Lectionary Commentaries for March 31, 2024
Resurrection of Our Lord (B)

Mark’s Easter sermon goes something like this: “Christ is risen! And they said nothing to anybody because they were afraid.”

There is no encounter with the resurrected Jesus at the end of Mark’s Gospel. Instead, there is a mysterious messenger who issues a promise and a command, plus an empty tomb, and a group of women who flee in terror, too frightened to speak.

Counting the evidence

Each of the other Gospels shares at least two pieces of evidence as proof that Jesus has risen from the dead: witnesses to the empty tomb and appearances of the risen Christ to multiple followers.

In Mark, the tomb is empty (apart from the messenger), but nobody gets to see Jesus or touch the nail holes in his hands. There is no great commission (Matthew), no recounting of the Hebrew Scriptures or a meal shared with travelers to Emmaus (Luke), and no intimate conversation with Mary in the garden nor sudden arrival of the risen Christ behind locked doors (John).

Apparently, Mark’s good news requires no resurrection proofs based on encounters between Jesus and his disciples.

Instead, there is a promise: “He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.”

Will the disciples trust that promise? Will we?

Unfathomable

Although Jesus predicted (more than once!) that he would be raised after being crucified,¹ the concept is so incredible that nobody among his closest circle is able to fathom it. On this early morning when the sun had risen,² the disciples are nowhere to be found.

For their part, the women are expecting to care for his decomposing body with the spices they carry to the tomb.

Instead they see a messenger dressed in white (an angel), “sitting on the right side”—language that echoes the position of honor at the Lord’s right hand (16:5; see also Psalm 110:1). Their “alarmed” reaction (Greek: ekthambeō) carries the sense³ of being overwhelmed by surprise or perplexity.⁴

Nothing they see (or do not see!) makes sense. The idea that a person would rise from the dead is just as overwhelming and unbelievable as is the concept of a Messiah who gets crucified. It is no wonder that “terror and amazement had seized them, and … they were afraid” (16:8).

The absence of Jesus

One of Mark’s unique claims is that Jesus is absent. Not only is the tomb empty (as each Gospel reports), but Jesus is not there—and nobody sees him.

How can this possibly be good news? The other Gospels offer concrete assurances that Jesus is present with his followers even after the end of his earthly ministry. But in Mark there is no Paraclete to comfort them (as in John), no fellow traveler to explain everything (Luke), not even the promise “I am with you always” (Matthew).

In Mark, the resurrected Jesus is not described as being “with you”; instead he is “going ahead of you.” If that is true, then death is stripped of its power. There is nothing Jesus’ followers will endure, no place they can go, that Jesus isn’t already there.

Following after Jesus

At the beginning of his ministry in Mark, when Jesus calls his disciples, he invites them to “follow me,” represented by the Greek phrase “to go or come opisō mou (“after me” or “behind me,” 1:17; see also 1:20).

The same Greek phrase appears in the episode at Caesarea Philippi, when Peter is unable or unwilling to accept Jesus’ Passion prediction. “Get opisō mou, Satan” (8:33), Jesus commands, after which he immediately calls the crowds with his disciples and teaches all of them, “If anyone wants to follow opisō mou, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (8:34).

Thus, from the beginning, the proper place for a disciple of Jesus is behind (or after) him, recalling that Jesus is ahead of them—even when they are unable to see him. If Jesus “goes ahead of us in death, can there be any doubt that he will be there ahead of us wherever life might take us?⁵  

You will see him

When the women go to the tomb, they expect to encounter death. Instead, the angel’s message sends them to the other disciples and back to Galilee, the place where they experienced fullness of life within Jesus’ ministry.

In Mark, that ministry begins and ends with a promise—“The reign [New Revised Standard Version: kingdom] of God is at hand” (1:15), and “There you will see him” (16:7). The place they will see Jesus is in the fulfillment of his promises, and in the paradox and mysteries of his Galilean ministry.

Jesus is absent, but he has not abandoned his followers—he is “ahead of them” and ahead of us.

