“Who’s In?”

Acts 10:1-17, 34-48

April 23, 2023

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

This past week was one of those where it seemed almost impossible to get my head into these ancient stories we find in the Bible. The contemporary, 2023 world was just so very loud. No matter how I tried to refocus my attention, my heart kept thinking about Ralph Yarl. Just a few years older than my own son. Shot on a stranger’s front porch while doing the very typical teenage-kid thing of trying to be a good big brother. In case you missed the story, Ralph Yarl lives in Kansas City. He’s 16 years old. He went to pick up his younger brothers one evening but he accidentally went to the wrong house. When the man who lived there, Andrew Lester, came to the door, instead of talking to Ralph and helping him find the right house, he shot him. And then he shot him again. He said he was scared of him. Ralph is recovering in the hospital and I hope to God he’ll be okay. But regardless of how his body heals he will have deep emotional and spiritual wounds that stay with him for life. 

What must it feel like to inhabit a body that scares other people? Just because of how you’re perceived? God, have mercy on us because we have not yet rooted out the sin of white supremacy that causes psychic, spiritual, physical violence. 

And then - on Friday afternoon - I sat down with one of our representatives, Mike Dodson. I set up the meeting on behalf of Kansas Interfaith Action. I was accompanied by two colleagues, Katie Baker from True Colors and Dr. Rachel Levitt who is a scholar of queer studies at the university. As you likely know, there’s been an onslaught of anti-transgender legislation this year in Kansas and many other places. We are hoping that Dodson will vote to sustain the governor’s veto on SB 180 which will cause significant harm to trans and nonbinary people if it’s signed into law.

The four of us talked for almost two hours. And one of the things that came up again and again was fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of change. Fear of bodies that might not look like ours. 

What must it feel like to inhabit a body that scares other people? How can we find a way forward to a world where we are truly free from our ignorance and bias? Where we approach people unlike us with curiosity? Where we are no longer bound by the tribalism that seems to come all-too-easily to us as humans? 

Sitting with those questions, I finally found my way into the Book of Acts. 

Because this is one of those stories that, at first, kinda feels like a flyover text. We read it but there are so many place names we don’t know…. So many characters who feel obscure…. So many culturally-specific things that aren’t ours….we’re tempted to just ignore it. But this is actually a GREAT story and one that feels very relevant to those questions about belonging that have been resting heavy on my heart this week. So let’s dive in. 

First, a little geography lesson. You may have noticed a map on page 11 of your bulletin. Zoomers, I know it can be hard to juggle a bulletin and Zoom so I’m going to drop a link to it in the chat there. (https://bit.ly/41vJlIh) 

Geography is important in the Book of Acts, which is the account of the earliest days of what eventually became the Christian Church. It’s important to remember that Jesus was a Jew. And those early followers didn’t seek to create a new religion. They were following Jesus as a Jewish teacher. But Jesus’s teachings were so compelling that even non-Jews (Gentiles) wanted to learn more. And so these early followers spent a lot of time sorting through who was allowed to be in and who wasn’t. And how to welcome people who were very different from them into this Jesus movement. 

So the core conflict in Acts is about this. Who’s in and who’s out? How big, exactly, is the circle around this Jesus movement going to grow? 

Any high school English teacher would be proud of the author of Acts, because the author outlines the structure clearly at the beginning of the book. Chapter 1, verse 8 is the key to understanding what’s about to happen, ”You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” 

Looking on that map, you’ll see Jerusalem and then to the north Samaria. It’s labeled as Nablus on your map, as that is its current name. And then, of course, the ends of the earth beyond that. 

The literal geographical movement of the Book of Acts traces this key claim at the beginning of the book. Acts begins in Jerusalem with the Pentecost story. The gift of the Holy Spirit means that people can understand other people from vastly different cultures, people from other nations, people speaking other languages. A story of God tearing down walls between people.

In Acts 8, we’re in Samaria. Here, the main character is Simon the Magician. A definite outsider. But he becomes curious about the Way and asked to be baptized. Evidence of the Spirit moving in unexpected ways and among unexpected people outside Jerusalem. 

