Wicker Park Lutheran Church
Rev. Jason S. Glombicki
July 19, 2026
Each summer, we celebrate two special feast days that help us recognize the power of feminine leaders within the church. In a few weeks, we’ll honor Mary, the mother of Jesus. Today, we honor Mary Magdalene.
Now, Mary Magdalene has been misunderstood in all sorts of ways. Scripture tells us that Jesus healed her, but it does not tell us she was a prostitute. Scripture tells us she was devoted to Jesus, but it does not tell us she was his lover. What Scripture does tell us is that Mary Magdalene helped support Jesus’ ministry, she followed him faithfully, she remained near when others fled, she became the first witness to the resurrection, and she was sent her to tell others. That is why Mary Magdalene has often been called the “apostle to the apostles,” because an apostle is one who is sent. And Mary was the one sent to tell others who would be sent. And, honestly, without Mary Magdalene’s witness, I am not sure any of us would be here today. But this year, as I read through John’s story, what caught my attention were her tears.
John tells us that Mary stood outside the tomb weeping. The angels asked her, “Why are you weeping?” And she said, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” Then Jesus himself asked her, “Why are you weeping?” And again, Mary was still looking for the body. You see, John’s gospel holds our focus on Mary’s tears — her deep grief, lament, and weeping.
And I think that matters because we are often tempted to move too quickly past Mary’s tears. We know how the story ends, so we want to rush ahead. We want to get to the good news, to the proclamation, to the joy.
But Mary did not know the ending yet. Mary stood in a garden after watching someone she loved be executed by the state. She saw violence do what violence does. She saw power crush truth. She saw the body of Jesus placed in a tomb. And now, when she came to mourn, even that seemed to have been taken from her. That is grief with nowhere to go.
You see, Mary’s tears were not a failure of faith. They were not evidence that she had missed the point. They were not something she needed to get under control before resurrection can happen. Rather, Mary’s tears told the truth. They told the truth that death is real. They told the truth that loss is real. They told the truth that there are moments when the world breaks our hearts, and no amount of religious language can make that pain disappear.
Like Mary, we know something about tears. We know them in our own lives — in hospital rooms, at gravesides, in relationships that have changed, in diagnoses we did not want, and in fears we do not always know how to name. And we know those tears in the world around us. We know them as our siblings at San Timoteo grieve two members detained by ICE agents. We know them in families separated by systems that can feel cold and merciless. We know them when dear loved ones can never be held in our arms again. We know them even in our bodies when the air grows thick with smoke and creation itself seems to groan.
The trouble is not only that we weep with so much grief and loss. But, that so much of the world teaches us to weep quietly. To manage it. To hide it. To explain it. To make it useful. To move on. Even in the church, we can be tempted to rush toward resurrection in a way that leaves no room for the confusion, no room for anger, no room for the ache of Mary standing outside the tomb.
But Mary Magdalene’s witness reminds us that the resurrection does not come without tears. For it is there that Christ met her. Not after she composed herself. Not after she figured out the theology of resurrection. Not after she became brave, polished, or certain. Instead, Christ came to Mary while she was still weeping. And, at first, she does not recognize him. And then Jesus says one word: “Mary.” // You see, the first word of resurrection was not an explanation. It was not a lecture. It did not a demand that she stop crying. Resurrection became real when the risen Christ spoke her name. And in that moment, she was known. She was found. She was called.
Something remarkably similar happened this morning. There, at the font, Cayla was named in the waters of baptism. And, the promise of Christ was spoken over her. In that moment, it was not a promise that she will never weep. It was not a promise that life will be untouched by grief, fear, confusion, or loss. For, baptism is not an escape from the world’s sorrow, but an entrance into Christ’s love and justice and peace. In each of our baptisms we were baptized into the crucified and risen Christ. Into Christ who enters death and brings life. Into Christ who knows us, names us, claims us, and sends us.
In our baptisms, we receive the gift Mary received. After Jesus called her name, he sent her. And Mary went. She became the apostle to the apostles. She became the first preacher of resurrection. And notice this: her tears did not disqualify her. Her grief did not make her weak. Her sorrow did not make her unreliable. Instead, Mary’s first sermon came from the place where grief had been met by the risen Christ.
And that is why we give thanks for Mary Magdalene. Not because we worship her. Not because she is the center of our faith. But because through her witness, we see something true about our God. We see a God who comes near to the weeping; a God who speaks names in gardens and at fonts; and a God who brings life where death seemed to rule.
So, friends, perhaps Mary Magdalene’s witness for us today is this: do not despise the tears. Do not rush past them. Do not mistake them for faithlessness. Do not assume that grief is the thing we must get through before we can get to God. For Mary shows us that Christ is already there. And because Christ met Mary in her tears, called her by name, and sent her to preach life, we too are sent — with Mary Magdalene, with Cayla, with all the baptized — to say: “I have seen the Lord” as we hold onto the teary truth of it all. Amen.