Among those with shattered lives who long to be made whole, the followers of Jesus will see him, just as they did in Galilee. They (and we) might at any second run into him as the reign of God comes into its fullness.

Don’t be alarmed! Look! Go! Tell!

The way of Jesus, according to Mark, is a way of mystery and paradox. God’s Messiah is crucified … and yet he lives. Terror and amazement silence the women … and yet somehow (somehow!) the good news is proclaimed. The disciples are nowhere to be found … and yet they carry the ministry of Jesus to Galilee and beyond.

The messenger at the empty tomb issues an Easter command and promise: “Don’t be alarmed,” Jesus said this would happen. “Look,” Jesus was truly dead, as you can see from the place they laid him, but death cannot hold him.

“Go” away from this place of death and of endings, and return to life and a new beginning.

Then: “Tell” his disciples, even (especially!) the one who betrayed him, that he is going ahead of you. You will see him!

Christ is risen, and this is only the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, Son of God.

Notes

1. Mark 8:31; 9:31; 10:33–34.
2. An Easter pun, “When the Son had risen.”
3. Walter Bauer,  A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament, and Other Early Christian Literature (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1957), 303.
4. See also Mark 1:27 and 10:32.
5. Sally Bates, “Fill in the Words: Mark 16:1–8,” an unpublished sermon preached on March 31, 2002.

The Gospel of John is an exhibit of contrasts. The Jesus we are presented with in this Gospel is often mysterious. This resurrection account is curious because the main characters seem bewildered about what is happening. The other Gospels are more straightforward in their telling of this story.

Unlike the other accounts of the resurrection, we are told here that only one woman—Mary Magdalene—went to the tomb early that Sunday morning. However, we are not told why. We often assume we know why because of the other Gospel accounts, but John has no explicit reason. It simply says, “Early in the morning of the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb” (John 20:1 Common English Bible).

Mary Magdalene is a curious figure to highlight here, especially given her reception history. Despite being mentioned briefly in Scripture, Mary Magdalene has been held in high esteem for centuries, embodying the essence of Christian devotion and repentance. As a result, her image has been reimagined throughout history, taking on various forms, from a prostitute to a mystic and even a feminist icon. Her presence in this story raises cultural questions about remembering the past and sanctifying power. It also explores the role of tradition, revolution, fallibility, and devotion in shaping the legacy of the woman who was a close companion of Jesus of Nazareth.

Mary Magdalene must have been a prominent figure among those who followed Jesus. She hailed from Magdala, a village on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. (It should be noted that, like a man, she is associated with a geographical location, which is a form of status recognition.) From what can be gathered through different sources, she was most likely a woman of some financial means. However, the conventional trope that she was a repentant prostitute is almost certainly untrue. On that false note hangs the dual use to which her legend has been put ever since: discrediting sexuality in general and disempowering women in particular.

Mary arrives at the tomb during that period of transition from darkness to light, “early in the morning … while it was still dark.” Since she is not carrying spices to anoint the body, we can assume that this narrative, like many in John, is about enlightenment. For example, when Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night in chapter 3, the engagement leads to enlightenment. Likewise, when Jesus speaks of “living water” with the woman at the well in chapter 4, the point is not about the actual consumption of water.

The metaphors of dark and light make statements about the character of the individual involved. Nicodemus never quite understands what Jesus means by being “born again” (3:3). Although many translations pick up on the dual meaning of the Greek anothen and opt for “from above” instead of “again.” The ambiguity of the wording partly explains Nicodemus’ inability to understand Jesus.

By contrast, the woman at the well in the next chapter encounters Jesus “around noon” (4:6). She is confronted with the concept of “living water” (4:10). She discerns that he is the Messiah (4:25). He confirms her insight (4:26). And verbal ambiguity does not deter her understanding in this encounter in the middle of the day. And so, Mary’s arrival at the tomb as the day moves from darkness to light speaks to us about how we are to understand the story. The disciples are moving from a period of ignorance (darkness) to understanding (light). The story now draws together several important strands of the Gospel.

