One of the women who worked in the library when I was in seminary was a master at "getting" people on April Fool's Day. She came up with ideas which seemed plausible enough that a person's first instinct was to believe them but in retrospect so ridiculous that the joke seemed obvious once she said, "April fool!" If your guard was down, she'd get you every time.
The Marys and Salome came to the tomb of Jesus on that first Easter as mourners, hoping to complete the embalming of the Lord's body which the arrival of the Sabbath had interrupted. Instead, they met an angel with a story which any reasonable person might have feared was a cruel April Fool's prank. On one hand, one doesn't see an angel every day. From all accounts, the sight is terrifying; the most common reaction in Scripture to seeing an angel is panic, requiring the admonition, "Don't be afraid!' So it was in this case. The sight of the angel himself must have lent credibility to what he had to say.
But what he had to say was pretty wild, you have to admit. He told them that the Friend Whom they had all seen die a horrible and bloody death on the cross, Whose side they had seen pierced by the spear, and Whose body they themselves had helped bury was alive! And immediately, they found themselves on the horns of a dilemma.
They desperately wanted to believe that what the angel told them was true. But did they dare? Having experienced such a devastating loss, could they risk plunging even deeper into despair by allowing themselves to hope, and then finding out that it wasn't true? I doubt that their fears literally took the form of the angel suddenly growing horns, laughing at them, and shouting, "April fool!" But did they dare to believe the angel's message? Having already been hurt so deeply, could they take the risk?
The angel told them to go back and tell the disciples the glorious news. But they didn't. We're told that they remained silent out of fear. But fear of what? Were they still in shock from seeing the angel? Were they afraid that the disciples would laugh at them?
No, I think they were afraid to take the risk of believing the angel. Some enemies of the faith point out that Mary Magdelene seems to have explained the Lord's absence by His body having been stolen even after receiving the message from the angel and having seen Jesus herself. They think that such inconsistent behavior proves the unreliability of the Gospel accounts. But such behavior can be explained quite easily by her being in denial about the whole experience, being so deeply unable to risk losing Jesus a second time that her mind temporarily would not allow her to believe what her own eyes had seen and her own ears had heard. It's a reaction that's not at all uncommon among people who have received a shock of sufficient magnitude, and far from undermining the credibility of the Gospels it's just one more of those human details that no weaver of tall tales would ever have thought of (especially in the First Century), and ends up actually adding a note of authenticity to the account.
Faith is a risk. Faith, as Hebrews 11:1 (ESV) tells us, "is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. " In the case of the Marys and Salome, it would appear that perhaps even seeing wasn't enough. But did they have faith?
I think they did. I suspect that in some corner of their hearts the hope that the angel was telling the truth had taken root and the part of them that wanted to believe the angel did, just a little. We think of faith and doubt as opposite, and it's true that especially in archaic English there is a sense in which the word "doubt" can be used as a synonym of outright unbelief. But generally, it actually suggests that to some extent at least one believes, too. In Morris Wests' wonderful novel The Clowns of God, the protagonist is the pope. He suffers a stroke- and a vision in which it is revealed to him that the world is about to end. He feels it his duty to warn the world. But the Curia thinks that his "vision" is a result of his stroke and that he's no longer mentally competent. He's deposed, and a new pope is elected.
The climactic scene of the novel takes place on a night on which the vision seems about to be vindicated. World War III looms. An ultimatum has been issued; the missiles will start to fly at midnight. And gathered in a remote location in the Swiss Alps is a tiny group of characters, each of whom has been introduced to us in the course of the novel.
There is, of course, the former pope. There is an artist, a disabled woman with a wonderful talent for expressing what seemingly cannot be expressed in her work. There is a little girl, gentle of spirit but profoundly mentally challenged. There is a jaded theologian, profoundly learned about every aspect of the Faith, yet racked by doubt. And then there is the former pope's physical therapist, whose true identity is gradually revealed in the course of that climactic scene.
He was born somewhere in the Middle East, on Christmas Day. His name is Atha. Merrin Atha. And when those five people gathered around a table, he takes a loaf of bread and a goblet of wine, and suddenly, they realize Who He is. But at first, they can't quite bring themselves to say it out loud.
There follows a discussion between Mr. Atha and the others on the nature of faith and doubt. The one line in the entire book which sticks with me the most closely is the one in which Mr. Atha tells them that there is one thing which all of them can do which He, Himself, cannot: believe.
"I can't believe," Mr. Atha tells them, "because I know."
Far from being the opposite of faith, it would seem that there is a sense in which doubt is actually a necessary part of it. The Reformers said that faith consisted of knowledge (in the sense of knowing what is to be believed), assent or agreement, and trust. Yet one cannot trust something unless there is an element of risk, a possibility of being deceived.
When people tell me that they are afraid that they don't believe, I generally ask them a question which, from the point of view of a non-obsessing mind, is obvious: if you didn't believe, would you be worried about not believing? I doubt that Richard Dawkins or Sam Harris worries much about going to hell- although I hope I'm wrong about that. First, you have to believe that the Bible and Jesus are telling the truth when they say that there is such a place, and that going there is a consequence of unbelief. Get it? You have to believe them.
A variation on that particular crazy theme is the fear that one doesn't believe enough. But there is no such thing as "believing enough." We are not saved by the strength of our belief. Actually, it's not the belief as such that saves us at all. It's the One in Whom we believe. Fatih is merely the bond which joins us to Him. If one believes sufficiently to fear not believing, it would seem to follow that one also believes Christ's promise to those who do believe, wouldn't it?
But does such a person trust that promise? I think he does. Not with complete assurance, obviously. But then, none of us trusts God with full assurance, the way we ought to trust Him, no matter what the law-mongers and the self-righteous might say. But it's the magnitude of the Savior to Whom our faith joins us by which we are saved, not the magnitude of the faith. The merest spark is enough. Mr. Atha tells that little group gathered around the table that much in Wests' novel, having found such a spark, at least, among them. A bulletin comes over the radio: there has been a breakthrough in the negotiations. The missiles are standing down. The world isn't going to be destroyed after all.
I really like the idea of Mary Magdelene being in denial even after hearing the angel's explanation for the absence of Christ's body, and even after having met Christ face to face. It only emphasizes the futility of looking to ourselves- even to our faith, or lack of it- as an antidote to fear. The place we must look is to Jesus because looking to Him for our salvation is faith. And the smallest spark of faith is enough for Him to save us.
Even Mary Magdelene's doubts were finally overcome. She came to see that the news might be too good to be true, but that it was true nonetheless. But we can be sure that even in her heart some doubt must have remained. People with OCD know all too well that no evidence is ever enough to exclude all room for doubt. Even totally crazy doubts can loom fearful and compelling if the wiring in our limbic system is messed up.
We, more than most, know all about fear. But while the words of the angel at the tomb ring joyously throughout all of the creation today, they speak with special power to us. "Fear not! Christ is risen!" Whatever it is that we fear, Christ has triumphed over it- even our own doubt. Even our human frailty. Even the unbelief that always co-exists in our hearts with our faith.
Whenever and whatever we fear- even if it's unbelief, or fear itself- the words of the angel to the Marys and to Salome are spoken to us, too: "Don't be afraid. He is risen!" And that means that Jesus has gone FDR one better.
We don't even have to be afraid of fear itself
Amen. Thank you!
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