1. Jesus of Nazareth: the turning point
We all need heroes – people we can look up to, who inspire us to become better human beings. When I was very young, well-meaning relatives gave me lots of books about the history of the ancient world. As I began reading, I became fascinated by some of the great stories of the classical period. I was enchanted by Homer’s Odyssey and its central character, Odysseus. But perhaps my greatest hero was Alexander the Great. I read the stories of his conquests with enormous enthusiasm: here was someone really interesting, who seemed to me to be a wonderful role model. It wasn’t until I grew older that I realized there was a darker side to Alexander too.
Back in my youth, I assumed that Christians were people who looked up to Jesus of Nazareth, much as I hero-worshipped Alexander the Great. I personally found it difficult to see why! He was someone who had some good things to say, certainly, but it seemed to me that Christians had inflated his importance. They had added on a host of strange ideas which made it difficult to perceive him as any kind of role model, because the essence of a role model, I believed, was that he should be like me – only better. My heroes were people who made me want to imitate them.
So why on earth did Christianity talk about things like Jesus being ‘truly divine’? That was making something very simple needlessly complicated. Christianity was surely about bringing our behaviour into line with the New Testament’s account of the life and teachings of Jesus, who was a good religious and moral teacher – and no more. Christmas was merely the time of year when Christians remembered his birth, and Good Friday the day on which they remembered his death. As for Easter, I found it a total mystery.
As I reacted against religion in my late teens, it was inevitable that I would also react against Jesus. But though my hostility towards people who professed faith led me to view Jesus with suspicion, I couldn’t help but be aware of his haunting, enigmatic quality. I had a nagging feeling that I was missing something, and couldn’t quite work out what it was. There were other things to worry about in any case, like getting ready to study the natural sciences at Oxford University. So I stopped thinking about Jesus. And there I expected the matter to rest.
But it didn’t. During my first term at Oxford, I gradually realized that atheism was drab and bleak, while Christianity was intellectually rich and vibrant. I still find it difficult to put into words what drew me to faith. Conversations with friends helped me grasp that I had misunderstood what Christianity was all about. I had the sense of standing on the shoreline of an immense ocean that stretched out as far as the eye could see, and like Evelyn Waugh before me (see the first book in this series, Faith and the Creeds, page 29), I began the delicious and delightful process of exploring my new-found faith. In time, I came to sense what was so special about Jesus of Nazareth, and in the following pages, I would like to set out some of the ideas and approaches I found helpful, in the hope that they will be useful to you too.
It was the 1950s, and I was staying with my grandparents in their house in the Irish countryside. It was very cold. The windows in my bedroom had frosted over and I could see nothing through them. There were very beautiful, delicate patterns on the ice that covered the glass – whorls, stars and spirals – but they prevented me from observing what was outside. So I took a piece of cloth and began to rub the surface of the window. In a few moments, I had cleared enough to reveal what lay beyond: sparkling white hedges and fields, stretching far into the distance.
Everyone reading this book will be able to think of a similar story. Maybe you were struggling to focus a telescope when a fuzzy blur suddenly became a crisp and sharp landscape, or you remember a moment when confusing matters or events began to fall into a coherent pattern. It’s as if someone turns a light on and you see how things hang together for the first time. There are lots of occasions when we simply can’t quite work out how everything fits together. We need someone to tell us. Or to show us.
That’s the human predicament. Living in a world of swirling mist, of shadows and half-light, we know deep down that there is a God and long to know what this God is really like. The Psalmist put it brilliantly, when he expressed his deep yearning to ‘see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living’ (Psalm 27.13), and this same idea is expressed time after time in the Old Testament.
The people of Israel knew there was a God. They called this God by name – the ‘Lord God of Israel’. This was a faithful God, who could be trusted, whose glory was reflected in the beauty and majesty of the natural world. Yet this God often seemed distant from everyday existence, and perhaps this helps us understand why Israel longed for their God to come close – to visit them.
