This sermon was preached for Chepstow Methodist Church on Sunday July 27, 2025. We were on the fourth and final week of Bible Month, looking at the Gospel of John. The sermon is split into three sections, with an introduction at the start. For each section, I wrote a first-person narrative, looking at the story from the point of view of a woman present in the scripture passage. If you would like to read any of them in a worship service or use in a Bible study, please feel free to do so, I would just love an email letting me know you have done so!
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Introduction:
As we explore week 4 of Bible Month, we are invited to look at the final chapters of the Gospel of John - chapters 18-21. This is a story we know well, one we read again each year in what we call Holy Week. I often wonder how to make the story fresh, how to help us hear it again as if for the first time, how to pull out some new teaching or lesson from it. This week, I was inspired by a suggestion in the Bible Month booklet which proposed thinking about everyone involved in the narrative - the religious leaders, the disciples, the soldiers, and Jesus himself, and wondering what their thoughts and feelings might have been as this took place.
I decided to split the readings into three sections, looking at the arrest and trial, the passion and death, and the resurrection. In each section, we will hear the reading, and then I will share a reflection I have written from the perspective of a character present in the story. I hope this will help us to feel like we are a part of the story and maybe gives us a new view of an old familiar tale.
As I was preparing, I was surprised to find that in each section, there was a woman in the story. We don’t often hear from the perspective of women in the Bible, very often they are overlooked or left out, or remain nameless in their own stories. So while there were many interesting options for characters to focus on, I decided this time, to choose a woman who was present in each passage. So we’ll begin, with the arrest and trial.
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John 18:1-18 Arrest and Trial
Introduction: This woman is often overlooked in the story, as she plays a minor role. But she does have a speaking line, unlike many women in Biblical stories. I almost missed this on my first reading of it, but the person at the gate, who lets Peter in, who is the first to ask him if he knew Jesus, is a woman. Here is the story from her perspective.
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I went to work that night, thinking it would be a normal night, just like any other. Unlike some of the other servant girls I know, I don’t mind working the late shift, after all, almost nothing ever happens at night. My job is to sit at the door and let people in, or not, as my higher-ups tell me to.
During the day, it is a busy job, with many people coming and going, wanting to see and speak to the Chief Priest. He is a very important man, who holds a lot of power. At least, as much power as any Jewish man can hold under Roman rule. It’s kind of fun to see the movers and shakers, the who’s who of our society, to be able to watch powerful people when they don’t know you’re looking, after all, who ever notices the servant girl opening and closing the door for them?
But at night, I don’t have to worry about any of that. I get to sit at the door and think, and day dream (or night dream, as it may be) about my life and what it could be someday. Not that there is much chance for change from the ordinary life that it is now. But a girl can dream.
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But that night, that night things were different. I had heard the rumours, of course, that there was a man causing disruption and unrest amongst the people. I had overheard the powerful men whispering about him, trying to not to show their fear, though it was always writ large on their faces. Despite their positions of power, they knew they would be helpless before the might of Rome if the rulers came to believe that the Jewish people were fomenting rebellion. Their job was to keep us quiet, compliant, acquiescing to our oppressors in order to keep the status quo.
And this Jesus person, he seemed to be anything but the status quo. I heard tales of his birth in a stable, visited by powerful men from afar. I heard whispers of the stories he told - stories that turned expectations upside down, implied that Samaritans could be good people, that tax collectors need not be despised, that the kingdom of God could be at hand, not as a powerful sword come to avenge us, but starting with loving our neighbor.
Much of it didn’t make any sense to me, perhaps the stories were twisted and misspoken as they were passed from person to person. I also wondered about the other rumors I heard…that he touched and healed untouchable people, that he was friendly with prostitutes, that he had women in his band of followers. Scandalous rumors, to be sure. Why, just a few days before that night, a friend told me that she had seen Jesus come into Jerusalem, and it riled up the people well and good. They were laying down their cloaks and waving palm branches and shouting Hosanna! Save us!
What were they thinking! That guy can’t save us! And really, save us from what? We have a pretty good life the way it is. As long as we don’t disturb things, don’t make the wrong people mad, we can keep going on like this.
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I had heard so many things, and built up an image of this powerful man in my mind - this man who was disturbing the peace and disrupting our fragile ecosystem - so it didn’t really surprise me when I finally saw him, not riding on donkey, not preaching to crowds of thousands, but with his hands tied behind his back, marched by soldiers, into the residence of Caiaphas, the High Priest. Clearly, they were going to set him straight, tell him to stop disrupting things, or else.
