Mark Ends, Easter Begins (Mark 16:1-8)

Mark Ends, Easter Begins

The elementary school building hummed with anticipation all day. Just after lunch, a storyteller would visit for an all-school assembly. As we walked into the auditorium, we found him already there, sitting in a big easy chair, reading a book. He kept reading until the entire school was sitting at his feet. After a moment or two of silence, the storyteller looked up with a bit of a start. He leapt to his feet, tossing his book on the chair. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in! Would you like to tell a story with me?”

Over the next half-hour, the storyteller spun the story of a knight going off to save the damsel in distress. However, he kept pausing in the midst of his story and selected a child from the audience. “Can you tell me what happened next?” The child would offer a suggestion, and the storyteller wove the child’s idea into the story. By the end of the half-hour, the knight had defeated the evil dragon, and the damsel gave him a kiss. Thanks to the intercession of one child, the story even included the knight’s horse getting a carrot for being such a good horse.

I remember that afternoon story-time with great affection. The storyteller treated each child with respect, allowing us to feel like we had part in the great story of a knight, a damsel, and a carrot-loving horse. It was not “his” story to tell. Instead, it was all of us together, telling the story. In return, the storyteller pushed us to see the many different directions a story could go. He engaged our imagination. We learned that day stories take us so many wonderful places!

Today, we hear a story that ends with a screeching halt. The gospel of Mark ends with these words:

So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

Mark the storyteller gives us a gospel that seems a bit perplexing, even to grownups. Mark’s story of Jesus ends with fear.

The gospel ends with…fear? What happened? Was the original ending lost? Somebody must have thought so. Some scholars ponder perhaps the oldest scrolls of Mark were torn, leaving such an unpolished ending for future generations to puzzle over. Just a few years after Mark’s gospel began circulating around the first century Church, some versions of Mark began to appear with an extra verse tacked on (“the shorter ending”, or Mark 16:8”b”). By the time of the second century, other manuscripts had a “longer ending” added (Mark 16:9-16), adding some rather strange verses noting that believers could handle snakes and drink poison without consequence. (A friendly reminder: do not try this at home!) Surely, the gospel does not end this way!

A fear-filled ending is an oddity, considering how we have shown up in fresh pressed Easter dresses, Easter eggs hidden away for the children afterwards. Regarding Mark’s Gospel, Fred Craddock claims this ending is so strange to hear at Easter. What is the Church, after being encouraged to shout “Alleluia!” all morning long, to do with the gospel story that ends with “fear”?

Scholar Mitzi Minor notes these three women come to the tomb and get “three shocks”. First, they find the stone rolled away from the tomb. Second, they discover a stranger dressed in white. Finally, they hear his word that Jesus is no longer here: not dead but risen and on the move to Galilee. In shock, the women flee, stunned into silence, drenched in fear, overwhelmed by the enormity of what they have encountered. Other gospels go onwards, telling of disciples eventually understanding what happened, doubters turning to believers, and Jesus himself appearing to assure them of his resurrection. Mark’s gospel ends with the image of three women running as hard as they can, off into the distance. (The Power of Mark’s Story)

Just to keep it complicated, the Greek text of Mark’s presumed “original ending” is more maddening. The best translation of Mark 16:8a tends to render the text:

“So they went out and fled the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone. They were afraid for….”

What do we do with this? “They were afraid, for….” Puzzling, isn’t it? The last word of the most ancient copies of Mark’s gospel is “for.…”, the Greek word “gar”. Instead of a conclusion in the traditional sense, we get the impression that something has gone missing. The story ends with dot-dot-dot…, trailing off, and leaving things unfinished. What happened next? Did it end with fear? Did it end with belief? Mark’s gospel, the earliest version known, leaves us hanging! They ran away, terrified and amazed, saying nothing to nobody. They were afraid for….

Now go back to the storyteller from my childhood. A good story engages the mind, taking us to some wonderful places. Jesus himself was adept at spinning a parable that left his listeners, friendly and unfriendly alike, dizzy with the implications of what the kingdom of God is like. Jesus spent his life, indeed “gave” his life, to the teaching and living out of his message. Two millennia later, we gather week after week to learn how to do likewise. There is a power in this story called “gospel”, but what do we do when the gospel vexes us with less than straightforward storytelling?

Let’s do something more common for today’s child to do when caught up in the midst of hearing a story. Let’s hit the “rewind” button and watch the story again. The women come to the tomb, discover the stone rolled away, and encounter this strange male figure dressed in white (note: other gospels claim angelic presence. Mark chooses to be a bit more demure). The man in white tells the women,

Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.