The last prophetic work of the Old Testament, the book of Malachi, expresses this longing of Israel in words that are both beautiful and heart-rending: ‘the Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple’ (Malachi 3.1). But as the centuries pass, nothing seems to happen. The God who is the heart’s desire of Israel never comes. Perhaps God has forgotten Israel. Or perhaps there is no God to forget Israel in the first place.
Then everything changes. Something happens. And afterwards, for those who are aware of its significance, the world becomes very different. The New Testament and the creeds leave us in no doubt about what this event is – the life, death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth.
The story of Jesus of Nazareth
Stories engage our imagination, often opening up deeper and better ways of thinking for us to explore. The story of Jesus of Nazareth is perhaps the greatest and most engaging story ever told. The four Gospels set out to tell that story and by doing so give rise to ideas about Jesus – ideas that are affirmed and examined more thoroughly in early Christian preaching (in the Acts of the Apostles) and teaching (mainly in the New Testament letters).
The story of Jesus cannot be told in isolation but rather links up with other stories: one concerns God’s creation of the world; another tells of God’s calling of Israel; a third tells of the age-old human quest for meaning and significance. The story of Jesus intersects with all three. His is the story that allows us to see all other stories in their proper light. Greek philosophy and the law of Israel alike were fulfilled and transcended in this one individual, who declares, ‘Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfil’ (Matthew 5.17). Human wisdom and divine promise converge in Jesus of Nazareth.
The Gospel of Mark, which we will turn to frequently in this chapter, quickly draws our attention to the figure of John the Baptist, and makes a connection between the appearance of John and the great prophetic expectation of the coming of the Lord. ‘See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord”’ (Mark 1.2–3). John is a transitional figure between the Old Covenant and the New, pointing to someone even more significant who will come after him (Mark 1.7–8). ‘In those days Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan’ (Mark 1.9).
Mark’s story of Jesus of Nazareth continues with his account of the calling of the first disciples.
As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake – for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, ‘Follow me and I will make you fish for people.’ And immediately they left their nets and followed him.
(Mark 1.16–18)
Those first disciples clearly found something compelling in Jesus – a sort of ‘X factor’ that could never be put into words. Perhaps they did not fully understand their own reasons for following him. But we are left in no doubt that they recognized that there was something very special about this stranger. So powerful was his attraction that they left behind their nets – their only source of income as fishermen.
The theme of deep personal trust in Jesus of Nazareth runs through the long history of Christian thought. People find in him something transformative and satisfying – a reason for living, their heart’s desire, a firm stronghold in times of despair, or someone who seems to know the secrets of the kingdom of God. Without fully understanding who Jesus is, or why he should be so compelling, they choose to follow him. Their hearts have been won. Their imaginations have been captivated. Their minds, however, must now try to take in what has happened. Who must Jesus be to elicit such a response on their part? What is so different about him? They are following Jesus; they have yet to figure out just who he is.
I found myself reading and rereading that passage, Mark 1.16–18, in my first period of faith. After reading it, I felt I had glimpsed something only partially, yet with sufficient clarity to want to know more, and to trust that there was more to be known. I felt like someone on the brow of a hill, looking down over a shrouded landscape, patiently waiting for the mist to lift. And as I continued to read Mark’s Gospel, I began to appreciate that the disciples seem to have been in a similar position to my own. They didn’t really understand who Jesus of Nazareth was either. They recognized that there was something very special about him – the aforementioned ‘X factor’ – but realized there was yet much to discover. Gradually, they began to learn more about the identity and significance of Jesus, and as I journeyed with them, reading Mark’s Gospel, I shared in their discoveries.
It is almost as if Mark is gradually drawing aside a curtain, so his readers are allowed to see Jesus of Nazareth just a bit at a time. It would be impossible for someone to take in everything about Jesus at once, so once we’ve appreciated a particular aspect of his significance, Mark moves us on. Jesus’ character is revealed, layer by layer, each adding depth and detail to what we already know. And through living in Jesus’ company, we gradually grow in our understanding of what he is all about.