“They didn’t yet understand the scripture that Jesus must rise from the dead” (20:9 Common English Bible). The resurrection experience begins the disciples’ understanding of the importance of Jesus. Although we are told that the other disciple believed (20:8), this statement is immediately followed by “They didn’t yet understand.” Understanding and belief are contrasted several times in this Gospel. They are not mutually exclusive, however. They coexist in the life of the believer. In this case, as in many, belief precedes understanding. 

The other disciple accepted the validity of the experience, although he didn’t understand the reason why the experience occurred. This highlights Jesus’ statement in 5:39, “You search the scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life, and it is they that testify on my behalf” (New Revised Standard Version). The experience of the incarnated Logos provides understanding of what scripture teaches.

Mary sees angels. Yet, the character of the conversation suggests she does not recognize them as such. They say, “Woman, why are you crying?” (20:13 Common English Bible). She responds, “They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they’ve put him.” 

This is followed immediately by the appearance of Jesus: “She turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she didn’t know it was Jesus” (20:14). She believes he’s the gardener. He repeats the question asked by the angels. She repeats her plea with the added recognition that this gardener could be involved in the bodily abduction, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him” (20:15). This highlights the recurrent theme of duality where words have more than one meaning, events have meanings on distinct levels, and characters operate in two orbits of identification.

Jesus then calls her by name, and she immediately identifies him (20:16). This recalls what Jesus said in 10:3–4, “The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice … the sheep follow him because they know his voice.” With Jesus as the Good Shepherd, the relationship between shepherd and flock cuts through all ambiguity and duality. This then prompts the first telling of the core of the gospel message: the resurrection of Jesus.

Every preacher knows that Easter Sunday can be at once the most wonderful and the most difficult Sunday to preach in the Christian calendar. After all, the resurrection story is one of the most (over-)familiar stories of all time. Who has not heard that Jesus, the promised Messiah, died on the cross and God miraculously raised him back to life again? 

How is the preacher to offer a fresh word when most who enter through the church’s doors on Easter Sunday believe they already know the story you’re about to tell? The Jesuit priest Henri Nouwen wrote that the “extremely hard task” of the Christian is “to proclaim the good news, which for many is neither new nor good.” This week’s passage from the book of Acts can serve as a hopeful message about this very predicament. 

Just before this scene, Peter has been called to the home of the Roman centurion Cornelius (10:1–33), setting the scene and audience for our Easter text. Cornelius is a sympathetic character with financial means and considerable influence; as a paterfamilias, or head of the family, he rules over a bustling household, or oikos, which at the time was more like a bustling mini-economy of its own than today’s traditional concepts of family or household (oikonomia is related to the English word “economy”). 

As a centurion, Cornelius also commands one hundred men in the Roman army’s Italian Cohort (likely an anachronistic reference, since it is not attested elsewhere until 69 CE), and he lives in the seaside metropolis of Caesarea Maritima, the Roman capital of Judea, where the Roman-backed Jewish king, Herod the Great, had several pet building projects. In this multicultural, politically complex context, Peter’s declaration that God shows “no partiality” (10:34) is especially countercultural. 

The passage invites us to ask ourselves significant questions about what we value, to whom we are partial, and why. On the one hand, Cornelius’s messengers have given Peter reasons to trust Cornelius—reasons to be “partial” to him. 

A devout Gentile who “fears God” and prays continuously (10:2), Cornelius may be a “God-fearer” (a category of Gentiles who worshiped God and followed Jewish customs, without being proselytes; some historians question the existence of God-fearers as a distinct category, though inscriptional evidence seems to suggest that God-fearers were active in synagogues, often as benefactors). Cornelius is “well spoken of by the whole Jewish nation,” and he has been told to listen to Peter in an angelic vision (10:22; recalling the angelic visitation of Mary in Luke 1:26–38). 

At the same time, it is also true that Peter has been summoned to the home of a Roman citizen with both prominence and prestige, and he does not know why (10:29). Perhaps, despite the messengers’ positive testimony, part of Peter is intimidated or anxious; perhaps part of him wonders if he is in danger. (Remember that, despite the common assertion in the New Testament that the Jewish people killed Jesus, historically speaking only Romans had the authority to use crucifixion as a means of execution.) 

