I had a doctor’s appointment a couple of months ago, and I got there
early, but the doctor was running late. So I had a long wait, even longer than
usual. I almost always carry a book with me to pass the time, but I forgot that
day, so I cast about the office and found a New Yorker that was over a year
old. After scanning the cartoons – I always scan the cartoons first in
the New Yorker – I found a short story that looked interesting so I began
to read. It was a page turner, a gripping story, not so short, continued in the
back pages, but I was engrossed and the doctor wasn’t calling, so I read
on. Nearing the end I turned the page to read the thrilling climax – and
somebody had torn out the last page! It probably had a cartoon they liked or
maybe an ad for weight loss supplements they just had to try. But I was left
hanging, wondering what came next and how the story would end.
The gospel of Mark, the first gospel ever written, leaves us hanging the same
way. After sixteen chapters of a gripping tale about the man from
Even the early church found this unsatisfying, and decided the original ending
must have been lost along the way, like somebody tore out the last page to
leave a note for the secretary or maybe left the original ending in the copy
machine. Two longer endings for Mark appeared in later manuscripts … with
stories like the other gospels of the risen Christ appearing to the disciples
and giving them marching orders to go out and start the church. But these new
endings added to Mark were clearly compilations from the other gospels, written
by scribes who just weren’t satisfied with an unfinished gospel. How
could you preach that on Easter Sunday morning? It just wouldn’t do.
But is it possible Mark intended his story of Jesus to end just that way, with
an announcement of resurrection but no appearances, with awe and wonder but no
clear confirmation that the news was true? It has all the feeling of one of
those “more to come” news stories, like an account that might have
appeared in the Jerusalem Gazette on Monday morning, the day after. Some
enterprising reporter decides to follow up on the big story from the Friday
before, finds that woman from Magdala he had met at
the crucifixion, promises not to quote her, questions her, pesters her, finally
forces her to talk so he’ll just go away. The headline reads,
“Women Find Tomb Empty. Mysterious Stranger Claims
Jesus Raised” Sensational, but preposterous. The editor prints it
because it’s a slow news day, but buries it on the back pages. Even Fox
News declines to pick up the story because Caesar is hinting at some new
invasion that day, and a wild rumor from this hysterical woman doesn’t
compete for air play.
The unfinished story is a common literary device authors use to mess with your
mind. You’re left to imagine the ending yourself, to consider the
possibilities, to form your own conclusions. It haunts you. It sticks in your
brain like a splinter you can’t get out. You worry and worry over it
until it’s all you can think about. The unfinished ending is a very
effective trick in the writer’s tool box. Besides, life is untidy like
that. Most of our stories are left unfinished, without closure, no
“happily ever after,” no cleanly wrapped package all tied up with a
bow. Maybe Mark is just a very clever author, realistic, in the modern sense of
the word.
But surely literary art is the last concern Mark has when he ends his gospel so
abruptly. No, I think Mark may actually consider the story unfinished himself,
“to be completed” by our stories, yours and mine. He wants us to
walk with those women in grief and despair, to recognize ourselves burdened by
grief and wondering “Who will roll away the stone? Who will roll away the
stone from the tomb of our dead hopes where we keep returning to ask “why
not?” and “what if?” Who will roll away the stone from the
tomb of our dead dreams where we keep returning to remember the “good old
days” that are gone for good? Who will roll away the stone from the tomb
of our bitterness , those bad memories we can never change but still
can’t get over so we keep going back to visit the body of grief that
tortures our souls? Who will roll away the stone from the tomb of our dead set
ideas, fixed judgments, and absolute certainties made rigid by the rigor mortis
of our stubborn will? We get so stuck visiting the tombs of our past we fail to
see the future dawning before us, let alone to move into it with courage and
hope.
Mark wants us to walk with these women to the tombs and feel their surprise
when we find the stone has already been rolled back for us and the body is not
there. He wants us to hear the announcement from the young man dressed in his
Easter baptismal robe: “He has been raised; he is not here…. He is
going ahead of you to
But Mark, who is so cynical throughout his gospel about the disciple’s
reactions to Jesus - their resistance, their befuddlement, their hard-headedness
and hard-heartedness – already knows how we are
likely to react. Like these women. What do they do when they are the very first
to receive the good news, the amazing news, the best news anybody ever heard in
all the history of humankind? “They went out and fled…; and they
said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” Aren’t those sad,
sad words for this Easter morning? “…for they were afraid.”