Looking back on my days as a student, I now realize that I had some of the best teachers I could have hoped for. I recall a lecturer at Oxford who introduced us to quantum theory – one of the most important (and difficult) aspects of modern physics. He began by asking us to think of atoms being like tiny suns with planets orbiting them. We all nodded in agreement. That seemed very straightforward. Atoms had nuclei (which were like the sun) and electrons (which were like the planets). The lecturer played around with the mathematics till he was sure we’d understood him. It all seemed so easy.
Then he smiled at us in a rather apologetic manner. ‘Actually, it’s a bit more complicated than that.’ And he began to explain how we needed to modify this very simple picture in order to fit in the experimental results. But he explained it so well that we were able to follow him. And once he was sure we had understood this more complex model, he smiled again. ‘Actually, it’s a bit more complicated than that as well . . .’
By the end of the course, we had been brought up to speed with the latest thinking in this hugely complex area of scientific thought. Something that seemed to be simple turned out to be much more complicated, exciting and satisfying. But by leading us into it gradually, step by step and layer by layer, our lecturer helped us to build up the rich picture of reality disclosed by quantum theory.
That’s exactly what theologians found to be true about the identity of Jesus of Nazareth. We begin by thinking of him in very simple terms – for example, as our Lord, our friend, or our redeemer. And once we’ve worked out what that means, we realize that it’s a bit more complicated than that. It’s all about stretching our minds and hearts, so that we can grasp Jesus of Nazareth in all his fullness, instead of being satisfied with slick and easy answers to deep and important questions.
Let’s try and tease out some of the themes that we find in Mark’s narrative. We’ll begin with one we’ve already begun to explore, which is evident in the calling of the first disciples, and echoed in many of the accounts of the encounters of Jesus with others. There was something special about him – something that fascinated people, compelling them to pay attention, drawing them in, and ultimately leading them to follow him.
For many of us, given our over-intellectualized Western culture, this seems to make little sense. Surely we ought to work out who Jesus really is before we throw caution to the winds? Surely rational reflection ought to come before personal commitment? Yet Mark’s account of the impact of Jesus on those around him offers another way of looking at things. There seems to be something about Jesus that invites a response at the deepest level of our being. We know the disciples realized they were in the presence of someone rather special and that their decision to follow him included a commitment to work out what it was that made him so. Their personal commitment to Jesus of Nazareth led to an extended ‘discipleship of the mind’, as their heads tried to catch up with their hearts.
It’s hard to find an analogy that does justice to this aspect of Jesus, as depicted in the Gospels, but a good attempt at expressing it may be seen in C. S. Lewis’s character Aslan, the great lion of Narnia. Lewis presents Aslan as a ‘Christ-figure’, a literary figure who in some way echoes and embodies the presence and person of Jesus of Nazareth. Throughout the Chronicles of Narnia, Lewis portrays Aslan as a magnificent and noble lion, who has a profound impact on those he meets, including the four Pevensie children, who have found their way into Narnia through the famous wardrobe in the old Professor’s house. Aslan evokes awe and wonder. He is wild – an awe-inspiring, magnificent creature, who has not been tamed through domestication, or had his claws pulled out to ensure he is powerless. When his name is mentioned for the first time, the four children feel ‘quite different’. Yet they have dissimilar reactions. Edmund feels ‘mysterious horror’; Peter feels ‘brave and adventurous’; Susan feels elated; and Lucy gets the feeling you have when you ‘realize it is the beginning of the holidays’.
There is clearly something special about Aslan. Each of the children experiences him in his or her own distinct way. The one Aslan relates to each child in a special way – a way that reflects his identity and their own. Lewis’s narrative, widely regarded as one of the finest expressions of Christianity’s respect for the individuality of believers, constantly emphasizes that Aslan encounters and transforms people individually. They want to know more about him because they find him so enthralling and majestic. It is impossible to miss Lewis’s allusions to the Gospel narratives about the encounters between Jesus Christ and individuals – such as Zacchaeus or the woman at the well. Such individuals come away from those encounters as different people. Their world has been turned upside down by a stranger who seems to know everything about them. And having encountered him and been amazed by him, they try to work out who he really is.