And then the Holy Spirit takes a little detour down south to the Gaza road between Jerusalem and Gaza. You’ll see it on your map there as a straight line but obviously I just drew it hastily and it doesn’t look like that in real life. On the road to Gaza, Jesus’s disciple Phillip encountered a man from Ethiopia who was a eunuch. In honor of Pride weekend I have to mention that this is one of the most affirming texts in the Bible when it comes to LGBTQ people. It’s a favorite story of mine. I don’t have time to go into it in detail today but this nameless man was an outsider in several ways - he was from another country, he was not Jewish, he would have looked very different than Phillip, and his gender and/or sexuality were not conventional. Even with all of these differences, he is welcomed into the movement. It’s a story that reminds us God is way more concerned with loving actions and hospitality than who is “in” and who is “out” (spoiler alert, no one is out.)

Then we have Saul on the road to Damascus in Chapter 11. Do you see Damascus? Wayyyyy up there to the north. Saul, who had been condemning and persecuting followers of the Way, was accosted by the Holy Spirit and realized God’s mercy and abundant grace was way bigger than he had ever imagined. His name was changed to Paul and he became one of the most influential followers of the Way. Paul really was a witness to the ends of the known earth. 

Finally we arrive at today’s text. Cornelius, who is a part of the Roman army and is not Jewish, has a vision of an angel who tells him to go and find a man named Peter who is staying in Joppa. Around the same time, Peter (a follower of Jesus) is in Joppa and has a vision that convinces him that God “shows no partiality” and there are no unclean people. Cornelius’s messengers arrive in Joppa and ask Peter to come with them to Cornelius’s house in Caesarea. 

So Peter and his Jewish friends go to this Gentile’s home. Once they got there, they remained open to the possibility that God was working in the lives of people outside their group. The Holy Spirit falls on them just like it did in Acts 2 in Jerusalem. Initially, Peter’s Jewish friends are shocked because they had thought God’s gift of the Holy Spirit was only for people like them. But Peter has been convicted by this vision he had where the Spirit revealed that nothing is unclean. And so his openness leads to the baptism of everyone present. And a movement that had previously been almost exclusively Jewish was suddenly blown wide open.

That’s why this hard-to-follow story matters. Because this story, sometimes referred to as the “Gentile Pentecost” is the moment where it becomes abundantly clear that God shows no partiality and absolutely everyone is invited to be a part of this movement. There are no insiders and outsiders. Everyone is in. No matter how much trouble we humans may have wrapping our head around that fact. 

And so this ancient story gives us courage and conviction to keep loving loudly. To continue boldly proclaiming that we are ALL in. To keep having the hard conversions that might move the  needle just a little. To call out microaggressions when we see them. Because little jokes and slights beget fear and bigotry which beget violence against sweet 16 year old Black boys on porches. Ignorance and careless comments beget legislation which seeks to erase trans and nonbinary people. Loving loudly matters. It can save lives. And it is our call as followers of the one who came to remind us that in God’s realm, we’re all in. Period. 

Next month we will celebrate the 20th anniversary of our decision to become and Open and Affirming congregation - a place that explicitly commits itself to welcoming LGBTQ+ people and advocating for their rights. As we prepare to celebrate this joyous occasion, let us remember that drawing the circle wide and wider still isn’t all bubblegum and rainbows. As much as we love a good rainbow. 

As the book of Acts reminds us, breaking down barriers is hard work. And controversial. It can result in knock-down-drag-out fights and the severing of relationships. Not everyone will want to accompany us on that journey of making the table bigger and making sure everyone has a seat. And we will often fail in being welcoming. The temptation to wallow in our failures is real and it can be difficult to show ourselves grace when we miss the mark. 

The work of being Open and Affirming isn’t like a scouting  merit badge you earn one time and then display proudly. It’s an everyday choice to look at the community we are creating here and ask ourselves, “Are we truly open? Are we truly affirming?” Who might not feel Christ’s radical hospitality that we seek to emulate?

Who are the people standing outside the fold today? Who are the groups that would cause us to ask, “Even them, God? You’re working through them, too?”

In a world where pain and grief is often all-too-palpable and real, this ancient story brings hope. We are not alone in seeking a more affirming and just world. We are a part of a long line of people who have listened for the Spirit’s whispers of love. We proclaim a God who continues to tear down walls and invite us into a world where we no longer fear one another, but see the face of the Divine in each and every person we encounter. 

May it be so. Please, God, may it be so. 

“Y'all, hold onto your seats because this sermon is about evangelism.”

