One of the classes I took this past semester was called The Johannine Literature, otherwise known as the Gospel of John. It was taught by New Testament professor Stephen Moore at Drew Theological School. I entered the class disliking John's Gospel immensely; now I love it, and can't get enough of it. It has become my favorite of the four canonical gospels, and I would like nothing better than to go on studying and writing about it.
One of our options for our final paper was to do a creative re-write of a passage from John's Gospel. I chose to write an academic paper (and got an A+!), but decided to do the creative re-write for fun. It's a little long, but I hope you enjoy.
The rain poured down from the dark sky in torrents as Mary pulled up to the funeral home. She did not know if they would be open or not, but she knew she had to see him. She needed some time alone with him, alone with his body... she glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror, making sure that her eyeliner and mascara had not smeared as she had rubbed her eyes.
Water-proof mascara was a wonderful thing.
With trembling hands she unfastened her seat-belt and opened the car door, wondering if her legs would support her as she crossed the parking lot to the sterile funeral home that was trying so hard to look inviting. She dashed across the parking lot, covering her head with her coat, regretting that she had not thought to bring an umbrella. Then again, when your beloved friend has been murdered, umbrellas are the last thing on your mind.
Thankfully the door was unlocked and Mary let herself in, immediately assaulted by the smell of flowers that permeated the air. Her coat dripped on the plush carpet, and she looked around for someplace to hang it to dry. Finding nothing, she nervously draped it over the back of a chair, then proceeded to the viewing room that had been reserved for his body. There were only several, very small bouquets in the room, but she was not surprised. Many of his friends could not afford the expensive floral arrangements that filled the other viewing rooms. He wouldn’t have wanted their money wasted on frivolities in the first place, even if they could afford it. It took Mary a moment to notice that something was wrong, but when her eyes finally fell on the empty casket, her knees went out from under and she collapsed to the ground, her hand flying to mouth. His body was gone. Choking back a sob, she struggled to her feet and wobbled over to the casket to be sure that what she saw was true. The casket was completely empty. Panicking, she bolted out of the funeral home, forgetting her coat, running through the pouring rain. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she put the car into drive and peeled out of the parking lot. She didn’t know who to go to... she would have always gone to him!
She found herself driving on autopilot, and arrived at Peter’s home without even planning on going to him. Of all the people to go to, Peter was far from the top of her list, and yet here she was, banging on his door as her hair lay plastered against her face, rivulets of rainwater mixing with the tears on her cheeks.
“Peter!” she cried, as her knocking left the door unanswered. At the sound of his name he finally opened the door, his face haggard, dark circles under his eyes.
“Whaddya want?” he croaked, his voice raspy from his tears and cigarettes he had been smoking undoubtedly nonstop since Thursday night...
“Peter, please,” she begged, “let me in.”
Wordlessly he moved aside and motioned for her to enter. She stepped into the stale foyer and wiped the water from her face. Silently another figure appeared, handing her a towel, and she nodded to their other friend to thank him.
“What’s going on?” he asked, his arms crossed tightly against his chest as if he were trying to hold himself together.
“He- he’s gone!” They both looked at her skeptically.
“What do you mean he’s gone?” Peter said mockingly, taking a long drag from the cigarette smoldering in his hand.
“I mean I went to the funeral home, and the casket... it’s empty. Someone must have taken his body.”
The words came out more calmly than she could have ever imagined; suddenly she felt exhausted. She had no more energy to put into her grief; her well had seemingly run empty. Now a look of concern flashed through the men’s eyes, and they glanced at each other uneasily.
“Are you sure Mary? Were you in the right room?” Mary sighed.
“Of course I was in the right room, I’m not an idiot. Never mind; I just thought you guys might care...” She turned to let herself out, and it wasn’t until she was in her car that she realized it had stopped raining.
“Wait Mary, hold on!” Peter yelled, running down the steps after her, the storm door banging noisily behind him as he followed their friend to his car.
