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WHEN THE AUTHOR OF THE EPISTLE TO THE HEBREWS speaks of Jesus “in the days of his flesh” (5:7), he does not refer, strictly speaking, to the Incarnation. He refers, rather, to the eternal Word’s voluntary subjection to man’s fallen state; he means the time of Jesus’ earthly life, which ended in his death. The “days of his flesh” do not include the life of the risen Christ.
Yet the risen Christ is still “in the flesh” in the sense that he exists—and will forever exist—in his body. He is not a mere spirit. Indeed, he can tell the disciples, “Behold my hands and my feet, that it is I myself. Handle me and see, for a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see I have” (Luke 24:39).
Through the massive disruption of his descent into the realm of death and his resurrection from it, there persisted the personal identity of the one Christ. The body that rose is the same body that had died: “What is sown in corruption, is raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power” (1 Corinthians 15:42–43). The risen Jesus is, in short, the same Jesus.
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In the course of forty days after his resurrection, Jesus not only was seen by his friends; he also conversed with them. He communicated with them in ordinary speech, very much as he had done all his life.
For this reason, it is appropriate that our reflections on the humanity of Jesus should include some consideration of that time during which “he also presented himself alive after his suffering by many infallible proofs” (Acts 1:3). Certain stories of the risen Jesus call out for examination in this respect.
POST-RESURRECTION STORIES
Although the resurrection of Christ was the most important event in history, there were no eyewitnesses to it, and, consequently, we have no description of it.
What we have, rather, are the testimonies of those who saw and heard him—and even touched him—in his risen state. These accounts, analyzed from a literary and theological perspective, appear to fall into two categories.
The first category may be called kerygmatic and apologetic. That is to say, some of the post-Resurrection stories seem to have come from the Christian apologetic witness to the world. This is why, in these stories, there is a great deal of emphasis on the reliability of eyewitness testimony, much as there might be in a courtroom. Christian preaching had a case to prove. These accounts stress the perceived physical reality of the Resurrection in documentable terms. This forensic testimony must be clear and unmistakable, emphasizing the identity of the risen Jesus beyond doubt.
Indeed, before any of the Gospels were composed, there was already an official list of qualified witnesses well-known among the early Christians:
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I delivered unto you first of all that which I also received . . . that he rose again according to the Scriptures, and that he was seen by Cephas [Peter], and then by the twelve; after that he was seen by more than five hundred brethren at once. . . . After that he was seen by James, then by all the apostles. And last of all he was seen by me. (1 Corinthians 15:3–8)
In this text one observes the heavy emphasis on apostolic authority; in the main, the people listed in this text were official spokesmen for the church. They were the established witnesses, to the world, of the Lord’s resurrection (cf. also Acts 1:21–22).
We find exactly this eyewitness emphasis in a couple of the gospel accounts.1 This apologetic accent is rare and muted in the gospel narratives, nonetheless. For example, the Lord’s apparition to Peter, although it is recorded,2 is not described, nor do the Gospels mention a revelation to James, much less of a revelation to “more than five hundred brethren at once.”
There is a second kind of post-Resurrection story in the Gospels, however, in which the literary and theological emphasis is very different. To appreciate this difference, we may begin by noting just who is absent in that first type of story. What persons were not named in Paul’s list of the Resurrection’s official witnesses? The women!
We should contrast this absence of the women in 1 Corinthians 15 with the prominence given to them in the Gospels themselves. Here, these women disciples are the first to see the risen Lord, and the apostles, whom Paul lists as the official witnesses, are described as skeptical of the women’s report!3 In the post-Resurrection gospel stories, the apostles are not the witnesses; they are the ones witnessed to. The women do the witnessing.
We read, for instance, “Now when Jesus was risen early the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene” (Mark 16:9, emphasis added), whereas in the official list in 1 Corinthians 15, Mary Magdalene is not even mentioned. On the contrary, Paul says that the risen Jesus first “was seen by Cephas” (1 Corinthians 15:5). The contrast between 1 Corinthians 15 and the gospel accounts is striking in this respect.
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This difference runs deep. In general the interest and concern of the four gospels is less apologetic and more theological and devotional. What we have in the Gospels are not quasi-forensic testimonies directed to the world, but the cherished memories of that first Paschal morning and the delirious ensuing days of the new spring.
Here we learn of Mary Magdalene’s sentient recognition of Jesus’ voice speaking her own name, the mysterious experience of the two disciples along the road and at the inn, and that early morning encounter at the lakeside, where Jesus served breakfast to the fishermen who had toiled all through the night. We behold the Lord’s feet embraced by the women who lie prostrate in adoration before him. We see Thomas’s trembling finger extended to touch the wounded hand of the Savior.