Matthew 28:16-20

April 16, 2023

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

In the summer of 2002, David and I - recently graduated college students - pulled out of Manhattan, KS with an overflowing U-Haul and headed south for Dallas, Texas. That fall I started my seminary education at Perkins School of Theology, a United Methodist seminary. But my religious education began as soon as we arrived in Texas that summer. 

It turns out that Texas - at least 20 years ago - was a bit of a different religious landscape than the one I had grown up with here in Kansas. For starters, when meeting new people and making small talk, one of the questions that was often asked was, “Where do y’all go to church?” Which assumes, of course, that everyone GOES to church. 

David and I struggled to find a church that fit us because Methodism was a whole other thing in Texas. It seemed that everything had a twinge of Baptist to it. There were altar call-ish type things even at the end of Methodist worship services, which I had never experienced before. The overall default towards Evangelical culture was a new experience for me. 

I was not ignorant of Evangelicalism, of course. In fact, I would have described myself as a “Jesus freak” in high school and college. It was the 90s and I went to a DC Talk concert and read I Kissed Dating Goodbye. I had multiple bibles that were allll marked up from my attempts at daily “quiet time with the Lord.” Although my home church tended towards a middle-of-the-road-mainline-protestantism, I had dabbled in more Evangelical circles. I participated in several other youth groups that were a bit more fervent. I went to a few tent revivals and responded to more than one altar call. I prayed with my friends before school in the hallway and even at the flagpole on that “meet me at the flagpole day.” When it came time to choose a college, I decided I did not want to go to a private Christian school but would prefer a state school because I saw it as my mission field. 

I was conflicted about Evangelical culture. I didn’t like it when people gave me weird tracts that said I was going to hell if I didn’t say “the Jesus prayer.” I thought kissing dating goodbye seemed like a terrible idea and found complementarian gender roles to be horrifying to my feminist sensibilities. And I was pretty freaked out when I went to volunteer at my boyfriend’s Southern Baptist Church’s Vacation Bible School and there was a literal thermometer on the wall so they could count up how many kids had been saved that week. 

I had a lot of questions -  but at the age of 18 I was also pretty convinced that Jesus was the best and only way to get to God. My faith meant a lot to me and I wanted to share it with other people. 

But when we arrived in Texas, the questions became more puzzling. Some of this was my age. Some of this was that I was in seminary. But a lot of it was simply that I was talking about faith with people who followed Jesus very differently than I did. I remember a seminary professor casually talking about “the Great Commission” and I raised my hand and asked what that was. I distinctly remember several classmates swiveling around and looking at me like, “WHAT?” but I didn’t know what he was talking about. 

Turns out, he was talking about the passage from Matthew’s gospel we heard today: Jesus’s commandment (or invitation - depending on how you see it) to “go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” Despite my own zealousness and my toe-dippings into Evangelical culture, I had somehow never heard or paid much attention to this little story but I came to understand that for many Christians it was at the CORE of their faith. It was seen as akin to the 10 Commandments or Greatest Commandment to love one another. It represented the MAIN THING we were supposed to be doing as followers of Jesus. 

And this made me - still makes me - feel squeamish. Make disciples of ALL nations? I mean, we’ve read the history books, right? We can see how the legacies of colonialism and religious imperialism are still with us. The atrocities committed against people all over the world in hopes of “making disciples of all nations” is surely not what Jesus had in mind, right? Plus, the part about baptism gave me some pause, too. In my early 20s I was pretty angrily-non-Trinitarian and although that has changed for me now, I still don’t think there’s anything magical about baptizing people in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I’ve used other names for God when asked and I pretty much always tack on “one God, Mother of us all” at the end just to make the language more expansive. 

The idea that I NEED to be out there convincing people that Jesus is THE answer makes me profoundly uncomfortable. Because even though I find following Jesus to be meaningful, I don’t believe that faith is a one-sized-fits-all kind of thing. I believe there are many pathways to this mysterious force that many of us call God. I believe it’s a worthwhile endeavor to nurture our spirituality and seek a pathway and community that supports us in doing so - I just don’t happen to think Jesus is the only way to do that.

And so - like many of you - I’ve been all over the place when it comes to the “e-word,” evangelism. At its most basic it simply means sharing good news with other people. It comes from the same root as angel - a messenger of tidings of comfort and joy. It seems nice to get on board with being a messenger who gives good news, right? But, of course, it’s way more loaded than that in our culture. Especially when what I like to refer to as “Big E Evangelicalism” is pretty much synonymous with Christian fundamentalism. In our particular moment in time, calling yourself an “Evangelical” (did you hear the capital E?) almost always means that you hold tightly a checklist of “things you have to believe to be a real Christian.” And those checklist items are often very different from how many of us here experience following Jesus. 