As he passed, there was a look on his face that surprised me. Not one of fear, but of acceptance. He seemed to know what was going to happen and to be at peace with it. I’ve never seen anyone look quite like that.
Certainly not the men who followed close behind him. One went in with him right away, while another lingered outside at the gate. After a while, the first one came out to get him, speaking to me, and asking me to let him in. I wasn’t sure if I should, after all, would the powers that be want this man’s followers standing around while they scolded him?
But then I thought, maybe this man isn’t one of his followers, after all. Maybe that’s why he stayed outside at first. So I asked, to be sure. I said to the man, whose friend I had heard call him Peter, ‘You are not also one of this man’s disciples, are you?’ and he replied, ‘I am not.’
So I let him in. After all, surely if someone loved and believed in this powerful man, they wouldn’t want to deny him. What a betrayal that would be.
The rest of the night, I sat there, doing my job, keeping watch at the door, and wondering what was happening inside. But I would have to wait with everyone else to see what the dawn would bring.
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John 19:16-30 Passion and Death
Introduction: This woman is perhaps the most well known from scripture, Mary the mother of Jesus. In this passage, she stands at the foot of the cross, watching Jesus die. Here is the story from her perspective.
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From the moment the angel Gabriel visited me, speaking his first words, ‘Do not be afraid,’ I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Incredible? Yes. Life-altering? Absolutely. But easy? Never.
I suppose having a child is never easy, and for those who take on the responsibility of parenthood, it will always be life-altering and incredible in its own ways. But for me, taking on the responsibility of bearing the Son of God, well I think I’ve earned the right to say it was a little harder and more incredible and more life-changing than most.
The beginning of the story was so wonderful. A visit from an angel, Joseph choosing to stay by my side despite the scandal, visiting my dear Elizabeth, who was also pregnant with a special child, then the miracle of birth happening in an unfamiliar place. When he arrived, my precious, baby boy, I was so happy. I wrapped him in bands of cloth and laid him in a manger. We were visited by shepherds with more tales of angels and visitors from afar who brought the most wonderful gifts.
From there, life wasn’t perfect, but then, I’m not sure anybody has a perfect life. For a few years, we had to flee and live in Egypt to escape Herod’s wrath, but eventually we were able to come home and live a fairly normal life in Nazareth. I enjoyed watching my boy grow up, following in his father’s footsteps, learning the tools of the trade. Sometimes, it was almost possible to forget where he came from, and to forget where he was going.
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And then, the day came when he left the house for good. He began gathering his disciples, roaming the countryside, teaching and preaching and explaining the scriptures, like he did that one time in the temple when he was 12. Of course now, as a grown man, people took him more seriously. Which was both good, when they listened, and bad, when what they heard made them mad.
I began to be so afraid for my boy. So afraid that he would say the wrong thing, anger the wrong person, tilt the tide too far in the wrong direction. I believed in him, in everything he said about God his father, I trusted in all the ways he said he came to change the world and our relationship with God. How could I not, having had the encounters I had, knowing the prophecy I myself was given when he was still in my belly?
And yet, now that he was more than just an idea in a prophecy, now that he is alive and well, my flesh and blood, my own heart wandering around outside of my body, I wanted nothing more than to keep him safe. I wanted to keep him gathered under my wing, like a mother hen gathers her brood, protecting him from this big bad world, just like Joseph and I did when he was a child.
But Jesus himself told me that wasn’t the plan. Oh yes, I know all about what he kept telling his disciples - that he would be arrested, face trial, that he would be crucified and he would die, and on the third day he would rise again. I trust in what he says. I believe it will come true.
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But this moment? Standing here, watching my baby boy hang on a cross, watching him suffer in one of the worst ways possible? Nothing could have prepared me for this moment. I would give anything to trade places with him. I cling to my sister, to my friends Mary and Mary, as they do their best to support me, despite their own fear and sadness. I watch the soldiers mocking him, dividing his clothing amongst themselves and I am filled with disgust and anger. My emotions swirl around me, blinding me to everything except the pain I feel deep within me. I am lost to it, I fear I may become lost to it forever…
And then, I hear his voice.
I look up and I see he has noticed me, and the disciple whom he loves, now standing beside me. In his agony, in what must be his last moments, he is taking the time to care for me. I almost can’t believe it.
He speaks to me and he says, ‘Woman, here is your son.’
And then to his beloved, ‘Here is your mother.’