It is in this uncertain, potentially unsafe context that Peter bravely declares the gospel message, testifying again to what he says his audience already “knows” (10:36): Jesus is the one who was prophesied, the “Lord of all” who was killed and rose again, “that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name” (10:43). 

What I want to highlight is not only that Peter repeats the gospel story his audience has already heard, but how he does so: Notice how he admits right at the start that he has not understood God’s impartiality before now (10:34). In other words, prior to this, Peter did not grasp that everyone is worthy of receiving the gospel; it is not his role to judge (10:42). 

In a world where it was likely dangerous for him to do so, he frames his Easter sermon by referring to his own mistakes and misunderstandings: “You yourselves know that it is unlawful for a Jew to associate with or to visit a Gentile; but God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean” (10:28). In fact, historically speaking, no purity laws forbade Jewish table fellowship with Gentiles, but clearly, interactions between Jews and Gentiles were contested in various ways at the time, probably due to social taboos. 

This invites preachers today to ask similar questions of themselves and their congregations: What social taboos (or other kinds of mistakes and misunderstandings) lead us astray? How has God shown us we were wrong? How might we, like Peter, preface our gospel living—and preaching—with vulnerability, with honesty even when the truth might not cast us in the best light? Peter’s teachings to Cornelius also teach preachers today that testifying to the “good news” (euangelion, “gospel”) means speaking not only about the risen Christ, but also about our own failures, biases, and partialities—the reasons humans need God’s transformative presence with and within us. 

Another approach to this passage would be to reflect on the fact that many Christians throughout time have read the “conversion” of Cornelius’s household (10:44–48) as the moment when Gentiles were officially included in the (previously predominantly Jewish) people of God. In the United States, racial-ethnic “minorities” are rapidly becoming the majority. How does/should this impact American churches, which remain predominantly segregated? Are homogenous congregations marked by systemic sin and racist presumptions, or are they rightly respecting differences between people? Does the Holy Spirit bring power to subvert humanity’s hierarchies, or to uphold them in particular ways (usually labeled “godly” or “biblical”)? 

House-church advocates today consider Acts 10 a missiological model for decentralized, autonomous church planting. Some hold that the apostolic home-fellowship model overturns the patriarchy of the “Old Covenant” and erases differences; women lead house churches around the world (for example, in China women lead an estimated two-thirds of Christian churches). Others point out that, as far as we know, Cornelius does not step down as leader. He remains the paterfamilias, the Roman patriarch in charge of the household; some take this normal historical reality as normative, believing that all Christians should embrace male-led hierarchy today as well.  

Liberation and womanist theologians, in contrast, commend a “hermeneutic of suspicion,” which is another way of saying we should not accept all beliefs and behaviors we find in the biblical texts as godly or desirable. For these contemporary Christians, ethnic (and other kinds of) difference is used polemically to mark outsiders; even when the speaker’s intentions are good, this kind of language often functions—ironically, given God’s impartiality (10:34)—to uphold discrimination. In many ways, early Christians adopted Rome’s biases, marginalizing those who did not fit the Romans’ ideal of the model human (in other words, elite, male, land-owning Roman citizen), but this does not mean followers of Jesus should mirror or mimic such views today. 

Whichever focus the preacher chooses for this year’s Easter Sunday sermon, may Peter’s teaching remind us that sometimes God’s miracles take the form of apparently simple things: preachers being honest about their mistakes, Christians refusing to be judgmental, previously estranged communities coming together with acceptance and joy. These may seem simple, but they are not easy. Certainly, they are both practical and profound—miracles worthy of Easter celebration. They just might make the gospel new and good again for those who see it as neither.

Psalm 118 is the concluding psalm in the collection known as the “Egyptian Hallel” (Psalms 113–118). Hallel is the Hebrew word for “praise,” and this collection’s name reflects the emphasis in these psalms on praising and giving thanks to God for God’s great acts of salvation. 