The word “disciple” that Jesus throws around so easily has gotten complicated in similar ways. At its most basic level, a disciple is just a student. And to be a disciple of Jesus means following him as our teacher. It doesn’t actually have anything to do with eternal life or going to heaven. It’s about living like Jesus here and now - loving God and loving our neighbor as ourselves. And our neighbor, of course, is defined by Jesus as absolutely everyone - especially those who are different than us or marginalized in some day. 

My guess is, many of us here are comfortable with the idea of looking to Jesus as our teacher, but we probably also don’t have bumper stickers on our cars that say, “I’m a disciple of Jesus Christ!” Am I right? Disciple is another one of those religious terms that feels loaded. And even though it doesn’t mean, “I believe in a more fundamentalist form of Christianity” when we hear it, we may think that, right?

And yet - here we are with Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew. He’s just been resurrected and the ONE THING he wants to tell his disciples before he leaves them again is, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

If we believe that Jesus is still with us, as he said, what does it mean for us to take seriously his invitation to “go and make disciples”? Is there a way for progressive Christians to do this faithfully?

I don’t know what your answers to those questions are, but I know that, for me, there is something compelling and life-giving for me about my faith and about being a part of a community of people who are trying to follow Jesus. My faith makes a difference in my life. I see Jesus in the faces of my neighbors and I feel connected to them on a deeper level because of that Christ-force that radiates from them. I find strength and comfort and challenge in these ancient stories. Sometimes they confuse me and sometimes they anger me, but they always provide a starting place for me to explore important questions about how I want to live my “one wild and precious life.” [1] And I know that I need to journey alongside other humans to do this faith thing. I need companions who will celebrate, grieve, question, and wonder with me. My life is fuller and richer because my faith - imperfect as it may be - is a foundation for my life. And it is my hope that everyone can have a rich and full foundation for their lives, too, whatever that looks like for them. 

And so it seems to me that there IS still room for a progressive evangelicalism. We can call it something else if we need to. I get that. That’s okay. But there’s room to speak freely and honestly about what our faith means to us - and what Jesus means to us - in a way that isn’t colonizing. In a way that is respectful of other faiths. In a way that doesn’t shame or cause violence. To hold it up and said, “This is what I’ve experienced” and to answer questions as people ask them and journey alongside them. I know this can be done in a way that’s respectful because one of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received in my life was from a dear friend who is Jewish. She told me, “When I hear you talk about your faith it makes me want to be more intentional about my own faith, even though it’s not the same as yours.”

I do believe Jesus’s invitation to share our own experiences of God is still valid. It doesn’t need to look like knocking on doors. It certainly should be shame-inducing or coercive or colonial. But I do think it still matters. We just have to keep finding ways to do so in the spirit of the one who proclaimed love for absolutely everyone as the most important thing. The one who stood up against empire and always stood on the side of the oppressed. Otherwise, it’s not following Jesus at all. Rooted in Christ’s ethic of non-negotiable love, let us boldly keep sharing God’s dream of Beloved Community with others. 

(You can call it whatever you’d like.)

NOTES: 

[1] Good ol’ Mary Oliver quote. 

“A Towering Love”

John 20:1-18

April 9, 2023 - Easter

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

The little girl stood at a distance. Her mother’s words still echoing in her ears from when she had left the house, “Don’t dawdle!” She had a habit of lingering. Showing up. Watching. Wondering. Staying even when she wasn’t quite sure why. 

And today was no different. The little girl heard her mother calling, “Miriam! Miriam? Where are you? I told you to hurry back!”

And still, the little girl stayed. She stood by the edge of the water, tucked back into the reeds. No one could see her, she was sure, and so she was safe. 

But her baby brother was not safe. That, she was sure of. 

For reasons she didn’t quite understand, her mother had made a little basket for him and placed him in it. That morning as the girl had gone out for the day her mother said, “Don’t dawdle!” but now, here she was, lingering at the edge of the river. Because her baby brother was IN the river. Floating along in that basket. Where was he going? What was happening? Nothing made sense. 

Miriam, ignoring her mother’s calls, quietly and deftly followed the little basket down the river. 

