Easter Reflection: Believing in Idle Tales

*Cross-posted at OnFire*

Luke 23:55 - 24:11

The women who had come with him from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how the body was laid. Then they returned, and prepared spices and ointments.

On the sabbath they rested according to the commandment.

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.

“But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them”(1). It is probably safe to say that most of us have been taught, from a very early age, not to tell idle tales. The fable of ‘the boy who cried wolf’ comes to mind. Do you remember it? A young boy is sent into the field to tend a flock of sheep, which is pretty boring work. Thinking he would play a practical joke on the townspeople, he cries out that there is a wolf attacking the sheep, causing everyone to drop what they are doing to come to his aid. When they arrive, there is no wolf, only the boy who is amused by his ability to trick his elders. They tell him not to do it again, but of course he does, with the same outcome. But then one day a wolf does come. And when the boy calls out for help, no one comes to his aid because they think he is once again trying to trick them. In some tellings of the story the sheep die; in others, it is the boy himself who gets eaten by the wolf. The moral of the story? Don’t tell idle tales, because when the day comes that you’re telling the truth, people might not believe you.

These words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. The women who came to the tomb on that Easter morning stumbled upon a traumatic surprise: the body of Jesus was gone. Not only that, but suddenly two strange men appear before them, bringing good news that initially begins almost as an interrogation. “Why do you look for the living among the dead? Remember how he told you...?” The women do remember, and they run to tell the others, to tell their story of what has occurred that morning at the tomb, but they are not believed. The women try to break the silence of fear and mourning, but their words fall on deaf ears. They are not believed. Sometimes it is easier to believe the truth is not truth at all, but only an idle tale.

On Wednesday, March 20 students at Drew Theological School gathered together to break a different kind of silence. At 11:20am, during the weekly chapel service, members of Dr. Traci West’s class, “Ethically Responding to Violence Against Women” broke the silence surrounding violence against not only women, but also men and transgendered individuals. Students in the class offered various reflections surrounding the issue of violence. One student shared the concerns they had of offering pastoral care to female victims of male violence when they themselves were male. Another student shared her story of being raped by her boyfriend in undergraduate school, and the ways in which her religious upbringing had kept her from seeking help. A third student shared a story that reflected the complicated experiences of immigrant women who are victims of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse, whose stories are often not believed. After each reflection a piece of pottery was broken, symbolizing not only the violence that had been done but also the power of breaking the silence surrounding these multiple forms of violence.

That very same evening students, faculty, and even the dean of the theological school performed Eve Ensler’s “A Memory, a Monologue, a Rant, and a Prayer”, a collection of monologues that told stories of violence against women and girls. Stories of young adolescent girls who were nearly sexually assaulted at parties. Stories of women pulling the trigger during times of war. Stories of girls who were hidden in vats of banana beer to protect them from soldiers looking to rape and kill them during civil war. Story after story after story... stories that, when seen in the paper or on the internet may be glossed over, maybe not as an idle tale, but as something that happens somewhere else. Something that happens to other people. Something that is far removed from many of our experiences. But that night, in that space, as these stories were embodied by the men and women of the Drew Theological School community, the truth came out. These stories were not idle tales. They were believed.

Sometimes it is easier to believe that the truth is nothing but an idle tale, to remain in denial. Like the disciples on that first Easter it can be easier to not believe the women’s stories, because if we were to believe them... then we would have to do something.

In verse 12 the story continues: But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened. The note in my study bible says that “other ancient authorities lack verse 12” (2) which causes me to ask, why was this part of the story added? Is it perhaps because a later community was uncomfortable with the disciple’s lack of belief? Did they need to have someone in the story believe that the women could have been telling the truth? Like Peter in the story, something about these women’s stories seems to be more than an idle tale. And like Peter, we find ourselves in a place of needing to know the truth for ourselves, leading us to the tomb, to the source of the story. What we find is that the story is true: the tomb is empty, the body is gone, the silence has been broken.

Peter goes home, amazed. But we cannot simply go home, not after hearing the truth. There are other silences that need to be broken, other bodies to stand in solidarity with, other stories that need to be told again and again until the truth is revealed. We must break the silence surrounding violence against women, be it by praying and preaching, or listening and speaking, or even dancing in the street as a part of One Billion Rising, the “biggest mass global action to end violence against women and girls in the history of humankind” (3).

