Central
to the message proclaimed by the apostles was the news that God had raised
Jesus from the dead. Because of this message, they found themselves imprisoned
and under genuine threat of death, instigated by the Sadducees, who did not
believe in the resurrection. But there are plenty of people who don’t believe
in resurrection. They might ridicule us, dismiss us as delusional, even think
us wicked for holding out false hope to vulnerable people; but no one is
calling for members of the Church of England to be sent to prison for declaring
in the Creed that ‘We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of
the world to come’. So why were the Sadducees so motivated? To answer his, we
need to understand what resurrection meant.
The
most explicit reference to resurrection in the writings we know as the Old
Testament is found in a vision recorded in Daniel chapter 12. The context is this. God’s people were serially unfaithful,
resulting in repeated cycles of judgement, repentance, restoration, turning away
from God, and repeat. They had even been taken away into exile; would return,
rebuild the temple—eventually—but once again, having re-established themselves,
would prove unfaithful. And so, God would withdraw his hand of protection yet
again, allowing the Greeks to overwhelm Jerusalem, desecrate the temple, and
put to death many Jews who remained faithful even unto death. In this context,
Daniel has a vision in which many are raised from the dead. It is not a
universal resurrection, but one that acts as a sign of the renewal and restoration
of God’s people following judgement. Those who had been faithful unto martyrdom
would be raised to honour; while representatives of those who had brought
destruction on Jerusalem would be raised to shame. Resurrection, then, is a
sign, first of judgement of the people as a whole; and then of vindication for
a faithful remnant. Significantly, Matthew’s Gospel notes that at the moment
Jesus died, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom
(prefiguring its destruction) and the tombs were opened and many bodies of the
saints who had fallen asleep (died) were raised (Matthew 27:51, 52).
Jesus’
favourite way of speaking of his own death and resurrection—both before his
death and after his resurrection—was to quote Hosea, who paints a picture of
God having torn and struck down his people, yet counsels repentance, for ‘After
two days he will revive us; on the third day he will raise us up, that we may
live before him’ (Hosea 6:2). And
Jesus also cites Jonah, the prophet who spent three days and nights in the
belly of a big fish: a prophet, representing Israel, judged for being
unfaithful, and then restored, to declare God’s judgement on Nineveh, that is on
one of the surrounding nations, an enemy of God’s people. Again, the
significance of death and resurrection is judgement (, renewal,) and
vindication.
Jesus’
death and resurrection are to be understood, in the light of the prophets, as
notice of an imminent destruction of Jerusalem followed by the vindication of
those who remained faithful to God—those who recognised that God had sent Jesus
to them. In short, notice has been served on the social order over which the
priestly class ruled, with the strong implication that in the new world order
they would be replaced by this rabble of uneducated northern fishermen. That is
what was so offensive to the Sadducees; so dangerous a message that it must be
silenced at all costs. But the message came to pass, in the siege of Jerusalem
and destruction of the temple in AD70, the collapse of their world, and the
emergence of something else from the rubble: a Christian community spreading
across the Empire like wildfire; and a Jewish community centred on the
synagogue and not the temple.
We
have domesticated the resurrection. We have made it about my personal
continuation beyond death; my being reunited with members of my family. But
while I believe that I will sleep with my ancestors and, when God makes the
whole world new, we shall be raised imperishable, this is secondary to the
biblical narrative (and it certainly won’t get me imprisoned). Interestingly,
in the service for the burial of the dead in the Book of Common Prayer—the rite
by which all Church of England funerals were conducted from 1662 until 1980—the
deceased is not once mentioned by name, nor is there any pastoral
acknowledgement of their family. The focus is entirely on the rightful
judgement of God on humanity, and on God’s provision for the vindication of the
elect, even beyond death, through Jesus Christ our mediator and redeemer.