We’ll revisit this theme of the deep attractiveness of Jesus later in this book. For the moment, let’s return to Mark’s account and consider another strand of his story – that of Jesus of Nazareth as teacher.
More than just a teacher
We are all familiar with the figure of a teacher – a person who says things we believe to be helpful, valuable and reliable. Mark tells us that many crowded around Jesus to hear his parables of the kingdom of God, while making clear that there was something unusual about the quality of Jesus’ words. ‘They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority’ (Mark 1.22).
This is probably the aspect of Jesus we find easiest to understand. Mark obviously wants us to reflect on Jesus’ qualities as a teacher. Why was he so authoritative? Was it that he taught very effectively? Or did people perceive an extraordinary depth in him, something that set Jesus apart from other religious teachers of his day?
It’s an important question, so let’s pause for a moment to think it through. There is no doubt that Jesus was a religious teacher. The problem is that some people limit his significance to this single category in an effort to solve the riddle of his identity. Well, Jesus being a teacher is part of the truth, but it’s not the whole truth. It’s a snapshot, but not the ‘big picture’. His role cannot be limited to giving us good advice, for that would make us people whose only need was to be told what to do. And just as there’s no point in advising a blind woman that she ought to learn to see, there’s little point in telling us the good deeds we ought to perform if there’s actually something wrong with human nature that prevents us from doing the good we wish to! We need healing and renewal, not merely words of wisdom. We need to be enabled to do good, not just told what to do.
As the creeds make clear, Christians do not view Jesus as merely a rabbi, but as their Lord and Saviour. They talk about Jesus being the ‘Bread of Life’, or the ‘Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world’. We will undoubtedly value Jesus’ moral teaching, but our main interest concerns the significance of his death and resurrection. Good teachers, after all, are not that difficult to find; people who are crucified, only to be raised from the dead are rather fewer on the ground, and command attention for that very reason.
But let’s rejoin Mark as he continues to relate the story of Jesus of Nazareth.
Jesus the healer and forgiver
One incident which took place very early in his ministry is particularly important in helping us to put together the ‘big picture’ about Jesus – the healing of a paralytic (Mark 2.1–12). The Gospels make clear that Jesus of Nazareth had a healing ministry, which drew many to hear him speak. Healing is about restoration to wholeness. While important in itself, healing can be seen as an analogy for the whole process of salvation – restoring creation and humanity to what God wanted them to be.
But let’s focus on this single event, as there is a deeper point to be made. Mark paints a vivid picture of the scene, helping us to sense its drama. Jesus had drawn large crowds on account of his healing ministry. Hearing that he was in their neighbourhood, four people attempted to bring their paralysed friend to him.
But they couldn’t get near Jesus because of the mass of people. Undeterred, they climbed on the roof of the building in which Jesus was staying, and lowered their friend onto the floor inside. We’ll let Mark take up the story.
When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, ‘Son, your sins are forgiven.’ Now some of the scribes were sitting there, questioning in their hearts, ‘Why does this fellow speak in this way? It is blasphemy! Who can forgive sins but God alone?’
(Mark 2.5–7)
It is easy for us to fail to appreciate the drama of the moment when Jesus declared that the man’s sins were forgiven. Yet everyone who heard those words knew their deeper significance. Every good Jew was aware that only God can forgive sins. The ‘scribes’ – the experts in the Jewish law – were quite right. Through what he said, Jesus was claiming to be able to do something – forgive sins – that only God could do. Jesus was thus guilty of blasphemy. Unless, that is, the unthinkable, the unimaginable, were actually true. Unless – however strange this might seem – Jesus really was God, though that seemed simply inconceivable within the thinking of orthodox Judaism at that time.
What happens next in Mark’s story? Jesus’ words to the paralytic actually tell us rather a lot about Jesus himself.
‘But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins’ – he said to the paralytic – ‘I say to you, stand up, take your mat and go to your home.’ And he stood up, and immediately took the mat and went out before all of them; so that they were all amazed and glorified God, saying, ‘We have never seen anything like this!’
