Letting Go

“Do not cling to me”

Ivory Plaque with the Journey to Emmaus and Noli Me Tangere, c1115-20, Spanish

Prayer Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even

now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall

endure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,

one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Scripture Jesus said to Mary Magdalene, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”

Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me

where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned and

said to him in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not cling to

me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am

ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and

announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”—and that he had said these things to her.

John 20:15-18

Reflection

Picking up where we left off last week, we are back again with Mary Magdalene at Jesus’ tomb.

It’s early morning and still dark. The risen Christ has come to Mary, but she mistakes him for the

gardener. So overcome with grief, she cannot see her Jesus right before her. But then Jesus

speaks her name, “Mary”, and a light goes off in her head. "Rabboni!" she exclaims, using what

we assume is her favorite name for Jesus.

It’s telling that in order to awaken Mary to the truth, Jesus doesn’t say to her, “Now do you

believe in the resurrection of the body, the life everlasting?” He simply calls her by name, and

she sees and she believes. Earlier Jesus had said, “He calls his own sheep by name . . . and they

follow him, because they know his voice” (10:3-4). And just so, Jesus addresses Mary with her

own name, not simply on the basis of institutional membership in a religious organization or by

raising her right hand and swearing to believe. But personally, intimately. Jesus recognizes her

by name, and she in turn recognizes Jesus, her “Rabboni.”

Relieved and overcome with joy, Mary naturally reaches

out to embrace this one who, throughout his ministry,

embraced her. But Jesus quickly puts an end to the show of

affection. “Do not hold on to me,” he says.

I have to admit, this is not my favorite part of the Easter

story. If I were writing this story, I would have included a

long tearful hug, followed by Jesus saying, "Find the

others and tell them I’m back. We’re getting out of here

and going home." But Jesus doesn’t say that. He says, "Do

not cling to me."

Frankly, that doesn't seem very nice. Sure, some people hug at the drop of a hat, and others

would clearly prefer a civil handshake. But even those who are not "huggers" typically allow an

embrace in certain situations of joy and astonishment. You may typically dislike hugs, but if

your kid hit the winning homerun in the last inning, I'd wager you'll be happy to get a hug from

everyone around you in the bleachers! But not Jesus. One would think that, given the enormity of

the event and the grief that Mary has felt, he would at least let her embrace him. That would be

the “pastoral” thing, right? But, no. It is not so simple a matter.

“You can't hold me here, Mary,” Jesus says, “because I have not yet ascended to the Father.” Or

to put ,another way, “I’m on the move. Now nothing can hold me back, even death. I’ve not

defeated death and come back just for you. I’ve got more people, millions more to call by name

and whose eyes I can open to the good news of my defeat of death and sin.”

Jesus’ words to Mary, harsh though they may seem, are then not a rejection of her love. Rather,

they point to the much larger significance of Jesus’ return. It’s not simply that Jesus has come

back, but that his return has changed everything. After the resurrection, things cannot return to

normal. Mary and Jesus can’t go back to the way things had been. Jesus has been changed, the

world has been changed.

Alexander Ivanov, Christ's Appearance to Mary Magdalene

after the Resurrection, 1835

From now on, following Jesus will involve a

never-ending process of losing him the

moment we have him captured, only to

discover him again in an even more

unmanageable form. Every expectation of

Jesus is only another futile effort to get him

back in the tomb. But Jesus just won’t stay

there.

If Mary Magdalene stood for all humanity

when she was weeping with sadness over

death's presence in our world, as we

discussed last week, she now stands in for all

of us even after she learned the truth of

Easter. She, like we, can't quite yet take hold

of that resurrected person at the center of the

story. She, like we, couldn't hold him there,

keep him there. The jinni is out of the bottle,

so to speak.

This is an important point for us who follow Jesus to grasp. What we long for, what we miss and

beg God to give back, is dead. Easter doesn’t change that. We cannot cling to the hope that Jesus

will take us back to the way it was. The way out of the darkness is only by moving ahead. And

the only person who can lead the way is the Savior—not the old “Rabboni” we once knew,

which is only one more thing that has to be left behind, but the Risen Christ. For Jesus has

conquered death, but his work isn’t finished. In fact, he’s just getting started.

