The Quiet Road from the Cave

An Easter reflection

A short note* on this Easter morning from a recovering Catholic who dropped out of seminary because she decided she didn’t want to become a minister.

One of my favorite things I learned during my year in interfaith seminary, was learning that Mary Magdalene is thought to be the first person to carry the message of Christ after learning of his resurrection. Somehow I never learned that in nearly nine years of Catholic school, but the Gospel of Mark reads: "Now when he rose early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene." Matthew and Luke offer similar accounts.

Because of her role in witnessing and announcing the resurrection, Mary Magdalene is sometimes called "the apostle to the apostles" highlighting her monumental importance (never mind that the church tried to malign and erase her. Read Meggan Watterson’s wonderful book, “Mary Magdalene Revealed.”)

Jesus, a rebel who shunned wealth and preached about radical unconditional love for all people, including enemies, had his message first carried by a woman. What does this mean?

I like to think of Mary walking along the road into town from the cave before speaking to anyone of what’s she’s seen and knows. There she is, quiet and reflective, containing a miracle inside herself after great suffering, grief and mourning. The secret knowledge is a healing light within, a kind of rebirth in itself. Inside her she holds an entire new world. Hallelujah.

In reflecting on her journey, and reflecting on the introspective period I’ve experienced for the past few months, I'm reminded that transformation often begins in solitude before it can be shared with the world. Each of us carries that potential for renewal inside; each of us has access to a knowing that exists before we can utter it out loud. We just have to get quiet and listen. That is my definition of prayer and meditation: We ask the question in prayer and quiet ourselves in meditation to hear our truth.

Whether you believe in this biblical story, have your own practice, or neither, I am wishing you moments of both quiet reflection and joyful connection today. In this moment of turmoil, questioning and suffering, I hope each of us can find shimmers of that light so we may bring it to others, one and all. After all, Easter itself—with its witchy roots in ancient spring celebrations of rebirth and renewal—reminds us that transformation is part of nature and human experience. Just as the trees and flowers burst out of the fertile ground, we can awaken to new possibilities within ourselves and in our world. Here’’s to practicing that hope.

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*This earnest writing brought to you after watching Godspell. Thank you, John. What a trip. PS Come for the campy biblical story, stay for a journey around 1973 New York City, and an amazing view of the Twin Towers.

PPS I can’t write about Easter without singing one of my favorite Tori Amos songs, so here you are: “Crucify.”