C9 - Jesus Resurrection from the Dead
What Is the Resurrection of Jesus?
âIf Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain. We are even found to be misrepresenting God, because we testified of God that he raised Christâ (1 Cor 15:14-15). With these words Saint Paul explains quite drastically what faith in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ means for the Christian message overall: it is its very foundation. The Christian faith stands or falls with the truth of the testimony that Christ is risen from the dead.
If this were taken away, it would still be possible to piece together from the Christian tradition a series of interesting ideas about God and men, about manâs being and his obligations, a kind of religious world view: but the Christian faith itself would be dead. Jesus would be a failed religious leader, who despite his failure remains great and can cause us to reflect. But he would then remain purely human, and his authority would extend only so far as his message is of interest to us. He would no longer be a criterion; the only criterion left would be our own judgment in selecting from his heritage what strikes us as helpful. In other words, we would be alone. Our own judgment would be the highest instance.
Only if Jesus is risen has anything really new occurred that changes the world and the situation of mankind. Then he becomes the criterion on which we can rely. For then God has truly revealed himself.
To this extent, in our quest for the figure of Jesus, the Resurrection is the crucial point. Whether Jesus merely was or whether he also is - this depends on the Resurrection. In answering yes or no to this question, we are taking a stand not simply on one event among others, but on the figure of Jesus as such.
Therefore it is necessary to listen with particular attention as the New Testament bears witness to the Resurrection. Yet first we have to acknowledge that this testimony, considered from a historical point of view, is presented to us in a particularly complex form and gives rise to many questions.
What actually happened? Clearly, for the witnesses who encountered the risen Lord, it was not easy to say. They were confronted with what for them was an entirely new reality, far beyond the limits of their experience. Much as the reality of the event overwhelmed them and impelled them to bear witness, it was still utterly unlike anything they had previously known. Saint Mark tells us that the disciples on their way down from the mountain of the Transfiguration were puzzled by the saying of Jesus that the Son of Man would ârise from the deadâ. And they asked one another what ârising from the deadâ could mean (9:9-10). And indeed, what does it mean? The disciples did not know, and they could find out only through encountering the reality itself.
Anyone approaching the Resurrection accounts in the belief that he knows what rising from the dead means will inevitably misunderstand those accounts and will then dismiss them as meaningless. Rudolf Bultmann raised an objection against Resurrection faith by arguing that even if Jesus had come back from the grave, we would have to say that âa miraculous natural event such as the resuscitation of a dead manâ would not help us and would be existentially irrelevant (cf. New Testament and Mythology, p. 7).
Now it must be acknowledged that if in Jesusâ Resurrection we were dealing simply with the miracle of a resuscitated corpse, it would ultimately be of no concern to us. For it would be no more important than the resuscitation of a clinically dead person through the art of doctors. For the world as such and for our human existence, nothing would have changed. The miracle of a resuscitated corpse would indicate that Jesusâ Resurrection was equivalent to the raising of the son of the widow of Nain (Lk 7:11-17), the daughter of Jairus (Mk 5:22-24, 35-43 and parallel passages), and Lazarus (Jn 11:1-44). After a more or less short period, these individuals returned to their former lives, and then at a later point they died definitively.
The New Testament testimonies leave us in no doubt that what happened in the âResurrection of the Son of Manâ was utterly different. Jesusâ Resurrection was about breaking out into an entirely new form of life, into a life that is no longer subject to the law of dying and becoming, but lies beyond it - a life that opens up a new dimension of human existence. Therefore the Resurrection of Jesus is not an isolated event that we could set aside as something limited to the past, but it constitutes an âevolutionary leapâ (to draw an analogy, albeit one that is easily misunderstood). In Jesusâ Resurrection a new possibility of human existence is attained that affects everyone and that opens up a future, a new kind of future, for mankind.
So Paul was absolutely right to link the resurrection of Christians and the Resurrection of Jesus inseparably together: âIf the dead are not raised, then Christ has not been raised ⌠But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have fallen asleepâ (1 Cor 15:16, 20). Christâs Resurrection is either a universal event, or it is nothing, Paul tells us. And only if we understand it as a universal event, as the opening up of a new dimension of human existence, are we on the way toward any kind of correct understanding of the New Testament Resurrection testimony.