Once again Mary pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home; she watched as their friend jumped out of the car before Peter had even turned off the engine, leaving Peter behind as he dashed through the doors. Peter took off after him, his jacket flapping behind him as he ran through the puddles, kicking up water. Mary slowly climbed out of her car, unsure if she could bear to walk into that building again, but she forced herself to move forward; she had to see if the casket was still empty.
She silently let herself into the building and made her way to the viewing room. Their friend was standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, his jaw set grimly.
“I believe you,” her murmured as she stood beside him, his eyes unwavering as he stared at the empty casket.
“Where is Peter?” she asked softly, not knowing if she should touch him or leave him be.
“He went downstairs to see if he could find an attendant.” They stood perfectly still, the only sound the tick-tick-tick of the clock, until their silence was broken by the sound of a door slamming. Peter stormed into the room, his face flushed with anger.
“I can’t believe there isn’t a bloody soul working here!” he exploded, his fists clenched tightly by his side.
“There was nobody downstairs?” Mary asked, frightened.
“No! And there weren’t any f*cking bodies down there either!”
“Peter,” their friend scolded gently, but returned to being silent at the look Peter sent his way.
“I gotta get out of here,” Peter muttered, storming out of the viewing room and banging the outer doors open. Their friend sighed, and followed after him; Mary did not envy him and the ensuing conversation he would have with the hotheaded Peter.
Finding herself once again very much alone, Mary reverently walked to the casket and knelt on the kneeling rail. She tried to pray; it was what Jesus would have wanted her to do. Instead of words animal-life whimpers came forth from her body, and once again she found herself crying. No longer caring if anyone saw her, so consumed was she with grief, that she found herself curled up into a tight ball on the floor, rocking back and forth as sobs wracked her body. She didn’t hear the man enter the room; the carpet cushioned his footsteps. Through her moans came the sound of a gentle voice;
“Woman, why are you weeping?” It seemed an odd question, seeing as how they were in a funeral home, and Mary turned to see who would voice such a ridiculous query. A man stood in the doorway, and from the looks of him he worked at the funeral home. He was dressed in a well-cut, black suit, with a necktie tied sharply in a double-Windsor knot. His face was clean-shaven, and his dark hair was slicked back professionally. He was well-poised and polished, with his fingers interlocked together as his hands rested against his belt.
“May I help you?” he asked smoothly at the sight of her puzzled face. “Perhaps you are searching for someone?” Mary turned her face away, mouth gaping, speechless. She sniffed deeply and cleared her throat, then stiffly rose to her feet. She turned to him slowly, trying to keep her cool.
“Sir,” she began, and she noticed how her voice trembled, but how underneath there was a dangerous edge. “If you have taken him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will take him away. Tell me!” Unable to look at his perfectly composed face in the midst of her anguish she had to look away, clenching her jaw tensely as she waited for his reply.
“Mary...” At the sound of her name she jerked around, nearly losing her balance. How did he know her name!? She took several steps towards him, and then saw it. There were his eyes; there was the familiar lift of a brow.
“Teacher?” she gasped incredulously, and was rewarded with a slight nod and small smile. She laughed at the impossibility of it, and reached out to him, but he took a step back, unlacing his fingers to hold his palms out in front of him, keeping her at bay. She needed to hold him! To feel the warmth of his body, to smell his scent- why wouldn’t he let her touch him? He must have seen the pain in her eyes, because he smiled at her gently.
“Mary, my dear Mary,” he murmured lovingly. “You cannot hold onto me.I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go, to my brothers, and give them this message for me.” She nodded, listening carefully. “Tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and to your Father, to my God and your God.’”
Mary repeated the words silently to herself, committing them to memory. He gave her one last smile, then turned and walked away. With speed and energy she no longer thought she possessed, Mary gathered her things and ran to her car to go and tell the others.
As she sped through a stop sign on her way back to Peter’s, the sun came out.