The “Egyptian” part of the name refers to God’s deliverance of Israel from Egypt. This theme is most explicitly on display in Psalm 114, but the other psalms in the collection can also easily be read as reflecting the exodus event (for example, Psalm 113 praises God for reversing the situation of the poor, and Psalm 115 celebrates God’s superiority over idols). Traditionally, the Egyptian Hallel psalms were—and are—prayed as part of the Passover meal. When the Gospels describe how Jesus and his disciples concluded their last Passover meal by singing “the hymn” (Matthew 26:30, Mark 14:26), therefore, we can suppose they may have been singing the Egyptian Hallel. Perhaps the last song Jesus sang before his crucifixion was Psalm 118. 

An overview of Psalm 118

Psalm 118 is a thanksgiving psalm that unfolds in several distinct movements:

• (verses 1–4) Call to community thanksgiving
• (verses 5–18) Story of the crisis, call for help, and rescue
• (verse 19–21) Individual thanksgiving
• (verses 22–29) Community thanksgiving

The psalmist’s declaration in verse 14 is one of the points of connection between this psalm and the exodus from Egypt that give the “Egyptian Hallel” its name. After the miraculous parting of the sea and the destruction of Pharaoh’s pursuing army, Moses and Miriam lead the Israelites in singing:

I will sing to the LORD,
for he has triumphed gloriously;
horse and rider he has thrown into the sea.
The LORD is my strength and my might,
and he has become my salvation;
this is my God, and I will praise him.” (Exodus 15:1–2)

By quoting a more ancient song of deliverance, the psalmist here connects the current moment to the past—and, by extension, to the future. As the psalmist goes on to promise to “recount the deeds of the LORD” (verse 17), worshipers recognize that these deeds include episodes of salvation from the distant past, from the psalmist’s life, and from their own experiences. Establishing patterns of divine behavior gives the community confidence in the God being worshiped. God saved in the past, and God will save again. 

Having begun to celebrate the God-given victory over enemies, the psalmist appears to move toward the temple for worship. The psalmist cries out, “Open to me the gates of righteousness, that I may enter through them and give thanks to the LORD” (verse 19), and the response comes in the next verse: “This is the gate of the LORD; the righteous shall enter through it” (verse 20). 

The implication of this liturgical dialogue is that we who would praise God must ensure that our lives reflect the righteousness and justice (the Hebrew word used here involves both) of God. This part of the psalm is a call to action beyond temple worship. God’s righteousness is exhibited in part through God’s help of those who are—like the psalmist was—oppressed and beaten down; God’s worshippers should be righteous in the same way. 

The rest of the psalm assumes entrance into the temple is granted. The whole community joins in the praise (notice the first-person plural pronouns starting in verse 23), and the setting of this praise seems to be the precincts of the temple itself (verse 26). There are some beautiful lines of praise in this section of the psalm: 

• This is the LORD’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. (verse 23)
• This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. (verse 24)
• The LORD is God, and he has given us light. (verse 27a)

The psalm ends with the same refrain with which it began. The individual’s story of how God brought salvation is the reason for the community’s worship in Psalm 118—it is the reason the psalmist calls Israel, the house of Aaron, and all who fear God to praise (verses 2–3), and the psalmist’s story of personal salvation is the reason these groups ultimately do join their voices in praise (verses 22–24). Remembering and sharing personal stories of how God has saved us in various ways is a critical part of how we worship. 

Psalm 118 and the Resurrection of our Lord

This psalm puts on full display the beautiful dance between individual, community, and God. Our relationship with God is our own, but it also exists within the context of other people. In the church, this dynamic means we lament with those who lament and give thanks with those who give thanks (see Romans 12:15). Together we strive for the righteousness that characterizes those who come into the presence of the Lord. 

The kind of individual and community righteousness for which Psalm 118 calls leads to disruption. Those who should have been defeated have victory, those who should be dead live, the stones that should be rejected become the most important ones. The crucified Jesus becomes the risen Lord. God is the one who makes this disruption possible—the one whose right hand does valiantly and gives victory. God is the only one who can make alive the dead. 