On this basis we can understand the unique character of this New Testament testimony. Jesus has not returned to a normal human life in this world like Lazarus and the others whom Jesus raised from the dead. He has entered upon a different life, a new life - he has entered the vast breadth of God himself, and it is from there that he reveals himself to his followers.
For the disciples, too, this was something utterly unexpected, to which they were only slowly able to adjust. Jewish faith did indeed know of a resurrection of the dead at the end of time. New life was linked to the inbreaking of a new world and thus made complete sense. If there is a new world, then there is also a new mode of life there. But a resurrection into definitive otherness in the midst of the continuing old world was not foreseen and therefore at first made no sense. So the promise of resurrection remained initially unintelligible to the disciples.
The process of coming to Resurrection faith is analogous to what we saw in the case of the Cross. Nobody had thought of a crucified Messiah. Now the âfactâ was there, and it was necessary, on the basis of that fact, to take a fresh look at Scripture. We saw in the previous chapter how Scripture yielded new insights in the light of the unexpected turn of events and how the âfactâ then began to make sense. Admittedly, the new reading of Scripture could begin only after the Resurrection, because it was only through the Resurrection that Jesus was accredited as the one sent by God. Now people had to search Scripture for both Cross and Resurrection, so as to understand them in a new way and thereby come to believe in Jesus as the Son of God.
This also presupposes that for the disciples the Resurrection was just as real as the Cross. It presupposes that they were simply overwhelmed by the reality, that, after their initial hesitation and astonishment, they could no longer ignore that reality. It is truly he. He is alive; he has spoken to us; he has allowed us to touch him, even if he no longer belongs to the realm of the tangible in the normal way.
The paradox was indescribable. He was quite different, no mere resuscitated corpse, but one living anew and forever in the power of God. And yet at the same time, while no longer belonging to our world, he was truly present there, he himself. It was an utterly unique experience, which burst open the normal boundaries of experience and yet for the disciples was quite beyond doubt. This explains the unique character of the Resurrection accounts: they speak of something paradoxical, of something that surpasses all experience and yet is utterly real and present.
But could it really be true? Can we - as men of the modern world - put our faith in such testimony? âEnlightenedâ thinking would say no. For Gerd LĂźdemann, for example, it seems clear that in consequence of the ârevolution in the scientific image of the world ⌠the traditional concepts of Jesusâ Resurrection are to be considered outdatedâ (quoted in Wilckens, Theologie des Neun Testaments 1/2, pp. 119-20). But what exactly is this âscientific image of the worldâ? How far can it be considered normative? Hartmut Gese in his important article âDie Frage des Weltbildesâ, to which I should like to draw attention, has painstakingly described the limits of this normativity.
Naturally there can be no contradiction of clear scientific data. The Resurrection accounts certainly speak of something outside our world of experience. They speak of something new, something unprecedented - a new dimension of reality that is revealed. What already exists is not called into question. Rather we are told that there is a further dimension, beyond what was previously known. Does that contradict science? Can there really only ever be what there has always been? Can there not be something unexpected, something unimaginable, something new? If there really is a God, is he not able to create a new dimension of human existence, a new dimension of reality altogether? Is not creation actually waiting for this last and highest âevolutionary leapâ, for the union of the finite with the infinite, for the union of man and God, for the conquest of death?
Throughout the history of the living, the origins of anything new have always been small, practically invisible, and easily overlooked. The Lord himself has told us that âheavenâ in this world is like a mustard seed, the smallest of all the seeds (Mt 13:31-32), yet contained within it are the infinite potentialities of God. In terms of world history, Jesusâ Resurrection is improbable; it is the smallest mustard seed of history.
This reversal of proportions is one of Godâs mysteries. The great - the mighty - is ultimately the small. And the tiny mustard seed is something truly great. So it is that the Resurrection has entered the world only through certain mysterious appearances to the chosen few. And yet it was truly the new beginning for which the world was silently waiting. And for the few witnesses - precisely because they themselves could not fathom it - it was such an overwhelmingly real happening, confronting them so powerfully, that every doubt was dispelled, and they stepped forth before the world with an utterly new fearlessness in order to bear witness: Christ is truly risen.
The Two Different Types of Resurrection Testimony
Let us turn now to the individual Resurrection accounts in the New Testament. As we consider them, the first thing we notice is that there are two different types of testimony, which we may label the âconfessional traditionâ and the ânarrative traditionâ.