Now, we more clearly perceive in Jesus what I make bold to call his “light” side. There is something playful, almost teasing, in the way he meets and surprises his loved ones. The risen Jesus’ manner has about it a glow of utter jocundity. Christus Victor is also Christus Ludens.
Jesus begins by asking questions that feign ignorance: “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?” “Children, have you any food?” “What kind of conversation is this that you have with one another as you walk and are sad?”
He resorts to a gentle and gracious irony: “Reach your finger here, and inspect my hands; and stretch out your hand, and place it into my side.” “Do not cling to me; I have not yet ascended to my Father.” “Bring some of the fish which you have just caught.” “Come and eat breakfast.”
Even the Resurrection angels take hold on the frolic of the day: “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” (Luke 24:5).
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Let us inspect, then, some of these stories more closely.
MARY MAGDALENE
Little is known about Mary Magdalene, except that Jesus had delivered her from serious demonic influence (Mark 16:9; Luke 8:2). This liberation would explain why she referred to Jesus as “my Lord.” We are also familiar with her loyalty to him, which drew her to the foot of the cross (Matthew 27:56; Mark 15:40; John 19:25). All the Evangelists, moreover, number her among the myrrh-bearers, those female disciples who received angelic testimony to the Resurrection on that glorious morning.4
In addition, the fourth gospel relates an apparition of Jesus to Mary Magdalene all by herself (John 20:11–18). Like the bride in the Song of Solomon (3:1–4), she rises early, “while it is still dark,” and goes out seeking him whom her soul loves. In yet another image reminiscent of the Song of Solomon—as well as Genesis—she comes to the garden of Jesus’ burial:
Now the first day of the week Mary Magdalene went to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb. (John 20:1)
Lingering at the tomb in tears, Mary
turned around and saw Jesus standing there, and did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, whom are you seeking?” (vv. 14–15)
Here Jesus engages in what grammarians call the “erotema,” the emotionally freighted question that sets a person up for a (usually pleasant) surprise. The question here playfully feigns ignorance on Jesus’ part. He fully intends to reveal himself to this brokenhearted woman, but he determines to do so in the course of a conversation in which she is engaged. Instead of getting a “news flash” about the Resurrection, she discovers it for herself in the sound of his voice.
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Mary, however, who does not see very clearly through her tears, takes Jesus to be the gardener and answers his question in all seriousness: “Sir, if you have removed him, tell me where you have put him, and I will take him away.” Then comes the dramatic moment of recognition, when Jesus simply pronounces the name by which he has always addressed her: “Mary!”
Mary Magdalene does not learn the Resurrection as an objective fact conveyed through the testimony of a third person; she grasps it, rather, in the sensitive recognition of the beloved voice that addresses her personally. Only at this point does she know him as Rabbouni, “my Teacher.”
In this story, Christians are right to perceive in Mary Magdalene an image of themselves meeting their risen Lord and Good Shepherd: “the sheep hear his voice; and he calls his own sheep by name . . . for they know his voice” (John 10:3–4). This devout narrative of Mary Magdalene is an affirmation that Christian identity comes of recognizing the voice of Christ, who speaks the believer’s name in the mystery of salvation: “the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Galatians 2:20, emphasis added).
THE ROAD TO EMMAUS
For a few minutes the risen Jesus playfully concealed his identity from Mary Magdalene on Easter morning, but in the afternoon he carried this play much further, remaining unrecognized during a prolonged and detailed conversation with two other disciples:
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Now behold, two of them were traveling that same day to a village called Emmaus, which was sixty stadia from Jerusalem. And they talked together of all these things which had happened. So it was, while they conversed and reasoned, that Jesus himself drew near and went with them. But their eyes were restrained, so that they did not recognize him. (Luke 24:13–16)
Jesus listens to their conversation for a while and then asks, “What kind of conversation is this that you have with one another as you walk and are sad?” This “ignorance” on his part persuades the pair that he must be “a stranger in Jerusalem,” who has managed to miss the things everybody else has been talking about.
Jesus asks a second question, again feigning ignorance: “What things?” He listens while they inform him about his own death, their shattered hopes, and the very dubious report from the women who had been at the tomb that morning.
The reader is, of course, amused by the irony of this discourse. What I want to suggest here is that Jesus is amused by it as well. He strings these men along.5 He will reveal himself to them in due course, but he first leads them through a process of learning:
Then he said to them, “O foolish ones, and slow of heart to believe in all that the prophets have spoken! Ought not the Messiah to have suffered these things and to enter into his glory?” And beginning at Moses and all the Prophets, he expounded to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself. (Luke 24:25–27)
The meaning of these Scriptures has been a preoccupation of Luke’s gospel from the start. It was the burden of Jesus’ first sermon at the synagogue in Nazareth. It was the subject of his conversation with Moses and Elijah on the mount of the Transfiguration. In the present scene, Jesus feigns ignorance precisely with a view to teaching these two disciples—and through them, all Christians to the end of time—his own understanding of the biblical text.
