The Empty Tomb and the Turning Around
- Kim Tsai
- 4 days ago
- 5 min read
On impermanence, the ecology of affect, and the courage to encounter new life
The Catholic Church celebrates the Feast Day of Saint Mary Magdalene on 22 July. As I listened to the daily prayers for that day, one phrase stayed with me:
"Woman, why are you weeping?"
Mary Magdalene arrives at the empty tomb, expecting to find death. Instead, she encounters two angels sitting where Jesus' body had been. They ask her why she is crying. Then, behind her, Jesus appears. She mistakes him for the gardener and does not recognise him until he calls her name.
There is something profoundly human in this scene. Mary is standing before something that has disappeared. Something she loved is gone. Something she had hoped for has ended. She cannot yet see what is emerging because she is still facing what has been lost.
On listening to this piece of scripture, I began to wonder about the disappearances in my own life.
The things that expire. The things that need letting go of. The things that change form and are reborn as something new. The things that simply fade away.
What if there were angels standing over these empty spaces?
Angels of encouragement. Fierce angels holding the emptiness. Compassionate angels who know that something greater may yet come. Angels who understand that letting go is not failure, but part of the rhythm of life.
Mary must turn around. She cannot remain forever staring into an empty tomb, waiting for the miracle to appear in front of her.
But what if the miracle is behind her?
Like Jesus was behind Mary.
What if turning around is the most courageous step we can take?
Learning to listen
Jesus calls Mary by name, and only then does she recognise him. I think there have been times in my own life when my name has been called by something or someone, but I have refused to recognise that the call was meant for me.
Sometimes we do not know how to listen.
Amidst the noise of daily life, our dreams and deepest desires can become part of the background noise. Yet discernment asks us to listen carefully. The Ignatian Spiritual Exercises remind us that this is not about escaping our responsibilities, but about discovering what is truly ours to do.
Where are we called to commit? Where are we carrying burdens that are not ours? Where do we need patience, silence and prayer in order to recognise the still, small voice?
The wisdom of impermanence
The Buddha spoke of the Five Remembrances—five realities to remember each day:
We are of the nature to grow old.
We are of the nature to become sick.
We are of the nature to die.
Everything and everyone we love is subject to change and loss.
Our actions are our true belongings.
These teachings remind us of a truth that both Buddhist and Christian traditions hold in different ways: impermanence is woven into human existence.
We all encounter loss. Loved ones die. Friendships change. Health declines. Work ends. Dreams alter. The world we knew disappears.
Yet often we remain standing too long in the tomb of what has died or is dying.
Regret. Resentment. Fear. Shame. Anger. Anxiety.
The past can feel safer than an unknown future.
And sometimes we search for someone to blame.
The stories we create
We live in a culture that is highly individualistic and deeply psychological. We have developed valuable language for recognising trauma and harm, and this has allowed many people to name experiences that were previously hidden.
But every language has limits.
Sometimes our explanations can become another kind of tomb. We can become so focused on understanding why something happened that we lose the capacity to ask what life is inviting us into now.
Not every wound has a villain. Not every painful experience is evidence of a harmful person. Not every loss can be repaired by finding someone responsible.
Of course, genuine abuse exists and must always be taken seriously. Violence, neglect and cruelty should never be minimised.
But human beings are also imperfect. Every relationship carries misunderstanding. Every family contains wounds. Every person eventually encounters disappointment and suffering.
The question is not only:
"What happened to me?"
But also:
"What is being asked of me now?"
The ecology of affect
The ecology of affect invites us to see emotions not as isolated experiences within individuals, but as part of a wider landscape of relationships, cultures, memories and stories.
We are shaped by the emotional environments we inhabit, and we also contribute to those environments. Just as an ecosystem becomes unhealthy when one element dominates everything else, our inner worlds can become impoverished when one story takes over completely:
I am only what happened to me.
Someone else must fix my pain.
Someone else must carry responsibility for my life.
The empty tomb reminds us that absence and possibility can exist together.
The angels do not explain why Jesus died. They do not offer Mary a theory about her grief. They simply ask:
"Why are you weeping?"
They invite her to become present to what is happening.
Perhaps healing is not the absence of suffering. Perhaps maturity is not having all the answers. Perhaps it is the widening of our capacity to hold many realities at once:
Grief and gratitude.
Responsibility and compassion.
Endings and beginnings.
It is the ability to remain open when life refuses to give us simple explanations.
Turning around
I have recently joined a walking group as preparation for my Camino pilgrimage from Porto to Santiago de Compostela. Although I am not sure the group is improving my physical training, it has given me the unexpected gift of conversations with people whose stories I would otherwise never hear.
The Camino itself is a physical enactment of this turning. We leave behind what we cannot carry. We walk with uncertainty. We meet strangers who become companions. We discover that the path is not only a route towards a destination, but a practice of attention.
To leave the tomb does not mean denying what happened there.
Mary does not forget the death of Jesus. She does not pretend that the loss was not real. But the empty tomb is no longer the place where she lives.
Perhaps this is the invitation before all of us:
To honour what has died.
To grieve what has been lost.
To acknowledge what has wounded us.
And then, when the time is right, to listen for the voice that calls our name.
To turn around.
And to discover that life may already be waiting behind us.
Comments