At the same time, this psalm quietly reminds us that God has called worshipers to be agents of disruption as well. We need to pay attention to those who are calling out in distress, who are surrounded by attackers, who have no hope. We need to recount the deeds of the Lord in past acts of salvation, but we also need to stand ready to offer what salvation we can in the moment. God calls us to worship—by helping bring people out of distress, delivering them from attackers, and giving them the hope of Easter.   

First Corinthians 15:1–11 serves as a prelude to an important argument Paul will make in this chapter concerning the resurrection. It seems that for the Corinthians, the resurrection of Christ was not in doubt. Rather, it was the general resurrection on the last day, the resurrection of the body, that they struggled to comprehend. Such a struggle is not surprising to find in first-century Corinth, given the Hellenistic religious context in which salvation was often viewed as escape from bodily existence. The idea of bodily resurrection was, quite simply, “foolishness to Gentiles” (1:23). 

At the beginning of this discourse on the resurrection, Paul reminds the Corinthian community of the gospel he proclaimed, the tradition he received and in turn handed on to them: “that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, and that he was buried, and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures” (15:3–4). Paul then lists those to whom the risen Christ appeared, apparently in the order in which he appeared to them: to Cephas and then to the twelve, then to more than 500 brothers and sisters, then to James, and then to all the apostles (15:5–7).

“Last of all,” Paul says, “as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me” (15:8). The translation “untimely born” is a euphemism for the Greek word ektrôma, which means abnormal birth or miscarriage. In a world in which many full-term babies did not survive long, a premature or abnormal baby had almost no chance of surviving. The image highlights the sheer improbability of Paul’s apostleship. 

Throughout the Corinthian correspondence, there is evidence that Paul had detractors in the Corinthian community, some of whom apparently questioned his status as an apostle. After all, Paul did not know Jesus during his earthly life and ministry, and he was an early, fierce persecutor of Jesus’ followers. Paul acknowledges as much, saying, “I am the least of the apostles, unfit to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God” (15:9).

“But by the grace of God, I am what I am,” Paul says, “and his grace toward me has not been in vain” (15:10a). Paul’s apostleship has come about entirely by God’s grace, and Paul maintains that by God’s grace, he has worked harder than all the other apostles (15:10b). Yet what is most important is that all the apostles proclaim the same gospel, which the Corinthians have come to believe (15:11).

Though our pericope ends at verse 11, it is helpful to understand its connection to what follows. Paul seeks to root the Corinthians in the central confession of faith that he received and faithfully handed down to them “as of first importance” (15:3). This is the gospel he proclaimed to them, which they received, in which they stand, and through which they are being saved (15:1–2). Paul is concerned that they not turn away from this gospel to a faith that is futile (15:12–19).

Starting at 15:12, Paul addresses the particular issue in Corinth, showing that denial of a future, general resurrection of the dead contradicts the affirmation of Christ’s resurrection and nullifies their faith (15:12–19). He argues that the resurrection of Christ is inextricably tied to the general resurrection of the dead at the end of days. Christ is the “first fruits of those who have died,” through whose resurrection all will be made alive (15:20–22).

The tradition Paul recites in 15:3 and following appears to be an ancient credo of the church that likely took shape very early. (Paul writes to the Corinthians in the early 50s of the first century.) Elsewhere Paul insists that he received the gospel not through any human source but directly through a revelation of Jesus Christ (Galatians 1:11–12). Yet the gospel he proclaims is the same gospel proclaimed by the other apostles to whom the risen Christ appeared. A common profession of faith is taking shape, with elements that will later be included in the Apostles’ and Nicene Creeds.

Neither the resurrection of Christ nor the future resurrection of the dead can be proven or explained logically. That remains as true today as it was in the first century. Even Paul will struggle to explain coherently what bodily resurrection means (15:35–50), acknowledging that this proclamation is a mystery (15:51). 

On Easter Sunday, our churches will likely be filled with those who have doubts and questions about the resurrection. We can assure hearers that doubts and questions are perfectly normal and are part of the journey of faith. Our job as preachers is not to try to prove or explain the resurrection, but only to proclaim what we have received—the testimony of ancient witnesses who staked their lives on what they had seen and heard, Paul being the most unlikely among them.

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