And that’s where Mary comes in. It’s not just Jesus who has work to do. As much as she would

like to, Mary can’t dawdle with Jesus now, because she has a task to do too. His resurrection is

not supposed to be kept a secret. Jesus tells Mary to tell the other disciples of his resurrection and

his coming ascension “to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”1

And so, before this stage of the Easter drama closes, Mary runs back to where the other disciples

are and becomes the “first apostle” in the history of the Christian Church, as she becomes the

first one sent to declare to another, "I have seen the Lord!" She saw him, even if she could not

hold onto him.

We get the feeling that Mary was never the same after that Easter morning. Neither is anyone

who has learned that what matters is not that we be confident in our hold of Jesus, but we are

confident in his hold of us. Seeing that, we are ready for anything.

This is the good news! For, after seeing a risen Jesus, we see that there is no “normal.” Now we

can’t even count on the darkness. All we know for sure is that a risen Savior is on the loose. And

he knows our names.

1 These words echoes Ruth’s devotion to Naomi (Ruth 1:16), and as with Ruth, Jesus is with this declaration

bringing Mary and the other disciples together with him as one family, under one God and Father.

Further Reflection

1. Easter morning was an emotional “roller coaster” for Mary. St. Anselm in a poem/prayer

draws out the feelings of grief and sadness she felt before she encountered Jesus resurrected:

Saint Mary Magdalene,

You came with springing tears

To the spring of mercy, Christ...

How can I find words to tell

About the burning love with which you sought Him

Weeping at the sepulcher

And wept for Him in your seeking?...

For the sweetness of love He shows Himself

Who would not for the bitterness of tears.

-- St. Anselm

How would you describe Mary’s emotions after she recognized her “Rabboni”?

2. As was noted last week, Easter begins in darkness, and it is into the darkness that the light of

Christ shines. Curiously, when Orthodox iconographers begin to “write” (paint) an icon, the first

step is not to whitewash the wood as one would prepare a canvas for normal, Western-style

paintings. Rather, they begin by painting the wooden board black, which becomes the

background for the other colors of the image, suggesting that Jesus is revealed most readily

against the background of darkness. Metaphorically, we can say that Christ is revealed against

the background of spiritual darkness—ignorance, grief, suffering, isolation, sin. He stands out

from them. In what ways has this been true for you?

3. Scripture indicates that the Lord also knows you—your name, circumstances, concerns, joys,

and struggles. How does this truth affect your response to Jesus?

“Rabouni!”

James Tissot, Noli me tangere,

illustration for the Life of Christ (c-1884-96)

James Reid, Woodcut

From The Life of Christ in Woodcuts by

James Reid (Farrar & Rinehart, Inc.: 1930)

“Do not cling to me…”

Magdalena and the Resurrected Christ ,

detail of the mosaic, Church of St. Primus

and Felician, Vrhpolje, Slovenia

Here, it is unclear if Jesus’ upswept arm has just pulled away from Mary or if it is pointing heavenward, or if it is part of the same motion.

John Presott Knight, Christ Appearing to Mary

Magdalene (1840)

Anton Mengs, Noli me tangere (1770)

Roy de Maistre, Noli Me Tangere (1952-8)

Nik Helbig, Noli Me Tangere (2017)

Marco del Pino, Noli me tangere (c1550)

Pierre Puvis de Chavannes’ La Madeleine (1857)

The original Greek texts read: me mou haptou. The infinitive haptein implies not only the tactile act of touching, but also the metaphorical sense of 'to grasp', 'to clutch', so that the words may also mean 'do not cling to me', or, rephrased in positive terms, 'you must let go of me'. Grammatically, moreover, this conjugation implies an action over time: stop doing what you are doing. Ever since the Vulgate (first Latin translation of the Scriptures, c384) rendered me mou haptou as Noli me tangere, there has been a definite connotation of tactility in the West, and this 'prohibition on touching' has been argued to be the starting point of the fine arts—why Western art has favored the visual over other arts.

Nevertheless, the Latin too has a linguistic complexity. Nolere is the infinitive of 'to not wish'. What the Latin really says is therefore 'Do not wish to touch me'. In other words, Noli me tangere plays on the theme of the demand to stop the desire for tactility under the given circumstances. This intensity of desire also becomes the underlying emotion in artistic depictions of Mary’s encounter with the risen Christ. This can be seen in the depiction of Mary in these three paintings. Jesus means not only to prohibit touching, but also the desire to touch.