(Mark 2.10–12)
It is little wonder the crowds were astonished as they realized the implications of what they had just seen and heard. Someone had claimed authority to act as God and for God. And far from striking Jesus dead by a thunderbolt from heaven, God appeared to have honoured – even endorsed – this astonishing claim. What could it mean? Did this imply that Jesus was able to do things that only God was able to do? And if so, what ramifications did that have for his identity?
As Mark’s narrative progresses, more pieces are added to the jigsaw. The first disciples accompany Jesus on his ministry, and gradually begin to grasp his significance. They listen to what he says, and watch what he does. And some – but not yet all – of the bits of the puzzle begin to fall into place. For example, Mark tells the story of how Jesus was able to still the storms on the Sea of Galilee, to the amazement of the disciples. ‘They were filled with great awe, and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”’ (Mark 4.35–41). What were the implications of Jesus’ actions in terms of his identity? Who was Jesus, if he was able to do these things?
The crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth
As Mark continues his story, the mood darkens. Jesus draws near to Jerusalem, and is welcomed by the crowds as if he were a conquering hero. Yet he is betrayed to the Roman and Jewish authorities, and condemned to be crucified.
The Gospel accounts of the death of Jesus on a cross on the first Good Friday are deeply moving. We are left in no doubt that he suffered a slow and lingering death, with devastating results for his disciples. They were left bereft, hopeless and helpless, as Jesus died in front of their eyes and their world fell to pieces. Even Peter, supposedly the leader of the disciples, ended up denying any association with Jesus.
It is important to realize that Mark’s Gospel shows no sign of hostility towards either the Jewish high priest Caiaphas or the Roman governor Pontius Pilate, as it relates how Jesus was brought before both to face condemnation. There is no place in Christianity for scapegoating any individual or group for the death of Christ. The Church has always insisted, and rightly, that the ultimate cause of his Passion was flawed and fallen human nature – something in which we all share. It is not a particularly pleasant or reassuring thought. We, it turns out, are the ones who are really being judged at the trial of Jesus of Nazareth.
The theme of Christ’s crucifixion is deeply embedded in the New Testament, and one of the earliest literary witnesses to its central importance is Paul’s first letter to the Christian church at Corinth. The letter probably dates from the early months of AD 54. In its first chapter, Paul lays considerable emphasis upon the fact that Jesus was crucified, even suggesting that the entire gospel could be summarized as ‘the message about the cross’ (1 Corinthians 1.18).
Crucifixion was seen by the Roman authorities as a humiliating and painful form of death, designed to deter anyone from thinking of attempting to subvert its authority. It is impossible to define what form a ‘normal’ crucifixion might take: the victim was generally flogged or tortured beforehand, and then might be tied or nailed to the cross in practically any position, subject only to the ingenuity and perversity of the executioner. Far from being an essentially bloodless form of execution, as some commentators have suggested, the victim is likely to have bled profusely. Only if he had not been flogged or tortured previously, and bound, rather than nailed to the cross, would no blood have been spilled.
This form of punishment appears to have been employed ruthlessly to suppress rebellions in the Roman provinces, such as the revolt of the Cantabrians in northern Spain, as well as the rebellions of the Jews. Josephus’ accounts of the crucifixion of countless Jewish fugitives, who attempted to escape from besieged Jerusalem at the time of its final destruction by Roman armies, make horrifying reading. In the view of most Roman jurists, notorious criminals should be crucified on the exact location of their crime, so that ‘the sight might deter others from such crimes’.
Perhaps for this reason, the Roman emperor Quintillus crucified criminals on the busiest thoroughfares, in order that the maximum effect might be achieved. Some six thousand slaves who had rebelled against Rome under the leadership of Spartacus were crucified along the sides of the Appian Way – a major transport route – in 71 BC.
The death of Jesus on a cross was thus seen as enormously shameful, and the idea of a crucified saviour was seized upon by opponents of the early Church as demonstrating the ridiculous nature of Christian claims. The great Roman orator Marcus Cornelius Fronto declared that ‘the religion of the Christians is insane, in that they worship a crucified man, and even the instrument of his punishment itself.’
