, in Jesus, injustice, abuse, humiliation and death do not have the final word.
“I know we watched him die, but he is alive.”
“I know he cringed in pain at his scars, but he smiled at me.”
“I know the shame of being sexually abused quieted his voice, but he called out my name.”
“I know he said, ‘It is finished,’ but he told me the story is not over.”
These are the stories women tell, over and again. Someone was abused, but we can help. Someone has been hurt by those in power, but their voice is still worth listening to. Someone was silenced by corrupt leaders, but their death (or fear, NDA, shame of being judged, settlement agreement) does not have the final word.
I remember sitting in my professor’s office this past fall, agonizing over how I ought to consider this story for my master’s project, which examined the intersection of penal substitutionary atonement theologies and sexual abuse in Christian institutions. I was walking through the passion narrative alongside contemporary abuse stories and providing a trauma-informed exegesis.
I told him about people like Nancy French and Elizabeth Carlock Philips, who have believed and shared the stories of abuse survivors for years despite public backlash. We considered my own journalism on sexual abuse in Christian institutions. We talked about the innumerable number of male sexual abuse survivors who have boldly shared their stories, and how women often are their most vocal supporters. How moms, sisters, wives and female friends often are the first to hear their stories out loud.
He asked me to think of the pericope with this question in mind for contemporary survivors: “Who were the women who came to your tomb?”
The common theme among all those stories and this pericope was that women were the ones willing to hear, believe and tell the truth. We recognized that surviving was good news that needed to be proclaimed.
We heard survivors call out to us, stayed back to listen and ran to help tell their truth.
This is what I believe the Southern Baptist Convention is afraid of.
Not just women’s willingness to share about sexual abuse, specifically, but our ability to be bold in our telling of the truth, generally. To carefully and thoughtfully, yet clearly and unapologetically tell stories that matter — especially when they challenge corrupt leaders or status quos that keep powerful people cozy. These stories reveal that life beyond injustice is possible. This is good news.
Denying the voices of women who preach is a denial of the resurrected Jesus and the truth of his story, along with the everyday resurrections of so many people around us. Each time the story of someone who survived injustice is proclaimed, we see living proof of the Resurrection. These deaths have no sting. Our truths set us free.
And only captors of justice are afraid of freedom.
Mallory Challis is a former Clemons Fellow with BNG. She is a recent graduate from the master of divinity program at Wake Forest University School of Divinity. She is creator and host of the BNG podcast “Non-Disclosure,” about child sexual abuse at Kamp Kanakuk.