Scenes from the Life of Mary Magdalen: Noli me

tangere (detail) (1320s) Fresco Magdalen Chapel, Lower

Church, San Francesco, Assisi.

”…I have not yet ascended to the Father”

In these two contemporary paintings, the artists

use gestures and movement to recall Jesus’ sated

reason for why Mary mustn’t cling to him—that

he is “mid-action,” on the move, on his way to the

Father.

Jorge Cocco Santángelo, Touch Me Not In this painting by the “sacrocubist” Santángelo, Jesus gestures heavenward, suggesting his imminent ascent.

Graham Sutherland, Noli me tangere (1960),

commissioned for Chichester Cathedral Christ on Easter morning strides vigorously up an open staircase in a white sleeveless vest and gardener’s straw hat. He has halted mid-step, one hand pointing upward and onwards, the other thrust out to bless and also to warn off an imploring Magdalene, who kneels by the stairs in a low-cut green dress, looking up at Jesus in a n attitude of wonder.

She Mistook him for the Gardener

Last week, I included a painting of Mary and Jesus (Pedro Núñez del Valles’ Noli me tangere)

where Jesus is strangely depicted as an actual gardener. Yet, this depiction is far unique.

Artists—mainly from the 15th and 16th centuries—have latched onto the detail of mistaken

identity, representing Jesus carrying gardening tools, like a shovel or a hoe, and sometimes

sporting a floppy gardener’s hat. A few artists have even shown Jesus in full-out gardener’s

clothes. The portrayal of Jesus as a gardener isn’t meant to suggest that Jesus was literally

gardening that day. Rather, it alludes to his role as one who “plants” us and grows us. He gets his

hands dirty in the soil of our hearts, bringing us to life and cultivating us with care so that we

flourish. According to Franco Mormando,

Mary’s misidentification was meant to remind us, so the pre-modern exegetes taught, of a spiritual reality: Jesus is the gardener of the human soul, eradicating evil, noxious vegetation and planting, as St. Gregory the Great says, “the flourishing seeds of virtue.” Although today out of circulation, this teaching was disseminated [in the fourteenth through eighteenth centuries] in such popular, authoritative texts as Ludolph of Saxony’s Life of Christ (a book that played a crucial role in St. Ignatius Loyola’s conversion) and [starting in the seventeenth century] Jesuit Cornelius a Lapide’s Great Commentary on Scripture.

Here are a few selected pieces that depict Jesus-as-gardener, holding farm implements. Notice

how the background of the tombs has been replaced by a pastoral or garden scene. For more on

this theme, see here.

Carved oak high relief, Belgian (c1500)

Albrecht Dürer, Noli me tangere (1509-1511)

Callisto Piazza, Noli me tangere, c1523-25

(not the angel hidden in the shadows at the right)

Peter Paul Rubens, Christ Appearing to Mary Magdalene (Noli Me Tangere), c1631

Bartholomäus Spranger, Noli me tangere ( c1600)

Abraham Janssens and Jan Wildens, Noli me Tangere (c1620)

Titian, Noli me Tangere

(1514)

In his frescoed depiction of Noli me tangere, Italian artist Fra Angelico (ca. 1395–1455) takes the idea of Jesus as gardener to a further depth. In the field of green surrounding Mary and Jesus, Angelico sprinkled little spots, little splotches of more of white and a bright red, a terra rossa. At first glance, one takes them to be flowers, or icons of flowers, in the field. Yet, these red blotches are painted like—that is, exactly in the same manner as—Christ’s wounds, his stigmata. The visual connection suggests that Christ’s stigmata are, according to Fra Angelico, the “flowers” of his body. At the same time, conversely, these flowers are Christ’s wounds. In Angelico’s fresco, then, Christ is here represented in the emblematic act of “sowing” his stigmata in the garden of the earthly world, just before going to rejoin the right hand of his Father in heaven. For more on Angelico and the sowing the “flowers” of Jesus’ wounds, see here. In what sense are “wounds of Christ” sown in the “garden of this world”? And, how do we make sense of that notion in light of Stanley Hauerwas’ argument that it is unfair for Christians to assert that the figure of Christ on the cross is a representation of all human suffering What Christians learn from the cross is that all human suffering should be cruciform, or cross-shaped.