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All of Christian doctrine is rooted, I believe, in Jesus’ Paschal discourse to the two disciples on the way to Emmaus. The timing of that discourse is likewise significant, for it took place on the very day of his rising from the dead; on that day “the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the root of David,” demonstrated that he “was worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals.” He was worthy to do this because he was slain and had redeemed us to God by his blood (Revelation 5:5, 9). Jesus interprets Holy Scripture—indeed, he is the interpretation of Holy Scripture—because he “fulfills” Holy Scripture through the historical and theological events of his death and resurrection. His blood-redemption of the world is the formal principle of Christian biblical interpretation.
As for the two disciples on the way to Emmaus, Jesus continues to act his play to the end: “Then they drew near to the village where they were going, and he indicated that he would have gone farther” (Luke 24:28). This is at least the third time, since the trip started, that Jesus has teased these men in order to take the conversation in the direction he wants it to go. As though reluctantly—and only at their explicit invitation—“he went in to remain with them.”
At last, Jesus’ points of instruction having been made,
he took bread, said the blessing, and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they knew him; and he vanished from their sight. (Luke 24:30–31)
The two disciples promptly turned around and headed back to Jerusalem. As they returned, they reflected that their hearts had burned within them as the Stranger had spoken to them on the way and had interpreted the Scriptures.
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Luke does not say so, but one hopes they also apologized to Mary Magdalene and the other women for their unbelief.
A HARD CASE
Thomas was a pessimist. He belonged to that eminently practical school of philosophy, which can be summed up in two sentences, the first a hypothesis and the second an imperative: “If anything can go wrong, it will. Get used to it.”
Holding such a view, a person can never be too cautious, or he risks getting too rosy a picture of things. Near every silver lining, after all, lurks a cloud. Classical philosophy was interested in the meaning of life. Not Thomas. He is more interested in getting through life without falling to pieces. He tightens the reins on enthusiasm and dissuades his heart from anything faintly resembling hope. The last thing Thomas would trust is a bit of good news.
Although he is known to history as “Doubting Thomas,” I have always suspected that his doubting had less to do with his epistemological system than with his nervous system. Ever brave to drain the draught of sadness and misfortune, he dared to imbibe joy, if ever, only in small sips. If there was one thing Thomas knew how to handle, it was bad news. This was his specialty.
It came as no great surprise to Thomas, then, when he learned that disaster lay just down the road. Indeed, Thomas was the first among the apostles to embrace the imperative of the cross. Unlike Peter (“Get behind Me, Satan!”), Thomas put up no resistance to the news. When Jesus declared his intention of going south to “wake up” Lazarus, the other apostles expressed their fear at the prospect. “Rabbi,” they answered, “lately the Jews sought to stone you, and are you going there again?” It was Thomas who accepted the tragedy of the thing: “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (John 11:8, 16).
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Thomas may also have been something of a loner, which would explain why, when the risen Lord paid his first visit to the assembled apostles, Thomas “was not with them when Jesus came” (20:24). One speculates that he may have gone off to get a better grip on himself. It had been a very tough week, after all. Just as Thomas had suspected it would, Jesus’ life ended in tragedy. This, the apostle was sure, was the biggest tragedy he had ever seen.
Yet he was coping with it, somehow. Years of an inner docility to inevitable fate had schooled him in the discipline of endurance. Yes, he would get through this too. He was a man who could deal with misfortune and sorrow. Just don’t disturb Thomas with hope.
He returned to the other apostles in the Upper Room that evening, having wrestled his soul into a quiet acquiescence. It was the first day of a new week. Thomas had faced down the disaster, and his control over his nerves was starting to return.
What Thomas had not anticipated, however, was that the other apostles, during his absence, would completely lose their minds. “Well, Thomas,” one of them announced, “fine time to be gone. We have seen the Lord, and you just missed him!”
A whole week the risen Lord would make him wait, sharing that room with the ten other men to whom Thomas had hurled his challenge:
Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe. (John 20:25).
As each day passed, the case for skepticism was strengthened.
But then it happened. The room was suddenly filled with a great light. New evidence had arrived and stood now undeniable on the scene. Thomas sensed that his long-established pessimism was about to be shaken. He rose and faced the entering light. He saw the familiar face and recognized the familiar voice: “Peace to you!”
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We do not know if Thomas felt, at that moment, some urge to hide behind the other apostles. He was not given the chance. Turning to Thomas, the risen Jesus fully appreciated the irony of the hour. Nor would we be wrong, I think, to imagine a smile coming over the glorious face of the one who said to his beloved pessimist: “Reach your finger here, and inspect my hands; and reach your hand here, and place it into my side.”