Her brother! Her baby brother! She couldn’t let him out of her sight. She loved him. Oh, how she loved him! His little, toothless grin. The way his eyes lit up as he watched her dance and play. The sweet, soft sounds he made as he slept - little grunts and coos. And his smell - like freshly baked bread and rich, earthy soil - somehow all rolled into one. 

Where was he going? What was happening? She couldn’t just LEAVE him!

And so she lingered with a watchful eye. She didn’t know quite what to DO, she just knew she couldn’t LEAVE. As he floated further and further away from the safety of their home, her eyes began to fill with tears. What would happen to him? She couldn’t save him. She was scared, confused, angry, and so very sad. 

Through her tears she saw a woman appear at the side of the river. Hand over her eyes, the woman squinted into the sun and looked at the floating basket. She called out to her companion and before Miriam knew what was happening, the baby was drawn up and out of the water. “This must be one of the Hebrews’ babies,” she overheard the woman say. Miriam recognized her as the Pharaoh's daughter and tucked back further into her hiding place, not wanting to get in trouble. But then, impulsively, she stepped out from the reeds. With a shaking voice she said, “Shall I go and get one of the Hebrew women who can nurse him for you?” 

“Yes,” said the woman, holding the basket somewhat awkwardly. “Please. That would be helpful.”

Miriam ran as fast as her little legs could carry her - all the way home. “Mother! Mother!” she cried out, breathless. And the whole story came tumbling out. Together, they ran back to the baby and the stranger holding him. The Pharaoh's daughter asked if Miriam’s mother would be willing to nurse the baby - she would pay her good money. 

And that is how Miriam, her mother, and their baby came to be snuggled in together at home that night. As she blew the candle out, Miriam’s mother looked at her young daughter with thanksgiving and puzzlement. “You know,” she said, “Your name means rebellion. Earlier today, when I couldn’t find you I was worried. I told you not to dawdle when you went out. And then I called for you and called for you and couldn’t find you. You’ve always been a rebellious child. Perhaps it’s my fault for giving you that name,” she laughed.

Miriam nestled in tight next to her mother, nuzzling her face against her arm. And the three of them drifted off to sleep. Jochebed, the mother, whose name means “God’s glory.” Miriam, the Rebel who would grow up to be a prophet. And the baby, who would come to be known as Moses, meaning “drawn out of the water.”

And this, my friends, is how a story that should have been an ending turned into a story that was actually a beginning, instead. 

******************

Many centuries later there was another named Miriam. Another rebel, you might say. This one was not a little girl, but a fully grown woman. The stories that have been passed down about her are convoluted, perhaps even intentionally confusing. It seems that some of our faith ancestors may have been uncomfortable with this Miriam’s strength and the role she played among the early followers of Jesus. And so stories about her may have been altered here and there to obscure the fullness of Miriam’s life. [1] 

Miriam means “rebellion” but it has also been said to mean “bitter sea” and this Miriam’s life was certainly full of hardship. We are told that when she first met Jesus he cast seven demons out of her. [2] Perhaps her gratitude for that act of salvation was what led to the unshakable, towering love she had for him. 

Miriam also means “strong waters,” “exhalted one,” and “ruler.” Because there are so many women in our sacred texts named Miriam, Maria, Mary - this particular Miriam was known as Miriam the Magdalene. Or as we more commonly know her, Mary Magdalene. It’s unclear if “Magdalene” was a reference to her place of origin or a title. Biblical scholars have noted that the place she was purported to be from was not called Magdala in the first century.  And some of the earliest writings we have use Magdalene as a title. It means “Tower.” And so, some believe that just as we have Simon Peter the Rock, we also have Mary Magdalene the Tower. In our various gospel accounts, these two apostles - Simon the Rock and Mary the Tower - had the distinction of being the ones who named Jesus as the Christ, the Messiah. [3] 

Which brings us back to our second Miriam - Mary Magdalene, Rebellious Tower. As you might expect, the accounts of that first Easter are jumbled and weird and a bit incoherent. There are different people present in all four gospels. In some versions we have angels, in others earthquakes. In some the first witnesses are shocked into silence and in others they run and tell their friends - who sometimes believe them and sometimes don’t. The ONE consistency in all four gospels is Mary the Tower. She is there every single time. 