Yet Christian writers never downplayed the crucifixion, despite this negative reaction within Roman culture. They clearly regarded it as central to the gospel proclamation. Let’s look at three themes that are woven into the Gospel accounts of the crucifixion, and the New Testament’s reflections on the meaning of that event.
First, it was humiliating and painful. Crucifixion ensured a slow, lingering death. Nobody wanted to die like that. That was what the Romans counted on. It was an inhumane means of execution, designed to discourage insurrection and rebellion. The New Testament makes it clear that Jesus of Nazareth died in the most degrading and painful manner known to humanity. And he did this for us.
As I reflect on the Gospel Passion accounts, I often find myself lingering over one particular scene. The crowds around the cross ridicule Jesus. ‘Save yourself, and come down from the cross’ (Mark 15.30). But he doesn’t. He stays there, and saves us instead.
Second, we need to realize that there was a religious aspect to crucifixion. For a Jew, anyone hanged upon a tree was cursed by God (Deuteronomy 21.23). Indeed, one of the Dead Sea Scrolls suggests that crucifixion was regarded as the proper form of execution for a Jew suspected of high treason. This seemed to undermine any Christian claim that Jesus could be the long-awaited Messiah. The idea of a ‘crucified Messiah’ was a contradiction in terms. To die on a cross was to die under the curse of God. No wonder Jews saw crucifixion as such a shocking form of execution. To be put to death was bad enough. But to be executed in a manner that cut them off from God was unbearable.
Paul realized the importance of this point, and its relevance for the meaning of the cross. ‘Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us – for it is written, “Cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree”’ (Galatians 3.13). By being crucified, Christ did indeed bear a curse – our curse, which he willingly bore.
And third, as we have already observed, the cross was seen by Roman society as a symbol of shame and weakness. Roman critics of Christianity ridiculed its emphasis on the cross. This can be seen in the famous ‘Alexamenos Graffito’, found during some excavations near the Palatine Hill in Rome, and thought to date from the third century. This depicts a man bowing before a crucified human figure with the head of a donkey. Beneath it is written ‘Alexamenos worships [his] God’.
Even in the New Testament itself, we see an awareness of a negative cultural reaction to its central idea of a ‘crucified Messiah’. Paul argued that the weakness and ‘folly’ of the cross pointed to the strength and wisdom of God. The Jews expected the Messiah to be a triumphant conqueror; the Greeks wanted someone who was wise. Yet at the heart of the Christian faith was a crucified Messiah, who endured suffering in order to save. ‘We proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling-block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles’ (1 Corinthians 1.23).
The creeds make clear that the historical reality of the crucifixion matters. But the Christian faith is about more than what happened in the past. It’s about the meaning of events. What difference does the crucifixion make? Why is it of such importance?
Let’s recall one of Paul’s fundamental statements to the church at Corinth: ‘For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures’ (1 Corinthians 15.3). Paul passes on to his readers in the great port city of Corinth what had originally been passed on to him – a compact summary of the core themes of the Christian faith. Paul takes an historical event – the death of Jesus – and adds on to this a layer of interpretation. Jesus did not just die; he died for our sins.
Events need explaining. We have to know what they mean – if, that is, they mean anything at all. Let’s look at a textbook example, and tease this point out. Julius Caesar is probably one of the best-known figures in Roman history. In January 49 BC, he led an army southwards from northern Italy towards Rome. At one point, the army crossed the River Rubicon. By all accounts, it was not a large river, and it is doubtful whether Caesar’s men had any difficulty getting from one side to the other. Crossing the river was not a monumental achievement, to be compared to climbing Mount Everest!
But that’s not why we remember the crossing of the Rubicon. The reason this event has gone down in history is because the action had a deeper meaning. The Rubicon marked the border between northern Italian territory and the territories of Rome itself. By crossing the river with an army without official authorization, Julius Caesar had declared war on the senate and people of Rome. His words ‘The die is cast!’ reflect his awareness of the step he had just taken. There was no going back. If he failed, he would be punished by death. In the end, Caesar ended up as the victor in the civil war which broke out as a result of his act of rebellion.
