On fear and silence and the end of Mark's Gospel

 “…and they said nothing to anyone,
for they were afraid.”

--Mark 16:8

 

 

This morning I finished the Gospel of Mark.  There is so much to say about this shortest of the gospels.  Most scholars now think of it as the earliest gospel, asserting that its conciseness is a sign of its chronological place. One theory is that the other synoptic gospels derive their basic structure from it, embellishing it with details from lost sources, including a collection of sayings attributed to Jesus. The late literary critic Harold Bloom valued Mark’s gospel for its mysterious urgency and dramatic flair.  It is often referred to as a Passion narrative with a long introduction. 

 

Like all the gospels, all of scripture—I guess—I like it for its strangeness.  With this gospel, in particular, I am drawn to the way it seems to rush along, beginning in media res, then rushing head-long into the action, with Jesus “at once…” going out, and the disciples “at once…” following Him and the demons “at once…” crying out and the sick “at once…” being healed, etc etc.  As Bloom, and others, pointed out, everything in this story happens with a strange urgency.  Some translations use the word “immediately” (cf 1:12, 1:18, 1:20, 1:42, etc etc) to express this urgent movement.  I find this element of the book compelling and strange and worth meditation.

 

But this morning I am thinking of a different element from the end of this Gospel.  In my New Jerusalem Bible there is a note on 16:8 that informs me Mark probably originally ended there with the story of the  women who witnessed some manifestation of the resurrection and, overwhelmed by it, went away in silence and fear. No “immediately,” no “at once,” but only a kind of strange quiet and stillness—as if suddenly everything stopped. Ending as it began, in media res (which is Latin for “in the middle of things”).  The scholars speculate that the next 12 verses were an addendum derived from the other gospels and added in order to harmonize Mark with Matthew and Luke.  Those kind of issues, I have no insight into.  I leave that to the historians and the scholars with their degrees and dissertations.

 

My thought today is only of that image of the women saying nothing to anyone, “because they were afraid.”  They have received the “good news” of the resurrection, of the conquering of death, of the return to life of their beloved friend… Why wouldn’t they rush off to share this news? Why wouldn’t they be blowing a trumpet and crying from the hilltops to anyone and everyone?  Yet they “said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.” 

 

Why? What were they afraid of? Looking foolish?  Being ridiculed? Rejection? I think quite often I remain silent out of fear of how someone will react. What they might say to me. How they will treat me… Or worse, that they might question me, challenge me, make me begin to doubt what I know is true.

 

I fear that they won’t really hear what I am saying, but only the weakness of my words, my failure to express myself adequately.  Often, when I am overwhelmed by an experience, my words fail me. Too often, some might say, I flounder a bit and then suddenly (at once, and with a strange kind of immediacy) I melt into tears. And feel like a fool. 

 

What was it that made the women leave the tomb of Jesus and go away in silence and fear?  What was the author (Mark) trying to say about their experience? About the experience of the early church? Why that fearful silence?

 

It forces me to remember the many times I too remained silent for fear of how people might react.  But it also makes me aware of the importance of another kind of silence. Of the willingness to listen when someone comes to you with something to say. The willingness to hear them out and even to let them have the last word.  The willingness to listen, openly and completely; the willingness to listen without feeling a need to correct, or challenge or show my own intelligence.  To just listen to the message that the other person brings, their experience, their perception, their desire to share, and their witness to the wideness of the world.

 

There are so many lessons to be found in the Gospels, and even a few to be found in the footnotes.

An Easter meditation on funerals and empty tombs

“…weakness is sown, strength rises up…”

1 Corinthians 15:43b

 

I went to a funeral Saturday.  Often when I tell someone I am going to a funeral they will say how sorry they are.  But –I have to say—I’m never sorry to be going.  Though I am often sad for the loss of a friend or for the family who mourns a loved one, I am almost always touched by a kind of lightness of spirit when I am dressing for a funeral. Something about it, lifts me up –oddly enough. 

This funeral was for a friend: Norma.  A widow in her 80s, she was a woman filled with life.  She had been married and had several children, yes, but more than that, Norma was a life-bearer. She brought life with her wherever she went; into whatever room, or situation she entered there walked a breath of life, an exuberance that felt contagious.

I did not know Norma particularly well, but I truly considered her a friend. We first met when I brought Holy Communion to her homebound husband.  Her husband (Ernesto) had suffered a stroke and needed almost constant care at that point.  Their home was one of the first houses I visited when I began working in that ministry.  I remember going to the door and feeling nervous about entering someone’s home, their privacy, and about what I would do or say,,, But I needn’t have worried. Norma welcomed me in and treated me like I was a dear friend.  She wanted to know about my family and when she found out I had three daughters, she was eager for me to bring them to visit her some time.  It was close to Christmas and she had decorated her house with her collection of Santas and wanted me to bring the girls to see them.  I left her home touched by her kindness, her warmth, her generosity of spirit and feeling like we were friends. 