It turns his whole gospel into a tragedy, if you ask me. Mark pictures this:
the greatest story ever told never gets told, because “they were
afraid.” The church, the living body of Christ still loving God’s
world through local gatherings all around the world, never even gets started,
because “they were afraid.” The hospitals built to heal the sick,
the soup kitchens set up to feed the hungry, the homes raised up to care for
orphans are never raised at all, because “they were afraid.” The
astounding acts of reconciliation, the breathtaking breakthroughs on slavery
and race and civil rights for all God’s children can never happen at all
because “they were afraid.” The calls for peace between warring
factions, the people who at least try to love their enemies and turn them into
friends never have a chance because “they were afraid.” The community
which risks itself to demand that the voices of the poor, the sick, the
despised and rejected be heard by the rich and powerful, the leaders in the
land because God loves the outcast, too, never even forms because “they
were afraid.” And the world just keeps on warring and hating and
degrading down to violence as it always has because “they were
afraid.” I can’t imagine an epitaph for any generation in the pages
of history that could be much worse than this: “They didn’t
believe, they didn’t risk, they didn’t even try, because they were
afraid.”
Maybe Mark was cynical himself, weary with the church
of his generation, just thirty years or so after Christ’s resurrection
had made all things possible, all things new. Already they were bound up in
doctrinal struggles and questionable compromises with their
culture. Already they were living as if they were a people who had no hope and
had not heard the good news. Maybe he was afraid the church was going to fail
the Lord who gave his life to love them and called them out of the darkness
into life. Maybe he feared they might choose the tomb over the scary
possibility that the Savior was indeed alive and going before them, the Lord on
the loose who might just pop up anywhere in any difficult situation and ask
hard things of them like facing their demons and overcoming their fears,
forgiving and loving their enemies, building bridges instead of walls, or even
something as simple as telling somebody else that Christ is risen, he is risen
indeed. You read Mark and you realize: Jesus may be risen,
but the women are still in the tomb! Can you imagine? Here we are dead and
buried in a cold, dark cave. Jesus rolls away the stone and says I have risen
from the dead and so can you. Rise and come out and follow me into a future
beyond your wildest dreams! And we say, “No thank you! We’re fine
here.” Jesus says, “No, no, come on along. Your whole life waits
ahead.” “No, no, I’m fine here, thanks. Close the door
please.” Jesus pleads, “Won’t you just give it a try? What
have you got to lose? Look … there’s life and light out
here.” “Go away,” we say. “Just go away. You’ve
got the wrong person.” Mark knew it was easier for some people –
because they are afraid - to stay in their tombs and roll the big safe stone
back into place than to follow a risen Savior into a new and unknown future of
possibility and power.
Therefore, Mark wrote his gospel as a tragedy, and ended it with a picture that
poses a question for the church down through the ages
right up to today: will we trust ourselves to this risen Christ or follow our
fears? Will we tell the good news to all people, shout it out from the
roof-tops, call others to join us in it, and move with courage to meet the
risen Christ waiting for us in the Galilee of our tomorrow, or will we keep
mum, play it safe, fly below the radar, and ignore the gift of new life Christ
offers us? When he appears to us in the locked up rooms of our cynicism and
despair, will we rise to greet him and follow him into the light, or will we
just pretend not to see him and go on as before? I don’t think Mark
doubts that Christ is risen and calls us to follow. I
think he doubts we will rise and follow him. But Easter isn’t real for
us, is it, until we believe it ourselves, until we meet the risen Christ in our
own experience and follow him? Mark leaves us wondering because he is left
wondering, because God is left wondering what comes next, how will we respond,
how will the story end?
Richard Lischer tells how one Easter evening he and
his wife were driving through one of the poorest and most depressed areas in
eastern
The sign read like roadside poetry at its best, It drew us and all passersby
into an implicit conspiracy against the powers of death. “Psst. The grave could not hold him. Pass it on.”
Because he is risen and now ascended, the Lord rules everything. The Lord is
now free to be everywhere.
Lischer is right. The good news of Easter is
“The grave could not hold him.” “The Lord does rule
everything. The Lord is now free to be everywhere. But we are not free unless
we can step out of our tombs. We are not free unless we can let go of
what’s past. We are not free unless we can move beyond our bitterness. We
are not free until we can hear the announcement and rise to meet him in the
glories he has waiting ahead. We are not free until we can trust and obey and
bear witness with our own lives that Jesus Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed! Amen. Alleluia!
May we pray?
For all the ways we refuse to let you roll the stone away from our tombs of
bitterness, cynicism, and despair: for all the ways we make idols of our past
by nursing our wounds and fueling our prejudices and grieving our
disappointments; for all the ways we refuse to rise by responding to your
invitation to new life with “I can’t.” and “I
won’t,” O Lord, forgive us. But roll back the stone and give us
courage today. Lead us out of our stubborn hold on death, help us to let go of
what was and take hold of what will be. Let us rise to meet you as you lead us
into life abundant and eternal and free. Easter in us today, dear Lord, and let
your story find happy fulfillment in our souls. Amen.
Mary Anne Biggs, Pastor
Nekoosa United
Nekoosa