Notice how the event is given its meaning by its context. If you or I were to cross the Rubicon today, it would not have the same significance. Context shapes meaning. That’s why we need to take Paul’s second point into account. Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures. What does this signify?
There are two things to note. First, that the death of Jesus on the cross was not an accident, but something that was somehow meant to happen, without in any way undermining the fact that Jesus freely chose to act in this way. ‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day’ (Luke 24.46). Second, that we are meant to make sense of these events within a biblical framework. The death and resurrection of Jesus are to be seen as the fulfilment of prophecy, and to be interpreted against the Old Testament’s understanding of the significance of sin and how God might deal with it.
Later we shall look at what are sometimes called ‘theories of the atonement’ – ways of trying to make sense of the meaning of the death of Jesus on the cross in order to appreciate its full significance. But for now we’ll let Mark tell us more of the story of Jesus of Nazareth. We know he died on the cross . . . What happened next?
The resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth
The solemn recollection of the death of Jesus in the Apostles’ Creed is immediately followed by a dramatic, upbeat declaration of the total transformation of the situation. ‘On the third day he rose again.’ We can only guess at the emotion of the occasion, as the first disciples realized that the one they loved and followed had been restored to them. Sorrow must have been replaced, first by disbelief, then by exultation, and finally by reflection on what all this meant.
J. R. R. Tolkien coined the word ‘eucatastrophe’ to refer to the moment in which despair is utterly transformed and gives way to joy. What seemed like a defeat becomes instead a moment of deliverance. Tolkien had no doubt what the supreme example of a ‘eucatastrophe’ was – the resurrection of Jesus, which allowed the disciples to catch a ‘fleeting glimpse’ of a ‘Joy beyond the walls of the world’. This ‘sudden and miraculous grace’ totally changes the story, making our hearts beat faster as we realize that something momentous has happened and try to take it in. In a pattern characteristic of the New Testament, death leads to new life; despair leads to hope; suffering leads to glory.
The New Testament treats the resurrection as a ‘sign’ – an outward event, with a deeper inward meaning. Part of the New Testament proclamation of the resurrection concerns the empty tomb. But that is the outer shell of history; within it lies a precious pearl of meaning. Sometimes Christians get fixated on proving the historical reliability of the accounts of the empty tomb. But that’s only part of the picture. When the New Testament talks about ‘resurrection’, it means a lot more than an empty tomb.
Some argue that the ancient world was full of stories about dying and rising gods, such as Egyptian vegetation deities, who ‘died’ in the winter and were ‘born again’ in the spring, and that Christians just borrowed these ideas. Yet the first Christians don’t seem to have known anything about these. The resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth has nothing to do with the disappearance and reappearance of grass! The first Christians were confronted with a series of historical events which needed interpretation – such as an empty tomb. What did this mean?
Others argue that the resurrection had to be an invention. These things just don’t happen. Yet this is to rule out any unique events within history as a matter of principle. G. K. Chesterton put the point rather well: ‘The believers in miracles accept them (rightly or wrongly) because they have evidence for them. The disbelievers in miracles deny them (rightly or wrongly) because they have a doctrine against them.’ Chesterton was surely right: a dogmatic belief that miracles cannot happen leads some people to refuse to take the resurrection seriously. The ‘principle of analogy’ (the belief that what happened in the past mirrors what happens in the present) is useful as an historical tool. It can tell us when something unusual has happened. But it’s unreliable as a view of reality. It encounters serious difficulties when it tries to tell us what can – and cannot – have happened.
Suppose that resurrections happened all the time. Would we have difficulty in believing that Jesus was raised? No. But would it be significant? No. It would be an everyday event, lacking any special quality. The critical point is that the importance of an historical event is directly proportional to its rarity. The New Testament makes it clear that the resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth was unexpected, without any parallel in history.