After her husband died, I didn’t visit the house any longer, but I would see Norma at church or occasionally at a local concert (we apparently had a shared interest in baroque music). Wherever we would run into each other, she would make a point of giving me a hug and asking me again about the girls.  When my wife was with me, Norma’s joy and exuberance would overflow to her as well. (And though she may have treated everyone this way, she made each of us feel special.)  At some point Norma even began calling my wife on her birthday every year.  And I have to say, the first time it happened was pretty strange.  I (of course) assumed Norma was calling me, because she was my friend...  Last year (I think) she was on vacation in Colorado with her family, but still called with birthday wishes.  For me, that is Norma: oddly, delightfully, joyfully generous and caring.  And so, to go to her funeral was not a duty or an obligation–but a pleasure. There was nowhere else on earth I would have rather been that morning. 

When I learned of her death, I prayed the Office of the Dead and as I was reading it, I stumbled upon those words from Paul:

“…weakness is sown, strength rises up…”

And I thought for a moment not of Norma but of her husband.  Wondering what his stroke had done to their marriage, to the life they had planned, and wondering about the life that unexpected and life altering change had forced upon them… What had it done to Norma?

Had she always been so kind? So generous? So full of life? I don’t know.  But I do know this: clearly it had not driven the life out of her. It had not embittered her, or devastated her in the way that we see depicted so often in books and movies. 

            During the homily, I was struck by the aptness of Norma’s death coming in the Easter season.  Looking around at the people near me, I could see that some were very uncomfortable; uncertain what to do, where to look, when to stand or kneel, and also uncomfortable with the fact of death –I imagine. The looks on their faces made it clear they would rather have been somewhere else. But, that’s the point. We come, despite what we would rather be doing. We come to stand (or sit, or kneel) and gaze into the great tomb that we all face –death. And part of what makes a funeral so uncomfortable is the not knowing. We all sit there, praying, hoping, trusting even –but often (maybe most of the time) not really certain… Is that it? A coffin and some incense and a few prayers… And then what? Coffee and sandwiches in the church reception center?

           

“What is sown is perishable, but what is raised is imperishable;

what is sown is contemptable but what is raised is glorious…” (cf.15:42-43)

We sow our weakness, our imperfection, our brokenness; we plant it in the earth that is our life, in the day to day of living, and from this broken, imperfect, weakness, God raises up something imperishable, glorious, strong.  But in our weakness and fear and anxiety and imperfection we wonder: does is really work that way? Or is it just some words on a page?  Is it just magical thinking, as some people say? 

Maybe we can’t know for certain, we can’t find concrete proof, but we have an example.  Our Lord was quite literally sown in weakness at conception.  He became flesh, submitting Himself to the care of a human mother, to the frailty of a human body, the need for food, for warmth, for attention and care, diapers and tears, to hunger and sickness, bruises and scrapes, splinters and stubbed toes; vulnerability, insecurity.

            And submitted to it willingly: Not mine, but thy will be done (cf. Luke 22:42).  In that submission we have the example of Jesus dying to His power and authority, letting go of His glory; in other words –dying to self. And we are told that Jesus lived not in fear, anxiety, and insecurity, but in faith, in hope and in charity. God became flesh, submitted himself to the care and authority of His creation --even to the point of being put to death on a cross--- yet it is through that “weakness” that He revealed His glory and His strength.  

            And I wonder if Norma didn’t reveal her true glory as she let go of her dreams and plans and tenderly cared for her husband after his stroke.  Certainly, that was not the life she signed up for when she married Ernesto, but she submitted to it, accepted it and from all accounts I heard –only grew stronger and more joyful through it.  She was sown in weakness, but raised up in strength.

As the mass ended and they took Norma’s body from the church, it occurred to me: it is the finality of the tomb is what we fear. The finality of death. The fear that we will be trapped forever in that cramped tomb (or urn) stuffed full of our unfulfilled dreams, unachieved goals, unspoken words; trapped forever in that box with all our regrets and remorse and sins and fears and memories of what we did and what we wished we had done….

We’re afraid of the tomb of our mortality; but we don’t have to be afraid.  As the disciples learned on that first Easter morning— thanks to Jesus, the tomb is empty.  We have nothing there to fear.  

Isn’t it appropriate when Mary first sees the risen Jesus, she thinks He is the gardener.  Why that odd detail? Maybe because it’s true.  And maybe the tomb is empty, not just for Jesus, but for all of us --because the harvest has begun. How beautiful this Easter season has become thanks to a friend’s funeral.