A Fearful Event
A Fearful Event
Mark 16:1-8
St. Paul’s Free Methodist Church
April 8, 2012
In the spring of 1985, I found myself spending a few days
with one of my friends and mentors, Dr. Howard Snyder, during his days of
pastoring at Chicago’s Irving Park Free Methodist Church. I had just arrived in time for the evening house-meeting
when one of the newest members stuck his head into the living room to signal
that a couple of guys had broken out one of the church windows around the
corner. Immediately, without thinking,
several of us jumped to our feet and took off down the street in fervent
pursuit of the alleged culprits. The
heaviest of the two fell down and was corned by one of our number while the
other less-heavily-inebriated man continued on down the darkened street with me
in hot pursuit. Despite my relative youth,
I soon found myself falling further behind and, after several more blocks, I
had soon lost him from sight.
It was only then, as I bent over to catch my breath and I
struggled to make out the time on my watch that I realized that I was lost in an
unfamiliar city past ten o’clock not having any idea whatsoever of my
whereabouts. I thought I had a vague
idea of the direction from which I had come but I had been zig-zagging for the
past several blocks down narrow alleys and darkened streets. It was only then that I began to be
afraid. Where was I? What if someone emerged from the shadows to
confront me? Where would I go? What would I do?
My guess is that most of you have had a similar feeling
of foreboding fear at some time in your life.
It happens suddenly and without warning.
Something happens and we act.
And, before we know it, we are confronted with danger and possible
harm. No matter how “macho” we are or
think that we are, such moments can paralyze us. Whether we have been a victim of a crime or
have lost control of our car on a patch of ice, we have little difficulty in
recalling that feeling of panic and fear.
And, that feeling is at the heart of today’s gospel lesson.
This morning we gather to celebrate on what is the climax
of the entire Christian year. It is a
day filled with hope and with sunshine—a day when churches are decorated in
festive flowers and children are bursting with energy (especially because of
the overload of chocolate). For those of
us who are getting up in years, we have heard and seen it all before. We know the story from beginning to end and
have grown quite comfortable with it. In
many respects, that story has been drained of its drama—its element of
surprise. Like the worn-out terry-cloth
robe that hangs at the back of my closet, we drag it out when appropriate and
easily slip into its contours. It has
become all-too-familiar.
And yet…it was a surprise—all of the Gospels agree upon
this. This year’s lectionary texts,
predicated primarily upon St. Mark’s gospel readings, have helped us trudge
through the Jesus story from beginning to end.
For fifteen chapters, this narrative has read like a classic
tragedy. Jesus has performed miracles,
healed the sick, and raised the dead.
And, over the course of the last few days we have walked with him as he
has been betrayed, flogged, spat upon, and, finally, crucified like a common
criminal. His death has been portrayed
in horrific terms and we have recognized that we are in the land of a tragic
story. This Jesus fits all of the
rubrics that surround the great tragic hero—a good man of upstanding character
who is undone by events beyond his own control.
But Mark’s gospel does not end on this note. In a matter of just a few tacked-on
sentences, the expected tragedy has been transformed into a comedic
ending. Victory has been snatched from
the jaws of death and the empty tomb has upset all previous categories. Like my students when we walk out of
Donnell-Wiegand Funeral Home into the bright light of day, we give thanks that
we have emerged from all of the gloom and doom of Holy Week and have, at long
last, stumbled into the glories of Easter.
But this is not what the earliest witnesses said. In fact, according to today’s gospel, if we
hurry too quickly towards the safe and the familiar we may be missing the true
message of Easter.
This morning’s text begins on a note of sadness
juxtaposed with devotion. We have
presented to us three devoted friends and followers of this Jesus—all of whom
are women. Women, we must remember, were
not allowed to stand as witnesses in a Jewish court. If there were two men and two hundred women
who had all seen the same event, only the men’s testimony would be allowed in
as evidence. Here, then, we are allowed
to catch a brief glimpse of the difference between the old covenant community
of Israel and the new covenant community known as the church in these first
witnesses to the most important event in the Christian faith. And they stand in stark contrast to their
male counterparts.
The male disciples have all scattered like the four
winds. Even the leader, the outspoken
and boisterous Peter, has denied his Lord.
But, as the sun begins to peek over the horizon we see standing
steadfastly these three faithful women.
Early on a Sunday morning, the day after the Sabbath, they go to the
tomb to anoint the body that would already be locked in rigor mortis. They would have come expecting the faint
stench of decay to be leaking out. Their
one desire would have been to quickly, but gently, anoint the body and to
ensure it a proper burial. These three women
were returning to the tomb out of sheer love and devotion. Their dedication to Jesus must have been what
drove them to come back.
On the way, they remembered that the stone would have to
be pulled out of its resting place and rolled back along the track to allow for
their entrance. That stone would have
been quite heavy and of a significant size—something beyond the strength of the
three women. They must have been
chastising themselves and one another for their forgetfulness and foolishness
as they came within sight of the tomb.
