Resurrection of the Lord (C) | 31-Mar-13
Acts 10.34-43 | 1 Corinthians 15.19-26 | Luke 24.1-12
It’d been three days. But the terrifying images were still clear in
their minds. The horror of Friday was
still all too near: the mocked, beaten, bloody, and nail-pierced horror of
their beloved teacher and friend hanging—suffocating to death—on a rugged,
wooden cross. Emotionally spent and
physically exhausted, it took all the strength they could muster just to rise
that morning. But they did. At dawn, the women rose—among them Mary
Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Joanna—and made their way to the tomb,
carrying “the spices that they had prepared”[1]
to anoint his body: to give him a proper burial, to offer him one final honor.
They froze in their tracks. The Magdalene’s basket slipped from her hands
and fell to the earth, saturating the dust with oil and perfume. The women stood aghast at what they beheld:
the stone had been moved. Instantly,
their minds began to swirl with confusion—and with panic. Tears welled in their eyes and streaked their
faces as they slowly and tremulously approached the opening of the cave, hoping
their worst fear—that the body had been desecrated or even stolen—wouldn’t be
realized. Hands trembling, breath
quivering, they peered inside.
Emptiness. Some stood
weeping. Others crumbled to the
ground. All of them wondered, “What do
we do?”
Suddenly, a light shone: a dazzling,
radiant light the likes of which they’d never encountered. So bright it was, they had to shield their
eyes from its brilliance. Even so, they
thought they could make out what appeared to be two people standing in its
midst. And a voice spoke to them: “Why
do you look for the living among the dead?
He is not here, but has risen.”[2] And as quickly as their hearts had sank, they
lifted—with tears of grief turning to tears of joy. He’s alive!
The women ran as fast as they could,
hearts pounding and filled with excitement and praise, but it seemed their feet
couldn’t carry them swiftly enough back to the place where the apostles were
staying. And when they arrived, they burst
through the door with the news: Friends, it’s wondrous! It’s marvelous! It’s amazing!
It’s baloney. This is what the apostles said. Those persons who’d followed Jesus for three
years, give or take, and had been “witnesses” (in the words of St. Peter) “to
all that he did both in Judea and in Jerusalem”[3]—all
the signs and the wonders, the healings and the provision, witnesses even to
resurrection—they didn’t believe. Those
persons who’d been hand-picked by Jesus, and sent with the Gospel of God’s love
and forgiveness to minister in Christ’s name, didn’t believe.
“An idle tale”[4]
is the phrase used in the King James and New Revised Standard versions, as well
as in numerous other English translations, to describe the apostles’ feelings
about the news the women shared. It
isn’t a bad rendering, but it is
quite generous. The Greek word is leros, and this passage is the only
place in the whole of scripture it appears.
The New American Standard Bible renders it as “nonsense,” which comes
closer to what the word implies. But it
actually means something which is entirely devoid of merit or value. It’s trash.
It’s rubbish, waste, garbage.
“Your words are hogwash,” the apostles say. “They’re worthless.” Contemporarily, they might’ve employed an
expletive associated with the excrement of a male bovine. But the point’s the same: the apostles didn’t
believe.
But why? Why didn’t they believe the account of the
women? Hadn’t Jesus himself told them
he’d live again? Why do they now
struggle to accept it? Is it simply
because the women are telling the story?
That seems like a plausible explanation at first, given the patriarchy
of the day, but it’s rather out-of-step with Jesus’ treatment of women and the
important roles they played in his life and ministry. A number of women traveled with, conversed
with, and learned from Jesus. Many
proved themselves to be among his most faithful disciples, staying near to him
even when most of the men ran. And their
male counterparts don’t seem to question this throughout the bulk of the Gospel
narratives; they don’t seem to balk at Jesus’ inclusion of women, or the equity
he gives them. Why would they do so now?
Perhaps, then, the apostles’
unbelief is something like what hinders our minds as well: the dismissal of
that which we can’t immediately grasp or rationalize. It doesn’t make sense, does it? They knew Jesus had died, and death is
final. Right? It can’t be that he’s alive, can it? Prominent Harvard neurosurgeon and Christian
author Dr. Eben Alexander speaks of his own struggle with this, writing: “To
say that the physical body of a man who had been brutally tortured and killed
could simply get up and return to the world a few days later is to contradict
every fact we know about the universe.”[5] But even this argument collapses when one
considers all we’re told the apostles had experienced while journeying with
Christ. They’d seen vision restored to
the blind. They’d seen crippled persons
made to walk. They’d seen multitudes fed
with scraps of food. And as I alluded to
earlier, they’d seen the dead brought to life.