Mark ends on vs. eight, however, it is really vs. seven that presents the narrative complication. Will the women run away and dismiss this word as a hoax? Is death the last word and resurrection a myth? What happens if we leave the empty tomb and, even though dizzied by what we have heard, we summon the courage and the curiosity to look towards Galilee? British scholar Morna Hooker writes,

The ending Mark demands that his readers supply—is the response of faith: it is only those who are prepared to believe and who set off on the journey of faith who will see the risen Lord. (Endings)

The gospel ends on an inconclusive yet demanding note. What comes next? Does fear or faith follow next? Rowan Williams suggests that the “lost ending” of Mark is the reader herself. Williams writes, “We have to discover for ourselves what difference is made by this life, this death, and this disorienting mystery after the crucifixion”. (Christ on Trial) Catholic storyteller Megan McKenna puts it a bit differently. At the end of Mark’s gospel, “it wasn’t enough to hear the words; [the disciples] had to live them”. (On Your Mark!)

The ending of this story, a narrative of Jesus of Nazareth, the son of God, the good news He proclaimed, lived, and died for, the end of this story depends on the storyteller stepping aside and saying, “What happened next?”

Later this summer, Kerry and I will attend a continuing education program for clergy and their spouses. The program’s leadership asked for photographs of the church: its people, ministries in action, and the edifice itself. I went around First Baptist, taking pictures of people, activities, and finally, I headed for the sanctuary to take pictures of the altar, the organ, the pews, and the stained glass.

As I scurried around the sanctuary, I found myself standing at the back of the sanctuary, looking up at the four big stained glass panels that now stream with light on this lovely Easter day: these marvelous images of the annunciation to Mary, the child Jesus before the Magi, the Baptism of the Lord, and the Crucifixion.

Despite being minister for three years now and quite familiar with this sanctuary (or so I thought), I had never noticed that there was a scene missing. Where is Easter? There is no “empty tomb” image to be found in the stained glass: no Jesus greeting Mary Magdalene in the garden, no doubting Thomas placing hand on the wounds of the resurrected Savior, no Christ commissioning the disciples to go forth to the ends of the earth.

Where is the image of the resurrection in this place? Like an exasperated reader of Mark, I want to know: Where is the end of the Gospel?

Later, as I am uploading pictures to my office computer, I kept seeing all of the pictures of congregational life flash across the computer screen:

Alyssa and Joe teaching the kids at Vacation Bible School,

Byron, Lisa, and Fran praying at Ash Wednesday service,

The congregation singing in the midst of worship,

Cindy and Bob working at a Habitat worksite down in Louisiana,

The elderly, the young, and the ages in between sharing potluck together;

The children running through Willow Park at the church picnic.

The Saints next door (Matthew 22:34-46)

The Saints Next Door

The word “neighbor” had an odd meaning for me, growing up in rural Kansas, primarily because the nearest neighbors were a distance away, rarely seen, and being good practitioners of the Protestant work ethic, we rarely took time out for socializing. Fence to be mended, fields to be plowed, cattle to be pastured, grain and hay to be hauled, and on a rare occasion, a little potluck on a Saturday evening where the men talked of grain prices, the women talked of the vacations they wished they could take if it weren’t for the summer’s work, and kids played in the yard, sliding down ancient slipper slides and screaming with glee.

The word “neighbor” made a bit more sense to my young mind, thanks to watching television as a child. On one hand, you had “Mr. Bentley” from The Jeffersons. He was quite an eccentric neighbor, who showed up often at the door, complaining of back spasms that he thought George Jefferson alone could cure. “Can Mr. J walk on my back?” Bentley would say. The audience would roar as Sherman Hemsley did his little dance on the witless neighbor.

On the other, you had Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, with old Fred in his cardigan, talking in that low, measured tone that never patronized children. He called us all his neighbors, and for thirty minutes every weekday, he taught his young viewers how to treat everyone with respect. All with that remarkable grace and a friendly smile.

It seems an odd place to begin this sermon with Kansas farmers toiling on the prairies, George Jefferson’s impromptu attempt at holistic home healthcare, and Fred Rogers’ desire to make the whole world all his neighbors, with cardigans, sneakers, and trolley in tow. Rather, I believe these odd memories illumine a theological observation: How we choose to live in this world matters. God made us social creatures. We are meant to relate to others, yet we humans tend to spend most of our time doing so only in part.

Instead, we spend much of our time racing around, tending to the affairs of life, and settling for repeating the mantra of “I’m too busy” than engaging in conversations and a common meal that isn’t “fast food”. A worse habit, however, happens when we look around us and see persons who we choose not to see, and we take part in practices, written and unwritten, that keep those persons acutely aware of our disinterest in making them our neighbors.

If we take it seriously, a sacred text that says, “take your neighbor as seriously as you do your devotion to God” should not seem merely an overly familiar Bible story. This text ought to press us, an ancient word critiquing all too well our modern sensibilities. It might even wind up freeing us to live in ways we have forgotten.

In Matthew’s gospel, the question posed by a learned Pharisee is a chance for confrontation. The religious establishment questions Jesus about matters of faith. Some questions are directed at Jesus’ ministry or issues of the day (“By what authority do you teach?” “Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar?”), while other questions deal with matters of orthodoxy (i.e. How does one interpret the Law of Moses?). It is in this latter line of questioning that we hear, “Which commandment in the law is the greatest?”

