This post is also the cover article for our parish newsletter. To read the rest of the newsletter and learn more about what's happening at St. John's, Decatur, please click here.
Several winters ago, Elizabeth and I went on a trip with
some friends from seminary. Although we were on vacation, the conversation
inevitably turned to religion, and one afternoon we were drawn into a friendly argument
about things that no one can prove. I enjoy overstating things to provoke a
reaction, and, at one point in the conversation, I asked, “So, if the body of
Jesus were somehow proved still to be on earth, would you give up on
Christianity altogether?” We had been discussing the importance of the literal resurrection.
I believe that the tomb is empty, and my friends do, too, but there seemed to
be a disagreement between us on whether someone could call himself a Christian
if he refused to believe in the physical resurrection of Jesus. I asked my
question as a way of throwing out a philosophical limit that I felt that no one
would cross, but I failed to anticipate how quickly and resolutely my friends
would react. All of them, without hesitation or equivocation, said that if the
body of Jesus were found here on earth they would stop being Christians.
I was floored—not because of their firm belief in the
literal miracle of Easter but because of their uncompromising, unwavering,
inflexible insistence that everyone who claims to be a follower of Jesus must
agree with them. The conversation ceased immediately. I had nothing else to
say. What more is there to say when one party’s position allows zero
compromise? In the seven years since that day, I have had lots of time to think
about our conversation. I return to it frequently. It is, after all, the
central question about the central tenet of our faith: is Jesus’ literal,
physical, bodily resurrection essential for Christianity? Can one believe in
resurrection without believing that the tomb is empty? Can one proclaim
“Alleluia! Christ is risen!” as a heartfelt metaphor for God’s promise of life-after-death
reversal without necessarily believing that there is, indeed, physical,
breathing, walking, talking life after death?
After seven years of reflection, I have decided that my
friends were right: Christianity requires an empty tomb. Again, I have long believed
that the tomb is empty, but that part of me that seeks consensus and wants to leave
room for skeptics led me to hold open the possibility that, even though I might
not agree, one can be a disciple of Jesus without believing in the literal
miracle of Easter. As of today, I am letting go of that possibility. You might
still feel that way, and I will not tell you that your meaningful relationship
with the risen Christ necessitates a change in heart, but I cannot see any way
to give one’s whole heart and soul and mind over to the proposition that Jesus
is God’s victory for the world without believing that that victory is indeed
manifest in the physical world. If Christ’s resurrection is merely a metaphor
for hope in a hopeless moment, I think it is time to give up on that hope
altogether.
This change of heart has happened gradually, but it has been
crystalized by a recent focus on the Easter text from Luke 24. When the women
see that the stone has been rolled away and, in their confusion, encounter two
men in dazzling clothes, they are told, “Why do you look for the living among
the dead? He is not here, but has risen.” He is not here. Those four words have
taken hold of my heart, and so far they have not let go. I am profoundly shaped
by that form of the Easter proclamation. Although each version is different,
all three synoptic gospel accounts contain those four words: “He is not here.”
It is, in its essence, a proclamation from absence, and the absence of Jesus’
body is, therefore, the origin of our faith.
Of all the miracles in the New Testament, none is as
dramatic as Jesus’ resurrection, yet, unlike almost all of the rest, it is
witnessed by no one. No one is there to see the breath reenter the corpse. No
one sees inside the pitch black tomb when the light of Easter morning first
hits it. No one stares in awe as the greatest moment in human history unfolds.
This is not the feeding of the five thousand. This is not the walking on water.
This is not the calling back of Lazarus from the dead. All of those miracles
were done so that people could see who Jesus really is, yet the one moment that
finally reveals his true identity is testified to by his absence. He is not
here. The faith of Jesus’ disciples is faith in emptiness itself.
During the first few weeks of the Easter season, we read
stories of the risen Christ’s encounters with the disciples. He appeared to
Cleopas and another disciple on the road to Emmaus. He sought out the disciples
when they were hiding behind locked doors and, again, a week later when Thomas
had rejoined them. He met them one morning on a beach, where he shared a meal
of bread and fish with them. Each time the gospel encourages us to believe that
he is risen, but those of us who live two thousand years later never had an
opportunity to see the walking, talking Jesus. Our greatest hope lies not on
the road or on a beach or in the upper room but back again at the empty tomb.
He is not here. He is risen. The most unlikely truth in human history—that we are loved by a perfect God regardless of our imperfection—is proven not by a word or an argument or an eyewitness but by an absence. If the tomb were not empty, that unlikeliest of hopes would crumble under the weight of doubt. Yet hope survives. Hope triumphs. And our hope is sustained by a tomb that remains empty to this day.
ReplyDeleteSeven Stanzas at Easter
by John Updike
Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.
It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.
The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.
Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.
The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.
And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.
Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.
On Belief in the Physical Resurrection of Jesus
ReplyDeleteby Denise Levertov
It is for all
'literalists of the imagination,'
poets or not,
that miracle
is possible and essential.
Are some intricate minds
nourished on concept,
as epiphytes flourish
high in the canopy?
Can they
subsist on the light,
on the half
of metaphor that's not
grounded in dust, grit,
heavy
carnal clay?
Do signs contain and utter,
for them
all the reality
that they need? Resurrection, for them,
an internal power, but not
a matter of flesh?
For the others,
of whom I am one,
miracles (ultimate need, bread
of life,) are miracles just because
people so tuned
to the humdrum laws:
gravity, mortality-
can't open
to symbol's power
unless convinced of its ground,
its roots
in bone and blood.
We must feel
the pulse in the wound
to believe
that 'with God
all things
are possible,'
taste
bread at Emmaus
that warm hands
broke and blessed.