Should Jesus’ resurrection be so difficult to accept?
What it comes down to, however, is
that difficulty in believing isn’t
the issue. The apostles refuse to believe. They dismiss what the women say, essentially
accusing them of making it up. And from
where I stand, it isn’t primarily because the women are speaking. It isn’t primarily because the story’s so
extraordinary. It’s because it’s safer not to believe.
It’s safer to stay huddled together
in that upper room, lights out, windows boarded, hidden away from the
world. But the resurrection, as we see
in the women’s response, bids us to go: to go, and to tell. In Luke’s version (unlike Matthew, Mark, and
John), they aren’t commanded to share the good news. But they do so all the same. For what else can one do with it? It’s a story that begs to be told, that needs
to be proclaimed in word and in deed.
It’s a Gospel which must be lived out
there, among the poor and the captives and the oppressed: among the least
and the lost whose cry is for deliverance, and who long to see the salvation of
God.
What’s more: it’s safer to let the
story end with Jesus’ death, because resurrection means things are turned
upside-down. Resurrection means that
what Jesus said about losing one’s life in order to find it really is true. Resurrection means things aren’t the way
we’ve always perceived them to be. And
if our notions of life and death (or, perhaps better, death and life) can be so
radically challenged, what else in us stands to be challenged? What else about what we believe or what we
think or what we do or how we live stands to be challenged? What else about us stands to be changed?
Because in the end, that’s what
resurrection is. It’s about change:
about making something new. It’s not
enough, you see, to be crucified with Christ: to “put to death”[6]
old ways of being, the “impurit[ies]…evil desire[s], and greed.”[7] Rather, we must also be raised with him:
“raised with him through faith in the power of God, who raised him from the
dead.”[8] Raised, such that we “seek the things that
are above, where Christ is.”[9]
And so the apostles scoff. Resurrection?
No, thanks. And they say so not
just because they can’t believe, or because they don’t want to believe—but because
they’re afraid to believe. They’re afraid to believe that they’ve been
made “alive in Christ,”[10]
and of what that belief will ask of them: of what it’ll require of them, of
where it’ll send them, or of who it’ll send them to. It wasn’t so bad when Jesus was right here
beside us, guiding us and encouraging us and doing for us. But what about now? They’re wary of what committing to this
Gospel entails, for those who truly encounter it can’t leave the same way they
came.
And here we are, some two thousand
years later, still telling and re-telling this story: removed by time and space
from the events and much of the emotion, but no less bound to its
significance. For we, like those first
followers of Christ, are challenged by the resurrection. Because if in our hearts we believe it to be
true, we have a commission: to live as an Easter people; to live as those made
new by the grace of God, and by our belief in the One who for our sake was
bruised, died, and rose in victory. And
we, like those first followers, might find ourselves more than a bit fearful of
this Gospel when we consider in depth its implications.
The good news is: we aren’t
alone. We’re promised that he who is
risen raises us up, abides with us always, and strengthens us to walk in his
light. Moreover, we have one
another. We have our communities of
faith—our sisters and brothers—who journey with us, praying with and for us,
and surrounding us with encouragement and grace. The truth of resurrection is a difficult one,
perhaps. It’s demanding, to be
sure. But it isn’t a truth of which we
should be fearful. It should be one,
rather, which points every heart toward love, hope, and life. May we therefore never shun this truth, but
embrace it and permit it to challenge and change us, that, in the name and for
the sake of the ever-living Christ, we might challenge and change our world.
[1]
Luke 24.1
[2]
Luke 24.5
[3]
Acts 10.39
[4]
Luke 24.11
[5] Eben Alexander, March 29,
2013 (12:42 p.m.), “The Easter Question,” Huffington Post Religion Blog, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/eben-alexander-md/the-easter-question_b_2979741.html.
[6]
Colossians 3.5
[7] Ibid.
[8]
Colossians 2.12
[9]
Colossians 3.1
[10] 1 Corinthians 15.22
Comments
Post a Comment