Perhaps most importantly, we must have ears and hearts open to hearing the stories. We must hear the truth in what the women say; we must believe. And then we must run, to see and share the truth for ourselves, breaking the silence, re-envisioning the world.

(1) I am indebted to fellow classmate Kelly Lee (Drew Theological School, ‘13) who made the connection between the women’s resurrection story not being believed and the way in which women’s stories of abuse are often not believed.

(2) The New Oxford Annotated Study Bible, NRSV

(3) http://onebillionrising.org/

‘Celebrate and Rejoice’?: A Re-telling of Luke 15:1-2, 11-32, the Parable of the Prodigal Son

“Every time a girl reads a womanless history she thinks less of herself”. This is a quote I stumbled across several years ago while preparing a sermon for Women’s History month, and it continues to resonate with me today. As we gather on this March Sunday, just a few days after International Women's Day during Women’s History month, I think we have cause to celebrate, even rejoice. We have come a long way in revising our histories; our textbooks are no longer quite so womanless, our children are being taught in classrooms about the many contributions women have made to politics and science, to society as a whole. We are continually re-imagining the roles that women and girls can play in this society and culture that is still working towards gender equality. But, unfortunately, this quote still holds true. Although we have made progress towards a history that includes women, there are still many books that women-less. There are still too many stories in which women are absent.

The Bible is one of the biggest culprits. Take our gospel lesson this morning, for example. The parable of the prodigal son is a familiar one, a story most of us probably grew up with. It may even be a favorite amongst the many stories that Jesus shared with his disciples. But let’s take a look at this story from a female listener’s perspective. The human, male Jesus is eating with tax collectors and sinners, when some Pharisees and scribes come and start grumbling about how Jesus is eating with sinners. Aside from the collective group of “sinners” which could include women, all of the audience members- tax collectors, scribes, and Pharisees- are male. And Jesus tells a story, a story of a man who has two sons. Sounds like a womanless history to me.

But supposed it doesn’t have to be that way? Suppose we do a little bit of creative re-imagining in order to fill in the gaps that are left by the missing female characters? Suppose there was a man who had two sons... and a daughter.

There was a man who had two sons- and a daughter. The oldest son was responsible, a hard worker. He dedicated his life to working in his father’s fields, and had no desire to leave home. The younger son was, well, the youngest child. He wasn’t old enough to get into any real trouble yet, and he did small chores around the house. Between the two sons was a daughter, the middle child. She had always been a good girl: obedient, hard working, responsible. But she wanted to see a little bit of the world before she settled down and got married. She wanted to experience something other than her father’s fields and tents and the local watering hole. So one day she asked her father if he would allow her to go out into the big, wide world for a time. Being a kind man who loved his children, he said yes. There was no inheritance to give her, because she was a girl, but he had put aside some money for her dowry and he gave her a small portion of it to use on her adventure. He also gave her her mother’s jewelry, which he had saved after she had died giving birth to their youngest son. Then, with a blessing and a prayer, he let her go into the big, wide world.

The girl set out, her heart light, excited to experience the sights and sounds and smells of the outside world. But soon she became disheartened; people did not talk to her like they did back home. The men in the marketplace would not do business with her. The women whispered behind their hands about this ‘loose woman’ who was out in the world on her own. The girl was very lonely, and she thought about going home, but she still had hope that there would be something grand and wonderful here in the big, wide world.

Her money ran out very quickly, and she had to sell her mother’s jewelry in order to eat. Some of the men started noticing her, and they would buy her food or trinkets if she did things for them. There was one man who was nice to her... until the day he wasn’t. She didn’t know what she had done wrong, but he hit her, and then threw her out on the street. Then there was another man, and another man, and another man... and each one taught her she was ‘less than’... She entered into each new relationship with the hope that this man would be different: would be honest like her brother, or kind like her father. But her spirit and her body were broken with each successive relationship. She thought about going home... but what would she tell her father?

Eventually she became pregnant. When the time came for her to have her child she walked -alone- for miles to reach the clinic. Her labor was long, and she almost died- just like her mother. But she survived, and the child survived, and she took the long road back to the man’s house only to find that he was gone. She sat on the street and cried as her baby sucked and cried. What was she to do? ‘I know,’ she thought. ‘I will go home. I will go home, and I will say to my father, “Father, I have sinned before heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your daughter. But please, have mercy on my child and allow me to come home.’”