The length between the end of one sentence and the next is not great but
it is within that space that the surprise occurs. It would be something like returning to the
grave of a loved one and finding the grave dug up and the casket open. Although one might feel anger about the
situation, the dominant emotion would be one of horror—of fear. I doubt that anyone said much, once they
perceived the situation. A thousand
questions must have raced through their minds—Who did this? Where is the body? What is going on here?
Interestingly, the Evangelist doesn’t pause here to
analyze the state of their minds. The
situation warrants action and the women immediately move towards and step into
the tomb. The facts appear to be these:
the stone has been rolled away and the tomb is now empty. There is no body to be seen. The gospel writer now juxtaposes astonishment
next to their fear. Astonishment is the
word used to describe the people’s reaction to an event that is both miraculous
and beyond comprehension. The Greek
word, ekstasis, from which we get our
word “ecstasy,” means literally to be beside one’s self. Mark leaves little doubt at this point that
this event represents more than is observable to the naked eye.
The scene of the empty tomb means nothing by itself. Its meaning becomes available only to those
who look on with eyes of faith. N. T.
Wright suggests that, “faith of this sort is not blind belief, which rejects
all history and science. Nor is it
simply a belief that inhabits a totally different sphere…Rather, this kind of
faith…is faith in the creator God, the God who promised to put all things to
rights at the last, the God who raised Jesus from the dead within history,
leaving evidence that demands an explanation from the scientist as well as
anybody else,” (Surprised by Hope,
71-72). This is a faith, Wright claims,
that transcends but includes both history and science. By whatever words we describe such a faith,
one thing is clear: An empty tomb means
nothing. A risen Lord means everything.
All of the other gospel narratives begin to interject
descriptive words at this point, but this first, and probably oldest, gospel is
much more hesitant. The joy that is
hinted at in many of the other accounts finds no place in Mark. One is left at the end with only these two
words: fear and astonishment. This is
where we began our thoughts this morning—with that all-too-familiar human
emotion. When we are afraid, the doctors
tell us, a chemical called adrenalin pumps into our body. It happened to me on that night now almost
three decades ago in the city of Chicago and I experienced a profound
heightening of the senses along with a renewed burst of energy. And so did these three women.
Our oldest manuscript evidence suggests that Mark’s
gospel comes to a crashing end at this point.
Verses 9-20 are probably a later addition by an editor who wasn’t
convinced that the story should conclude on such a note. After all, who wants to have a story that
ends with three women running in fear from the tomb. But it maches well with what we know of this
short gospel which is the focus of this year’s lectionary readings. Confusion and fear in Mark are the trademarks
of Jesus’ ministry. When Jesus raised
Jairus’ daughter from the dead, we are told that the people were astonished and
afraid. When he healed and forgave the
paralytic, we hear that the people were astonished. And, when Jesus commanded the forces of
nature and walked on the water, the Evangelist says that the disciples
experienced fear.
But, this is a fear that goes beyond that most basic of
human emotions—one that is tied to a sense of reverence and awe. This is not simply the frenzy of emotional
ecstasy, but that feeling that comes to us on a very rare occasion, when we
recognize that we are standing on holy ground and are in the very presence of
God. It is not the fear of God provoked
by lightning and thunder, by nature let loose.
This is a much deeper fear in which the still, small voice of God elicits
the raising of the hair on the back of our necks and one has the sense of an
unknown and unspoken presence.
And from such terror and amazement spills out something
even more important—hope. It is this
hope which the apostle Paul claims becomes the very foundation stone of the
gospel itself. And he is quick to point
out that its origins are not to be found in his own ministry but in the very
roots of the tradition of the church. And,
as such, this is our story—a story of hope predicated on a worldview shift
first witnessed to by those three faithful women at daybreak on that Sunday
long ago. According to them, the world
has shifted on its axis and the powers of this world have been forever
displaced.
While the world has done what it normally does by prepackaging
and commercializing the Easter message, we join those women from long ago this
morning in that primitive experience of fear, reverence, and astonishment. And we go from this place to proclaim that
which we have seen and heard. And
exactly what is it that we can say at the end of the day? In response to that question, hear these
words from Frederick Buechner in a sermon preached a half-century ago: “The
sound of running feet. I cannot tell you
anything more than this about what I think I would have seen if I had been
there myself. No man can honestly. I do not believe that even the ones who
actually were there could have told you more. . . But I can tell you this: that what I believe
happened and what in faith and with great joy I proclaim to you here is that he
somehow got up, with life in him again,
and the glory upon him. . . He got up.
He said, ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Rich
man, poor man, child; sick man, dying; man who cannot believe, scared sick man,
lost one. Young man with your life ahead
of you. ‘Don’t be afraid,’” (The Magnificent Defeat, 80-81).
This, my friends, is the Gospel of our Lord Jesus
Christ. Thanks be to God!