“They said to each other, ‘Who’ll roll back the stone from the tomb’s entrance?'” (Mark 16.3).
Jesus does little if anything in the account we read from Mark. If, as we spoke of last week, the book ends with the eighth verse of chapter sixteen, we don’t even hear him speak. There is, unlike Matthew, Luke, or John’s accounts, no breaking of bread, no breakfast on the beach, or even a meeting with the women in the garden. We don’t even know if the stone that has been moved was by his hand or by the young man’s who is sitting there, waiting for the women.
This is jarring in light of those other accounts and, again, why some later writers decided that this Gospel needed a less abrupt ending. Not only does this account leave us with many questions and so much uncertainty, but we don’t even know if Jesus remains the powerful figure he was before the Cross. And that, in light of the weakness and powerlessness we see beneath those darkened Friday skies is a lot to take.
There is something reassuring, isn’t there, when we read of the resurrected Jesus passing through locked doors, bringing forth a bounty of fish in the nets, even just breathing on the Disciples to give them courage. This is, after all, the Anointed One who has come to rescue us from a world broken and violent. It takes some of the sting out of seeing him beaten and bloody at the hands of the powers of this world.
But Mark’s account takes us back to the start of Jesus’ ministry, back before the healings and water-walking. It recalls when Jesus, with his hair and skin were still damp with the water of the Jordan, walked into the wilderness to be tempted to act, to perform, and to seize power. The silence that comes when the tomb stands empty and the women have run away sounds a lot like what came after each of the Adversary’s proposals.
Each time, you remember, Jesus responded to ruling the world, leaping from the temple, making rocks into sustenance with the silence of his action. He spoke, yes, words of Scripture, but he did nothing. He made no gesture of strength except to stand, unmoved.
Which is what we see here, as the dawn-light brightens the sky: Jesus chooses not to tear down world powers or create a splash that all the world could not miss. Instead he continues on in silence.
Of course, it is a silence that speaks louder than any words or actions. It is the subtleness of real power that needs no fanfare, no press, no exaltation. It is the quiet of true strength that knows all even death cannot overcome it.
Then again, there is a nod to that earlier story, recalling stones and bread. But, as Jesus does, it wasn’t what was expected. There were no loaves warm and buttered waiting for those women or for us.
But there was a stone that can sustain us, even in the face of death.
Risen One, in silence you speak louder than tyrants, in inaction you show power greater than any army. Move, in the night, the stones of sorrow, hate, and greed and reveal to all the love that conquers death.