She began the long journey home, and it took her a long time. Her body was weak from giving birth, and she had very little food. Finally, she saw her father’s tents in the distance, and she fell to ground weeping. Suddenly, her father was running toward her, calling out to her with arms held open. When he reached her he scooped her into his arms as he had done when she was just a child, and he carried her home. When they reached the tents he called out:

“Quickly! Bring out a robe- the finest one!- and put it on her. Put a ring on her finger and sandals on her feet, get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate! Because this daughter of mine was lost, but now is found! She was dead, and is alive again!” Then he looked into his daughter’s eyes. It was true: she had been lost and was now found, she had been dead and was now alive. But she had come back broken.

“Wait!” he called again. “Not yet. We will celebrate and rejoice... but not yet.”

And he gave her a place to lay her head, to rest her weary body. He gave her space and time to heal, giving her silence to speak into. They would not celebrate and rejoice until she was once again whole.

Is now the time to celebrate and rejoice? We have come so far... but we have much further to go. Now is not the time, not when every 90 seconds a woman in the world dies giving birth to a child. Now is not the time, not when women are being gang raped on public buses or in the streets of India. Now is the not the time, not when a teenage girl is repeatedly raped as she is carried from party to party by high school athletes, who take pictures and videos as they laugh hysterically at their own antics.

Now is not the time.

But I pray that someday, we will be able to celebrate and rejoice: when women no longer fear walking down a dark street at night, or worry about drinking in a bar, or what outfit they’re going to wear. When we are able to teach our boys and our men how to treat women with respect and dignity, instead of bodies to be used. When women and girls are recognized, not simply as someone’s wife, or daughter, or sister but as a person, with sacred worth... that is when we can gather together to celebrate and rejoice.

A Plea for Resurrection

Luke:

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body.While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.

On the first day of the week, while it was still dark, the women went to the tomb. They went, laden down with herbs and spices, with oils and aloes, with tearstained faces and broken hearts. On the first day of the week they approached the tomb, knowing what they would find: a corpse. A body that had been tortured and mutilated in life, and that would be stinking and rotting in death. The body of their friend, their partner, their lover, their son. The body of Christ. They came expecting to find death, because what else does one find in a graveyard?

Early on the last day of the week, when the sun was just beginning to break over the hills, the woman rose from her bed. She went to the store to buy the necessary things: vitamins, a pregnancy test, and tampons- just in case. She went home and crept quietly through the house, not wanting to wake her friend, her partner, her lover. She peed in a cup, dipped the wand in the liquid gold for 15 seconds, set a timer for three minutes, and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Her husband arose and, knowing what was happening behind closed doors, fluttered around like a worried hen as she calmly unloaded the dishwasher. With the beeping of the timer he flew to see what news awaited them, and when he came out she did not have to go in to see for herself, although she did anyway. ‘Pregnant,’ the wand said, clear as day, and they both laughed in surprise, and delight, and disbelief.

Midday on the second day of the week, amid the hustle and bustle of thirty sweaty children, she felt a twinge. She resisted going to check- she waited until the children were gone, until she had cleaned up from snack and craft and game time. She waited until the lights were out and the fans were off before going into a bathroom that was not her own to see. There was blood.

Early on the first day of the week, while it is still dark, she will rise like those women long ago. She will carry no spices, no oils, no aloes. But she will carry a heavy heart. As the women go to the house of the dead, she will worship with the living. When the women find that the tomb is empty, she will remember that for her it is not a tomb, but her womb that lacks its occupant. While the women come to recognize that it is not death, after all, that they are witnesses to but rather life, she will bear silent witness that instead of life her body has brought forth- nothing. She wonders if there can be any good news, any resurrection tale for her this day, the day that should have been the first day her child spent in this world?

The tomb is a womb and the womb is a tomb and so the cycle continues, forever and ever, amen- 

BUT- 

how can there be any easter butterfly, when the hope for new life has been plucked from its cocoon far too soon? Too soon, even, to hear a heartbeat, so she wonders if it was ever really life at all...

Early in the morning, while it was still dark, the women went to the tomb and found a miracle. I’m not asking, God, that my womb be filled this day... only that someday it might bring forth new life. And that this easter the stone might be rolled away from my heart, so that the tomb that houses the grief and sorrow over this dream child might become as empty as Christ’s tomb.