Tombs of Remembrance

Welcoming both death and life in our lives

John 20:11—18, ¹¹ Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb ¹² and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus’ body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot.¹³ They asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?” “They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” ¹⁴ At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.¹⁵ He asked her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?” Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”¹⁶ Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means “Teacher”). ¹⁷ Jesus said, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” ¹⁸ Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: “I have seen the Lord!” And she told them that he had said these things to her.

What are the tombs in our journeys that we thought held only death, but now remind us of life?

I can only imagine what it was like for Mary Magdalene on that Easter morning. Just days prior she had watched in horror as death swallowed up not just her Savior and teacher, but dear friend. Mary had stayed at the cross until Jesus heaved and sighed His last breath, as He bore the weight of the world. Mary witnessed an undeniable death.

Mary was also one of the first to show up to the tomb on that Easter morning. In her mind, she was going to bear witness to death again—to honor and tenderly care to the body of Jesus. She was going to anoint and wrap His wounds, to cry her tears again, and perhaps ask her questions of doubt.

We will never know what Mary was thinking that morning as she held the immense weight of grief and loss, to then at the tomb, be met with the resurrected Jesus.

The shock of the tomb being empty.

The grief in thinking that her dead friend’s body had been stolen.

The adrenaline pulsing through her veins as she then heard that familiar voice call her name.

Mary had looked death and life in the face—all within the tomb.

I wonder what it was like for Mary, for the rest of her life, to see a tomb and be reminded of that glorious morning—where death became life.

Photo by Pisit Heng on Unsplash

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I imagine what it was like for Mary, maybe twenty years after Jesus resurrected, to walk past a tomb.

I wonder if she teared up remembering the still bleeding wounds of her friend, who had suffered the most grotesque death in front of her eyes.

I wonder if she remembered how hot the sun felt, or how cold the stone was.

I wonder if she thought of her heart pumping in hopes of her Savior alive again.

I can imagine, that maybe she also smiled at the tomb, hearing the steady voice of Jesus calling her name in life, when she was expecting to find Him dead.

I imagine that Mary never looked at a tomb the same way again.

As I sit and wonder about Mary, I can’t help but hold curiosity about us and the tombs we have experienced in our own lives—the spaces we experienced immense pain, death, heartache, and loss. I know there are places in our lives that we dreamt would look so full of life, but ended up dying a painful death that we never expected.

What does that tomb look like in your life?

The ending of a job.

The loss of a child.

The medical diagnosis.

The dream that unfolded differently that you wanted.

The marriage that ended.

The church that hurt you.

The dementia that stole cherished memories.

The list could go on…

I remember an afternoon in my life, where I thought all was lost. The life I had imagined for my family, had just been shattered before my eyes—the clock read 12:47 p.m. The marker of time in a story that was swirling out of my control into a space where I felt abandoned, alone, and crying to God to redeem even the smallest shard of life. I’m sure Mary also felt like this on Friday, on Saturday, and walking to the tomb on that Easter Sunday morning.

But is life possible in the darkest parts of our lives?

Are we naive to hope?

Or too calloused to believe?

Jesus breathed His first breaths in the hidden inwards of the tomb, to show that life begins in darkness.

Now let me clarify, I don’t think that the most painful parts of our stories can be painted over with resurrection light and held out for the world to see as “good” or “full of life”. That is not our reality, and does not honor the pain of which we traverse on this earth. Our hearts pour out and ache for what was, and long for what will be in the world to come. It wouldn’t be true to label our tombs as only “full of life” or “full of death”.

What if we welcomed space for both to be true?

I wonder if Jesus is inviting us to name the spaces of our lives that have held deep darkness and pain—a death unimaginable. Maybe He’s also inviting us to name the life-giving hope He has brought to the seemingly dead places.

Even though we may never see the unfolding of that hope this side of Heaven.

We can so often minimize our pain and trauma by voicing our devastation, but then minimizing it in the same sentence by always steering it to a more hopeful and beautiful outcome.

It’s okay for our tombs to hold death and let it be painful.

It’s okay to experience the unexpected life after death and let that fill you with hope.

It’s okay to experience both life and death in the same place—Jesus did, Mary did, and we do too.

Mary received the opportunity to wrap her arms around the Living Hope after death seemed to have the last word. Because of Jesus, we will always have hope of life after death—but we may never see that with our human eyes. We may never wrap our arms around the “life” we hope to see from our tombs this side of heaven. In Hebrews 11 it talks about the patriarchs of our faith that had to pass from this life onto the next before they saw the promises of God unfold.

¹³ These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth.

What would it look like for us to remember the tombs in our lives and greet them from afar? To acknowledge that they hold painful death, but know there is potential for life—even if our eyes never see it.

I don’t know what tomb you’re staring at today. Maybe it’s fresh, or maybe it’s only that came to be forty years ago.

Whatever tomb you pass by today, I invite you to bear witness to what death it holds and what hope could breath life within it—letting both be true.

There is something I do each Christmas time that is solely for myself and the grief journey I’ve walked. I’ve marked it as a way I “return to the grave”. It is something I do that holds space for my tears, my pain, my loss, and the devastation that life has held. This marking also reminds me of the hope and life that has come from what I thought only held death. It brings joys and allows me to experience the hope of Jesus, even if it is through my tears of sadness.

May you remember your tombs bear witness to the sacredness that is your life.

May you be invited to hold space for all that has once died and has potential to live.

May you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are truly and deeply loved.

As you pass by your tomb—smile, wave, nod your head in solidarity, shed tears, or laugh with joy. Because all is sacred and holy ground.

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