If you have turned off your television, wearied of the current political debates leading up to Election Day, my apologies that you came to church today and found something similar awaiting you in the gospel lesson. The lawyer put forth by the Pharisees is the last in a line of questioners, sort of religious pundits trying their hand at tripping Jesus up. Many eyes are upon Jesus and his questioners, persons wondering where this showdown was headed. On his own count, Jesus rode into Jerusalem, cleansed the temple, and began verbally sparring with the religious leadership. Each time, Jesus keeps the upper hand. Pharisees, Sadducees, and even a handful of Herodians have walked away in a daze of defeat. So, the Pharisees sends out their last ditch effort: a legal expert whose credentials are impeccable, whose knowledge of the law is above reproof. If there is anyone who can go toe to toe on matters orthodox, it is this guy. And his question: “Which commandment in the law is the greatest?”

The question sounds simple enough, because we readers of the Gospels are familiar with Jesus’ response. If you have been in Sunday school at some point in your life, this story was probably recounted to you a few times over. However, to Jesus and this expert in the law, there were six hundred thirteen commandments to choose from. And just like the political debates on our minds, there are differences of opinion and strongly held convictions about which core “truth” or orthodoxy should win the day. Jesus gives an answer that sounds straightforward, however, when you dig deeper, neither has the Pharisees’ lawyer given a softball question nor has Jesus done anything other than knock one out of the park.

In artful fashion, Jesus has referenced the foundational belief of Israel: “Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.” (Deuteronomy 6:5-6). However, Jesus adds a follow-up comment, citing Leviticus 19:18, adding in the good word about loving your neighbor as yourself. This response apparently satisfies the lawyer that Jesus gives a righteous and astute answer, as he disappears from the text without further comment. The question, however, is why these two texts of the Hebrew Scriptures are intertwined in Jesus’ response and therefore serve as an indication of Jesus’ reading of the law and, as he insists, the prophets.

Leviticus 19:18’s injunction to love your neighbor as yourself is part of the law, part of a chapter of Leviticus that presents a new vision of human relationships where all persons, especially those who are marginalized and vulnerable, are to be treated well. To love your neighbor as yourself is to realize “one’s own welfare is intertwined with that of the other” (Warren Carter, Matthew in the Margins, p. 445). This value is reflected in Matthew’s gospel as Jesus instructs the disciples and the crowds how to love the poor, the dispossessed, the unclean, and yes, even one’s own enemy. In Matthew, Jesus instructs the disciples to lead “a life of indiscriminate loving” (Carter, 445).

And now we see the beauty as well as the difficulty of this teaching. To love indiscriminately is a noble vision, but living it out is another thing altogether! Jesus weaves together the sum of faith (“the Lord should be loved with our own being”) with the realities of life, where we falter in loving someone completely, especially if they are indeed too much the part of being “the other”. Suddenly, we realize, as did Jesus’ detractors that the righteous way of leading life has little to do with exacting purity and ironclad authority. Only in humility and due deference to one another do we start embodying, rather than merely citing, the values of the sum of the faith we seek to keep.

Rowan Williams, the learned scholar and Archbishop of Canterbury, was in New York City on the day we call “9/11”. In fact, he was preparing to lead a day’s teaching at a prominent church in Manhattan, just a couple of blocks from the World Trade Center, when the day’s tragic events began to unfold. In the months after, Williams began work on a small book that tried to make some sort of theological sense out of 9/11. In his book Writing in the Dust: After September 11, Williams spoke with sensitivity and candor about the difficult events of 9/11 and the varied ways that the Church and the world could respond in productive or destructive ways. Williams shared a concern that some might be tempted to close themselves off to persons toward whom they harbored distrust, anger, or some form of anxiety. Even a few years on, we find ourselves still sorting out the events and fallout of that day. Williams’ pastoral word from late 2001 still rings true:

“We can cling harder and harder to the rock of our threatened identity—a choice, finally, for self-delusion over truth; or we can accept that we shall have no ultimate choice but to let go, and in that letting go, give room to what’s there around us—to the sheer impression of the moment, to the need of the person next to you, to the fear that needs to be looked at, acknowledged and calmed (not denied). If that happens, the heart has room for many strangers, near and far.” (Writing in the Dust, 59-60).

We sometimes count among our neighbors those who are close at hand or those with whom we choose to interact and socialize. Our faith tells us that the neighbor is the widow, the orphan, and the sojourner. Our neighbor is that person whose political lawn signs differ from our own. Our neighbor is the one who we come to realize embodies the very reason that we keep the faith: to love God fully and authentically. The wholly other becomes our way toward becoming holy. As the Anglican bishop says, “If that happens, the heart has room for many strangers, near and far.”