Campfires

Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid [Mark 16:8].

As you likely know, over the past 1600 years or so, countless hours have been spent in study and barrels of ink have been spilled by Christians trying to discern the ending of the oldest Gospel. That is, of course, because the oldest manuscripts of Mark’s Gospel end abruptly with the verse noted above. Mark gives us no word about Mary Magdalene’s mistaking the risen Lord for a gardener [John 20:15]. Mark tells us nothing about “doubting Thomas [John 20:25].” With Mark, we don’t get to walk to Emmaus [Luke 24:13]. There is no “breakfast on the beach” [John 21:12]. If we want those post-resurrection stories, we’ll need to turn to other Gospel writers.

Over the years, some have concluded that Mark couldn’t have meant to end his Gospel as he apparently did. Evidence points to the fact that later, after Mark had completed his work, others tacked on what we read as verses 9-20 in order to fill in what they thought were some post-resurrection gaps. For Mark to finish his Gospel story with verse 8, well, it just wouldn’t do.

New Testament Greek scholars—remember that I don’t do Greek—have noted that if one renders Mark’s final words literally, the ending is even more abrupt. Then verse 8 reads, “To no one anything they said; afraid they were for ….”

Why the implicit ellipses? Of what were they afraid? Mark gives us not a clue. It’s as if someone jerked Mark away from his MacBook Pro in mid-sentence. Or did they? Might Mark have meant to end his Gospel story exactly as he appears to have done so, with verse 8?

We know from the early church that Gospel stories circulated orally before they were ever written down. To my mind, it might have happened something like this. Early Christians were sitting around an evening campfire. A special visitor—a witness—has joined them for the occasion. He or she bears wonderful stories about the days when Jesus walked in Palestine. The campfire group implores the visitor to tell them the story again. “Oh! It’s such a wonderful story.”

And so Mark—or was it Mary, Nicodemus or Zacchaeus?—would offer his or her recollection of our Lord’s journey toward Jerusalem. The storyteller would no doubt concentrate on the events of our Lord’s final week, of how he was taken and arrested, how he was scorned and derided, and of how he was crucified on the cross.

“And then what happened?” someone interjects, as the fire flickers, as everyone’s face is alight both with the echo of the flames and the excitement of hearing the glorious story firsthand.

As noted in the Gospel reading for the Easter Vigil [Mark 16:1-8, RCL, Year B], the traveler—it might have been Mark—continues:

Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome, who brought spices on the first day of the week to anoint Jesus’ body. The women had worried that they’d not be able to move the large stone covering the opening to the tomb. But they discover that it has already been rolled away. As they enter the tomb, they see a young man dressed in a white robe sitting to the right. He says, “Don’t be alarmed. You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here …. Go tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you to Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.’”

“Traveler, and then what happened?”

The traveler resumes:

Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid [Mark 16:8].

“And then what?”

The traveler concludes, “I don’t know what happened next. That’s the story as far as I know it.”

No one in those early days thought he or she was helping write the New Testament. They were sharing wonderful stories, beautiful stories—sacred stories—told to them by witnesses. They were sharing “the Faith,” sharing their faith. It is as if Mark gave us the essential details, but no more. I think he knew that the Christian story was alive—is alive—just like the risen Lord was/is alive. In their stories, the tellers walked through the last days of the life of Jesus. They knew the dread and confusion that had occurred at his death. They knew they were not prepared for the fullness of the revelation that came on Easter morn. Yet, as they told the story—as they retold the story—parts of it began to fit together in ways that could not earlier have imagined.

The woman at the well [John 4:5-30] would have chuckled with the group as she sat near the fire telling her own lovely story. “He offered me eternal life and I handed Him a bucket. Was I embarrassed!”

Nicodemus might have said something like, “I came to Him at night because I was afraid of what my powerful peers would think and say. He offered me true spirituality, true oneness with God, and I thought He was talking about returning to my mother’s womb. Now, however, His words truly speak to me.”

As Mark told his own special tale, he would no doubt have included the part about the Syrophoenician woman who successfully challenged Jesus [Mark 7:24-30]. He might have told them—no one knows—that he was the young man who fled naked from the Roman soldiers on the night our Lord was betrayed [Mark 7:24-30]. His details of what happened thereafter are scanty. The African American spiritual asks:

Were you there when they crucified my Lord? (Were you there?)

Were you there when they nail’d him to the cross? (Were you there?)

Were you there when they pierced him in the side? (Were you there?)

Were you there when the sun refused to shine? (Were you there?)

For Mark—and most of the others—the answer was no. They weren’t there. But soon, however, after the resurrection, they began to piece together the post-resurrection sightings, the miracles, the risen Lord’s gift of Grace to them, and they began to understand. Understanding didn’t come quick. It was no bolt of lightning out of the sky. But as the early witnesses continued to tell their stories, as writers like Mark, Luke, Matthew, and John began to write them down, the Faith began to grow. It took on a life of its own since it had, as its divine sponsor, the Comforter, Advocate, Intercessor, Counselor [in Greek, the Paracletos [John 14:26] promised and given by God. Even after the canonization of the sacred text, folks continued to sit around campfires, sharing stories and their faith.

I recall a series of such campfires that occurred 60 years ago (I remember that I was 13 at the time, so I’ve quickly done the math). For a week during the summer of ’64, at a Presbyterian assembly ground near Hendersonville, North Carolina, called “Camp Bear-a-Walla,” I sat with other young teenagers at a number of evening campfires. My group included Todd, my twin brother, the late Robert Lesslie (with whom I’d later reconnect when he, “my” Jane, and a number of close friends from Gastonia enrolled in Erskine College), and a cute girl named “Marty,” from Belmont (I’ll omit her last name), with whom both Robert and I were smitten that summer week.

As I remember, each evening our group leader—I’ve long forgotten his name— would gather us around a fire. He’d pick up a stick near the edge of the fire, stir the coals a bit, and remind us that as Christians, we followed a long line of storytellers. He reminded us that early Christians had sat around campfires much like ours. They’d shared experiences, concerns, fears, and stories. Then, each evening, turning to us, he’d say something like, “Why not continue that tradition with some of our own?”

He’d start the evening conversation. Those who were timid would not be pressured. But we all sat and listened to those around us. We sensed that ours is a shared Faith. Ours is a shared story. And slowly, around the campfire over several evenings, even the reluctant ones would enter into the conversation.

That campfire experience was something special. Like my brothers, I was raised within the church. Yet, the warmth of the fire, the warmth of that young Presbyterian pastor, and the warmth of friendship and faith that was kindled as we sat together—it began what I now know was a process. It was the spark that eventually led to this meditation. I’m convinced that Holy Spirit moved among us that summer so long ago. It planted seeds. It fostered faith. And then, Holy Spirit was patient enough to wait for the Gospel within to grow.

And here’s the important thing: Like the ending of Mark’s Gospel, during that splendid summer evening campfires, the Spirit did not immediately supply all the answers. It recognized that more sharing, more living, more stories were required. They’re still ongoing. Amen.