Tag: bible

Mark’s original ending

One of the minor ironies of the liturgical year is that the passage set as the gospel for St Mark’s day was almost certainly not written by the evangelist. It’s important not to misunderstand what this means. Mark 16:9-20 is part of scripture, believed by the Church to be part of dei verbum, the writings through which God’s revelation is authoritatively communicated to the people of God. Facts about human authorship do not alter this. However attempting to grasp those facts can help us understand scripture better: just as Christ is both human and divine, so the Bible is both God’s word and a thoroughly human work, subject to literary norms and capable of being investigated historically.

tomb

Our best early manuscripts of Mark’s gospel lack 16:9-20, which read like a precis of resurrection appearances from other gospels (no doubt somebody felt that gospels just ought to have stories about Jesus appearing after the resurrection). Instead, in these sources, Mark ends abruptly:

So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

The word that the NRSV translates here as `amazement’ is ἔκστασις· (ecstasis), the sense is of a joyful being taken out of oneself. The combination of ecstasy and fear with which the gospel ends captures beautifully an authentic response to the resurrection. The last thing Mark wanted his readers to read was a description of how the resurrection grips us and transforms us. It is an invitation to those who follow the Risen Christ to allow themselves to be similarly transformed.

Whilst we now read 16:9-20 as scripture, reading the gospel as a text which stops at 16:8 is a useful exercise. The legacy of the suffering Messiah is a group of amazed and frightened women, through whose discipleship the world will be transformed. And we certainly ought to allow ourselves to dwell with the text and reflect on our own responses to the resurrection.

 

 

 

Advertisements

Mark and Mary?

We’re nearly back into ordinary time, so I’m nearly back into blogging about Mark’s gospel. Yet there’s a Marian feel to the present time: it’s the month of May and we’re in the novena between Ascension and Pentecost, liturgically at prayer with Mary and the apostles in the cenacle. This has made me think about a potential awkwardness in reading Mark’s gospel with a Catholic devotion to Mary in mind. Not only is the earliest  gospel  near silent on the topic of Jesus’ mother, but in as much as she is mentioned she is, on the face of it, hardly presented in a good light:

 A crowd was sitting around him; and they said to him, “Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside, asking for you.”  And he replied, “Who are my mother and my brothers?”  And looking at those who sat around him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

There’s lots to be said here but two things occur to me. First, here as in many other places, we read about Jesus’ relativising ties of familial belonging: something that the puff-cheeked advocates of ‘Christian family values’ have not taken on board. The Kingdom of God demands our all, before it all else takes second place, even the bonds of kinship. But second, if Jesus here calls certain ways of belonging into question, he points to new ones – those that go with participating in the Kingdom of God, doing the will of God.

And it is here, of course, that this passage can be reconciled to Catholic mariology, but not without challenging us. As believers we read Mark’s gospel, not simply as a stand-alone text, but as part of the canon of scripture and in the light of the Church’s faith. So we can see Mary as foremost amongst those who do the will of God. She is, so to speak, Christ’s mother within the new family of God not in virtue of biology but of discipleship (reflection on the Annunciation can help here, I think; and the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception reminds us that, as with everything belonging to the Kingdom, Mary’s discipleship itself is a gift).

It is not clear that the emphasis has always fallen on Mary as a disciple (Christ’s mother in a Marcan sense) rather than on Mary as biological mother, and this has sometimes been tied up with more generally limiting or unhelpful ideas about women. Without for one moment wanting to devalue the biological or bodily (in fact, I think that we can only understand what it is to be bodily in a distinctively human way if we recognise the role of human agency), I think a redressing of the balance is more than overdue. Mary deserves to be given her place at the heart of the community of disciples, as one who shows us what it is to do the will of God and so usher in his Kingdom.

Following the suffering Messiah

There is a sense in which the message of Mark’s gospel is about suffering. The Messiah must suffer and die, if you do not understand this you do  not understand what it is to be the Messiah. Indeed, whilst the readers of the gospel have been told that Jesus is the ‘Son of God’ in the first verse, the title is not used within the narrative by a human being until Jesus is on the cross. We misunderstand who Jesus is if we do not grasp that it led him to a violent death, and no amount of using abstractly correct language about him will help us avoid this uncomfortable truth.