This
is, in effect, the story of the Great Flood, and of God’s instruction to Noah
to build an ark, to preserve life so that the world can begin again. It is the
story of the Passover. It is there in Jesus’ image of a hired hand who flees at
the first sign of danger, and the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for the
sheep and takes it up again. It is the same story repeated over again in the
Bible. A story that reveals certain consistent truths about what
God—specifically, the god Yahweh—is like.
Firstly,
we are invited to see God at work to bring judgement, through the disasters
that befall us, both ‘natural disasters’ and war. This is incredibly difficult
for us, because we want to present a god of love, not wrath; because we are
appalled at the way in which ‘the innocent’ are most impacted by disaster and
those ‘most guilty’ are least affected; and because of the danger of claiming
that ‘God is on our side’ to justify gross injustice. And yet the world is so
full of injustice, at the deepest level we need a God who will not stand by. We
need a God who is slow to anger, yes; but who will say, Enough! The irony is
that we place more hope in the rough justice of the mob than in the considered
judgement of God: as a society we are truly a Good Friday people. Disaster does
not come from the hand of God, but from God withdrawing his hand, for a time,
and for a purpose: and that might help us to reframe the events we hear of in
the news, from a narrative of fear to a narrative of faith and hope and love.
Secondly,
we are invited to see God at work to provide for mercy, to bring a community
through The End Of The World As They Know It and out the other side. A
community that is so small it can never say, “We survived because of our
strength, or our effort.” A community that gets to say, “We have lost
everything that was familiar and comforting, and in our disorientation and
discomfort we hold on to the faithfulness of God.”
And
thirdly, we are invited to see judgement and vindication, death and
resurrection, as demonstrating God’s steadfast lovingkindness and covenanted
commitment to all creation. It is a matter on which God has staked her
reputation, for us to discover. The faithful community is for the world,
because God is for the world.
Our
Persian community is a sign to us of death and resurrection. But I think we
need to note that they are here, in our midst. They are not simply a sign
that God will bring about change in Iran,
but that God will bring about change here
in the UK. They are part of a great mass of displaced people who are a sign
that God is once again going to judge the nations in great upheaval; and, in
preparation, is calling people into a community of grace, a community of
trusting, costly faithfulness; whose vindication will be seen (only) on the
other side of what is heading our way.
Now,
I have conversations with many of you. I listen to you; and I know that many of
you are afraid at present—and understandably so. I know that there are older
members of our congregation who fear for your grandchildren, for the state of
the world they must grow up in, which appears to be more unstable than it has
been in a long time. Although that may have more to do with perception than
reality. I know that there are members of our congregation who cannot bear to
watch or read any news at present, because it is so bleak. I know it is not
only the elderly who are afraid: I know that there is a widespread hysteria among
the pupils at my boys’ school that the world is going to end imminently in a
nuclear holocaust; I know that even the less excitable are exercised by
bullying, or the massive uncertainties of a post-Brexit future. I know that
many of our Iranians live with the fear that they will be refused leave to
remain in this country, and that they will be deported. I know that some of you
are fearful regarding what we, collectively and especially in the West, are
doing to the environment.
Such
fears should be taken seriously. There is no reason, for example, why we should
not see what has overtaken Syria in recent years, overtaking our own cities;
let alone our capacity to sabotage the economy. Only a false prophet cries,
“Peace! Peace! All will be well!” when there is no peace. Nevertheless, we are not called to fear, but to faith and hope and
love. We—together, helping one another—look for the resurrection of the dead,
and the life of the world to come—in
history, first and foremost, as well as ultimately beyond that horizon.
And
so my word to you today, on this the Fourth Sunday of Easter, is: Jesus. Look to Jesus. Let us fix our eyes on
Jesus, put to death by human hands and raised to life by God. Jesus, who takes
up in his body the judgement and the vindication of God, rejected by men of
power but made the keystone that locks judgement and mercy in position. Jesus,
in whose name alone there is salvation. His name: not in my name, nor in neo-liberal
philosophy and politics and economics. Look to Jesus, who, on the day God
raised him from the dead stood among his disciples and said, “Peace be with
you!” and, “Do not be afraid!”—look to Jesus, who still does.
