The scene is familiar. The first Easter morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene stood weeping outside Jesus’ tomb. She pleads with the gardener, ​“If you carried him away, tell me — “

Then, ​“Mary.”

And with that one word the blinds are thrown open and light streams in. Life makes sense again. In a moment of joy, she embraces Jesus — at least that’s inferred.

Because Jesus says, ​“Don’t hold on to me.”

This response used to bother me. I read it as cold and distancing. But re-reading the context revealed a different picture. First tenderness (“Mary”), then assurance:

“Go to my brothers and tell them, ​‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

It turns out that Jesus wasn’t saying to Mary, ​“You can’t be this close to me.” He was saying, ​“This isn’t close enough.”

She wanted Jesus beside her. He wanted to dwell within her.

Jesus had to ascend so his Spirit could descend. He had to leave so we’d never be alone again.

He was, incredibly, granting us the same access to the Father that he has.

Jesus had hinted at this access when he taught his disciples, ​“Pray then like this: ​‘Our Father.’”

“We know Jesus addressed God as Abba,” writes Carolyn Arends, ​“an Aramaic word that carries perhaps a touch more respect than the English term daddy, but no less tenderness. In teaching us to pray Our Father, Jesus is inviting us into that same sort of intimacy with the God of the universe.”

Growing in this intimacy with God requires finding space to be with God, both personally and in community (as Chris Hall points out). Without carving out this space for prayer — to talk and listen to God, to recognize God’s worth, to give thanks — life can become an endless and hurried task. Prayer, I was reminded again this morning, is oxygen for the soul. Prayer is where we can hear Jesus say our name, recognize him anew, and be emboldened to tell others a story that seems too good to be true.