In John’s gospel she’s there doing what rebellious women have always done best - pushing the bounds of appropriate behavior. We are told that she arrives at Jesus’s tomb in the dark of night - alone. [4] We can imagine her mother whispering to her as she left under the cover of night, “Miriam! Don’t dawdle!” Or perhaps, a while later, her mother went out into the dark streets frantically looking for her rebellious daughter, ““Miriam? Miriam! Where are you? I told you to hurry back!”

But Miriam did not hurry back. 

Instead, she lingered. Ignoring the cries of her mother, she sought out her beloved friend. She wasn’t quite sure what she would do when she got there but she just knew in her bones that she had to go to the tomb. She had to stay close. She loved him so. The way his eyes sparkled when he told stories. The way he always said the unexpected. The kind look in his eyes when he gently corrected friends who missed the mark. His insistence on feeding any and everyone who came near. The way he listened to her. The way she felt completely loved in his presence. She missed him so much already. 

Her love for her friend was so overpowering that she lingered. She stayed. 

When she reached the tomb and found the stone rolled away, confusion descended like a slap in the face. Where had her friend’s body gone? What was happening? Nothing made sense. 

Stumbling backwards, she ran to find the others. “Help!” she cried out, “They’ve taken our Lord out of the tomb and we don’t know where they’ve put him!” Two of the other disciples ran back with her to Jesus’s tomb. Sticking their heads inside and seeing the burial cloths empty and folded neatly, they concurred with Mary that the body was missing. They did not linger. They went home. 

But Mary - but Mary! - Mary lingered. She did not have the answers. She did not understand what was going on. She was worried about her beloved friend. What would happen to him now? She couldn’t save him. She was scared, confused, angry, and so very sad. 

And so she did what most of us do in our times of great loss and confusion. She wept. A bitter sea of tears fell from her eyes. And through her tears she saw two angels sitting where Jesus’s body had been. “Woman, why are you weeping?” they said. She responded, “They have taken away my Lord and I do not know where they have laid him.”

And when she said this, she turned and saw Jesus standing there, but she didn’t recognize him. She thought he was the gardener instead. “Woman, why are you weeping?” he asked. Pulling herself upwards, she grew in stature. Mary, the Tower, spoke again, this time with more authority, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him and I will go there and take him away!”

Jesus said to her, “Mary.” And something about hearing her own name from Jesus’s lips unlocked absolutely everything in her. This rebellious, strong, bitter, exalted tower of a woman looked into his eyes and recognized him. “Teacher!” she exclaimed.

The two friends sat and talked for a while. They lingered. As the sun rose, clarity dawned in her heart. Mary’s tears, that bitter sea, dried up. Her love, her grief, her confusion - they had led her to this place. They had cracked her heart, mind, and soul wide open. And she had ears to hear. When she was finished listening, she did as she was told. “Go and tell the others,” Jesus said. 

And so Mary the Tower became the “apostle to the apostles,” going to the others and telling them, “I have seen the Lord.”

The end was not the end after all. 

In love, in lingering, in longing - space was created for possibility, new life, a clearer hope to emerge. 

And this, my friends, is how a story that should have been an ending turned into a story that was actually a beginning, instead. 

Happy Easter, beloveds. Alleluia, Christ is Risen. Christ is Risen, indeed. 

NOTES:

[1] https://dianabutlerbass.substack.com/p/mary-the-tower 

[2] Luke 8

[3] If you’d like to do a deep dive on the Magdalene you could read these, in addition to the Diana Butler Bass sermon above. 

https://religionnews.com/2022/01/07/was-mary-magdalene-really-from-magdala-two-scholars-reassess-the-evidence/

https://jamestabor.com/was-mary-magdalene-the-same-person-as-mary-of-bethany-a-guest-post-from-jeffrey-butz/?fbclid=IwAR0sEtD295HA979qgaqBXeO9uu8drshIKCFF4kCnMJD8qEnEFwQ1JC7ZVl4

https://dukespace.lib.duke.edu/dspace/bitstream/handle/10161/18592/Schrader%2018.May.2016.pdf?sequence=3&isAllowed=y

[4] This week I listened to the Bible Worm podcast and LOVED the connection that Rabbi Amy Robertson made between Mary’s journey to the tomb in the dark of night and chapter 3 of the Song of Songs. In the Song, the Shulammite is so desperate to be with her lover that she goes out into the city at night - a dangerous place for a young woman to be unaccompanied. But her love for him is so passionate that she acts in an improper manner. Perhaps Mary Magdalene at night echoes this rebellious streak in the Shulammite.