It might be suggested that Christians just took over some Jewish ideas here. Yet this is not easy to argue in the face of the evidence. For a start, most Jews believed in a general resurrection at the end of time, when history came to an end, not in a resurrection within human history. There’s also a major difference in the importance attached to the idea of resurrection. In what scholars call ‘second-Temple Judaism’ – that is, the forms of Judaism that developed after the return from exile in Babylon – the idea of resurrection is certainly seen as important. But it’s not seen as central. Many works written in this period make no reference to the idea. But the New Testament sees resurrection as being of defining importance.
Mark’s account of the resurrection opens by telling us how three women visited the tomb on the Sunday morning. ‘Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him’ (Mark 16.1). Clearly, the intention was to treat the corpse of the beloved Jesus with the respect and reverence he deserved. Despite the fact that the testimony of a woman was held to be of no consequence in the patriarchal society of his day, Mark makes no attempt to alter the facts so they seem more credible. The two Marys and Salome were confronted with something they were not expecting, which utterly confused them. Was it a trick of the early morning light? The tomb seemed to be empty.
We might expect the women to have been overjoyed, perhaps shattering the early morning stillness with shouts of ‘Alleluia! Jesus is risen!’ But Mark conveys that the vocabulary of joy is absent. The women were seized with ‘terror and amazement’, reduced to silence, and impelled to flight (Mark 16.5–8). The kind of fearful reverence we read about here is like that of Moses in his encounter with God at the burning bush, which led to his commissioning to lead Israel out of Egypt into the Promised Land (Exodus 3.6). The shepherds in the fields around Bethlehem who witnessed the angels were likewise terrified (Luke 2.9–10); they were overwhelmed by the glory of God.
As we have seen, this dramatic new turn in the story of Jesus of Nazareth did not fit into any existing Jewish way of thinking. Though most Jews of the time seem to have believed in a general resurrection that would take place right at the end of history, nobody believed in a resurrection in the here and now, in the world of time and space, in front of witnesses. Far from endorsing existing expectations, it demanded their reconsideration. It was a game-changer, something that the old wineskins of first-century Judaism just couldn’t accommodate.
It was when I was studying the history of science at Oxford that I first came across the idea of a ‘paradigm shift’. This phrase was invented by Thomas Kuhn, who used it to describe a seismic shift in scientific thinking, when the evidence demands a new way of seeing things. Back in the Middle Ages, most people believed the sun orbited the earth. As more precise observations built up, there came a tipping point when the old way of thinking could no longer be sustained. A new approach had to be developed. The evidence demanded it.
The resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth may be said to have caused a ‘paradigm shift’ to take place within the first community of Christians. The old ways of thinking just couldn’t cope with what had been experienced. New ways of thinking about things had to be found. This process can be seen happening in the story of the Road to Emmaus (Luke 24.13–31). Two followers of Jesus of Nazareth are walking towards the village of Emmaus, discussing the wild rumours that are circulating about what happened to him. They are joined by a stranger, who asks what they have been talking about.
They tell their travelling companion that they have been discussing Jesus, who was, according to Jewish thinking, ‘a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people’ and ‘the one to redeem Israel’ (24.19, 21). Yet the rumours sweeping across Judaea call this into question. If it is true that Jesus has risen from the dead, then he is far more than those existing Jewish categories suggested or permitted.
Then the stranger begins to speak to them. He tells them Israel’s story: ‘beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures’ (24.27). He offers a new way of making sense of Israel’s history and a new way of locating and interpreting a vital part of that great narrative – the story of Jesus himself. This is not a tale about another failed messianic uprising, routed by the Roman authorities. Rather, it tells of a new era in the history of God’s dealings with his people and with the world. ‘Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?’ (24.26) The two followers have been trying to unlock the meaning of recent history using the wrong key. And as they walk, a new key is slowly but surely turned and a door opens into a new way of understanding what is going on. A paradigm shift is taking place, and a new way of thinking is in the process of crystallizing.
Once more, we realize that the resurrection is something that needs to be interpreted. It gives a new turn – and a new meaning – to the story of Jesus of Nazareth. It also gives a new direction to the story of people’s lives. In the next chapter, we will reflect on this in greater detail.