If the Son of God himself can expect nothing more than rejection and execution, the same is true of his disciples. Mark is like a worked example in discipleship: we watch the disciples misunderstand and come to terms with finally what it means to follow Jesus on the way. As they go with him from Galilee to Jerusalem, they hear him speak of his coming death and, more darkly still, hear him intimate that they can expect similar rejection as the price of their allegiance to him. It is a reasonable conclusion that Mark wrote for Christians suffering persecution; that his gospel is structured so as to show them that, far from being a sign of their being rejected by God, their experience was an assurance of their fidelity.

To follow Christ is to suffer. History offers ample confirmation of this, and so Mark stands vindicated. Yet there is a temptation to misread this aspect of his message, in a way that makes the gospel complicit in misery (at best) or abuse (at worse). All too often we can slip from the recognition that discipleship involves suffering to the kind of spiritual masochism for which suffering is in and of itself good. This cannot be right, at
least not from the perspective of those reading the gospel as communicating the revelation of a God who wills that we flourish as human beings, whose gentle grace does not abolish our fragile nature. What then is the point about suffering?

“If you don’t love you will die”, wrote Herbert McCabe, “if you do love they will kill you”. It is the result of the world not being all it was created to be that discipleship and suffering go hand in hand. We have built a world of injustice and fear, for which the message of Jesus cannot be encountered as the euangelion, the good news, Mark takes it to be. Our call is not to suffer, but to do the works of the Kingdom and  proclaim the good news that it has come. It is just that, because of the kind of world we live in, we can expect this not to be welcomed. If you want a recent example of what faithful discipleship leading to suffering looks like, the life and death of Oscar Romero is a good place to look.

Even here there’s a danger of going wrong, of thinking that if people don’t like the way we live out our faith we must be doing something right. A more subtle masochism takes a suspicious amount of delight in being thought beyond the modern Pale. There’s a kind of joyful indignance that characterises a fogeyish Catholicism, for which every disagreement with secular modernity (and these are nearly always about sex, in some way or other) is a sign of divine favour. Mature following in the way of the Cross requires of us self-knowledge and honesty about our motives; it demands that we fearlessly proclaim the Kingdom, opposing those demonic forces which bind human beings today (poverty, exploitation, racism…), not seeking out persecution but simply proclaiming the joyful truth that the Strong Man has been bound and the Kingdom is upon us. If we’re faithful to that call, opposition will come without us having to seek it out.

Mark

I have a curious liking for Ordinary Time, which I suppose has some relationship to the reasons I find Luke’s “the angel left her” speaks to me. Most of our lives are lived in ordinary time, liturgically and figuratively.

My last attempt at a blog series, on Marxism and Christianity, was a conspicuous failure, falling as it did at the hurdle of my health. Still, I want to try again, this time with a series of posts on Mark’s gospel throughout the Ordinary Time of this coming year. It will be a good discipline for me to think about this gospel, which we read on (most of) the Sundays of this year. In many ways it is foundational to our understanding of the Christian story, being used – as most scholars think – by Matthew and Luke to compose their own gospels, and inspiring a good number of critical and imaginative studies. Sometimes the series will look at passages, sometimes at themes, and sometimes at works about Mark. I will find it useful writing it; I hope somebody at least finds it useful reading it!

st_mark1

My Lent books 2016

I always try to have a book or two on the go for Lent, which I read at bedtime. This time I’ve chosen Mark Allan Powell’s What are they saying about Luke? Contrary to some peoples’ experience, I’ve always found that knowing a bit about biblical scholarship helps me engage with scripture better. The ‘What are they saying’ series is generally good, and since it’s Year C, Luke seemed a good choice. I suppose that, having been written in 1989, the book should probably now be renamed ‘What were they saying about Luke’, but nevertheless I hope to get something from it.

The second is Paul Murray OP’s The New Wine of Dominican Spirituality. Much though I dislike the modern coinage ‘spirituality’ (I think I’d use ‘charism’ as an alternative here), things Dominican are a great love of mine. In fact I hope to be accepted as a Lay Dominican later in the year. Here’s some of the blurb from the back:

One of the things that has characterized the Dominican spirit from the beginning is a sense of openness to the world. Dominicans such as Thomas Aquinas, Jordan of Saxony and Catherine of Sienna were not only impressive celebrants of grace – they were also defenders of nature. After the example of St Dominic himself, they learned to drink deep from the wine of God’s Word, and became witnesses not only to certain great moral and doctrinal truths, but also witnesses of an unimaginable joy.