I turn and he takes me into his arms.
It’s not enough. It doesn’t take away the pain of seeing my boy up on that cross.
But it reminds me that no matter what, there is still love. That Jesus, my son, in his last moments, took care to make sure that love continued.
I cling to him and I weep and I wonder what will happen next, when I hear my boy’s final words.
It is finished.
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John 20:1-18 Resurrection
Introduction: This woman is another well-known Biblical woman, though she and her role in Jesus’ life has often been mistaken and misinterpreted. This is Mary Magdalene, on the morning of the resurrection. Here is the story from her perspective.
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Early on the first day of the week, while it is still dark, I go to the tomb. I’m still reeling from the events of the past few days, of the betrayal, the trial, the denial, the ghastly parade, the horrifying crucifixion. I still remember, viscerally, what it felt like to hold Mary in my arms as she collapsed from the shock and pain of losing her son.
I was in pain, too. I love Jesus, too, perhaps more than anybody knows. I have followed him as best I can, as best as the others allow me too. Jesus, always allowed me. He was always willing to have me and other women by his side, no matter what others said. He was like that with a lot of people - eating with tax collectors, welcoming children into his presence, touching and healing literal lepers.
Whatever they told him not to do, he went right out and did it. Whenever he did something that made the hypocritical leaders mad, he took it as an invitation to go and do more of that thing. That’s part of what I loved about him, his steadfast commitment to doing what he felt was right, what God called him to do, no matter how others treated him for it. He was brave.
He was brave right up until those final moments. He forgave his accusers and his murderers while he was on the cross. Can you imagine that? They inflict the most horrible punishment on him, and he forgives them. Incredible.
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I’m lost in all of these thoughts as I make my way to the tomb. Overcome with sadness from our loss, yet tinged with continued amazement at who Jesus was and everything he did. My teacher, my rabbouni, my friend. I will miss him forever.
As I get closer, something doesn’t feel right. When I get close enough, I can see that something doesn’t look right; in fact, it looks very, very wrong. The tomb where we laid him to rest, where I saw with my own eyes the men roll the big, heavy stone across the entrance, is now open, leaving his helpless body exposed to the elements and the animals.
Horrified, I run to get Simon Peter and the other disciple. The run back to the tomb, finding the same thing I did, an open tomb that should be closed. They do what I couldn’t bring myself to do, they peer inside and report that they see the grave clothes lying there. Simon Peter is finally brave enough to go inside, and he says that Jesus’ body is not there. What could they have done with him?
My mind begins swirling with thoughts, with the further degradations and humiliations they could be inflicting on Jesus at this very moment. The disciples return home, but I find myself rooted to the spot, once again scared and terrified and ever so deeply sad. I hear the sound of someone weeping and wailing and it takes a moment to realize the noise is coming from me. I cry for this loss inflicted upon loss, this salt rubbed in the wound.
I bend over once more, steeling myself to look into the tomb and confirm for myself this ongoing tragedy, and I am shocked at what I see: two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at his head and the other at the feet. They ask me why I am crying. I tell them, ‘They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.’
Then I turn and see the gardener, I feel a surge of hope, thinking, he might know what has happened! He asks me why I am weeping, and whom I am looking for. I say to him, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.’ I want nothing more than to find his body and give it a proper burial, to anoint him with oils and spices, and to say goodbye in my own way.
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And then, he says my name.
Mary.
In that instant, I know that this is not the gardener, as I had supposed.
No, this man standing before me, this man who is very much alive, this man who knows not only my name but everything about me is Jesus himself.
‘Rabbouni!’ I cry. My teacher, my beloved, my friend.
I throw myself at him, hugging him with a fierceness that I fear means I will never let go. How could I let him out of my sight again? If he is really here, really alive, I want to cling to him with everything I have.
As I do so, he tells me, ever so gently, ‘Do not hold on to me, because 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.’
With that, he carefully pulls me away. He looks into my eyes, and I can see the importance of this message he has given me. Suddenly, everything he ever told us about what would happen comes rushing back into my mind - it is as he said! He is risen, and what comes next will change the world forever.
I can’t believe that he is trusting me with this message. Me, a mere mortal, a woman no less, entrusted to be the first speaker of the good news - Christ is risen, Christ is risen indeed. I feel a rush of love and joy so powerful it wipes away everything else I have felt over the past few days.
I am buoyed with energy as I run to the disciples and tell them, ‘I have seen the Lord.’
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Amen.