A. The Confessional Tradition
The confessional tradition crystallizes the essentials in short phrases that establish the kernel of what took place. They are an expression of Christian identity, a âconfessionâ indeed, by which Christians recognize one another, by which they identify themselves before God and man. I would like to propose three examples.
At the end of the Emmaus story, the two disciples find the eleven Apostles assembled in Jerusalem and are greeted with these words: âThe Lord has risen indeed, and has appeared to Simon!â (Lk 24:34). In its context, this functions as a brief narrative, but it also serves as a formula of acclamation and confession, in which the essential is proclaimed: the event itself and the witness who testifies to it.
We find a combination of two formulae in the tenth chapter of the Letter to the Romans: âIf you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be savedâ (v. 9). In this example - as also in the account of Peterâs confession at Caesarea Philippi (cf. Mt 16:13-16) - there are two elements to the confession: it is said that Jesus is âLordâ, which in terms of the Old Testament meaning of the word refers to his divinity. Then comes the confession of the fundamental historical event: God raised him from the dead. This already makes clear what the significance of the confession is for Christians: it brings salvation. It leads us to the truth that is salvation. We have here a prototype of the confessional formulae used in Baptism, which always link Christâs lordship to the story of his life, death, and Resurrection. In Baptism man hands himself over to the new life of the Risen One. Confession becomes life.
By far the most important of the Easter confessions is found in the fifteenth chapter of the First Letter to the Corinthians. As with the account of the Last Supper (1 Cor 11:23-26), Paul emphasizes strongly that he is not speaking on his own initiative here: âI delivered to you as of first importance what I also receivedâ (15:3). Paul deliberately takes his place within the chain of reception and transmission. Here, regarding the essential content on which everything depends, what is demanded above all is fidelity. And Paul, who characteristically places so much emphasis on his personal witness of the Risen One and on the apostolate that he received directly from the Lord, insists here with great emphasis on literal fidelity in the transmission of what has been received, on the common tradition of the Church from her beginnings.
The Gospel of which Paul speaks is the foundation âin which you stand, by which you are saved, if you hold it [that is, the word, the literal formulation] fastâ that âI preached to youâ (15:1-2). In this central message, what matters is not only the content, but also the literal formulation, which must be preserved intact. This link with the very earliest tradition is the source of both the unity of the faith and its universally binding nature. âWhether then it was I or they [the others who proclaimed it]: so we preach and so you believedâ (15:11). In its nucleus the faith, even down to its literal formulation, is one - it binds all Christians.
When exactly and from whom Paul received this confession has been the object of further inquiry, just as we saw in the case of the Last Supper tradition. In any event, it forms part of the primary catechesis that he as a convert would have received while still in Damascus, but its essential content was doubtless formulated in Jerusalem and therefore dates back to the 30s - a real testimony to the origins.
The text handed down in the First Letter to the Corinthians has been extended by Paul, inasmuch as he has added, among others, his own encounter with the risen Lord. For Saint Paulâs self-understanding and for the faith of the early Church I find it significant that Paul felt entitled to add on to the original confession, with equally binding character, the risen Lordâs appearance to him and the apostolic mission that came with it. He was evidently convinced that this revelation of the risen Lord to him was still a central part of the emerging creedal formula, that it belonged to the faith of the universal Church as an essential element intended for all.
Let us listen now to the whole text, as Paul presents it:
âThat Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve. Then he appeared to more than five hundred brethren at one time, most of whom are still alive ⌠Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles. Last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared also to meâ (1 Cor 15:3-8).
In the view of most exegetes, the original confession ends with verse 5, that is, with the appearance to Cephas and the Twelve. From further traditions, Paul added James, the group of over five hundred brethren, and âallâ the Apostles - here he is evidently applying an understanding of âapostlesâ that extends beyond the circle of the Twelve. James is important because with him, Jesusâ family, who had previously been decidedly ambivalent (cf. Mk 3:20-21, 31-35; Jn 7:5), enter the circle of believers and also because James is the one who assumed the leadership of the Mother Church in the Holy City after Peterâs flight from Jerusalem.
Jesusâ death
Let us turn now to the confession itself, which demands more detailed consideration. It begins with the phrase: âChrist died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures.â The fact of his death is qualified by two additional expressions: âfor our sinsâ and âin accordance with the Scripturesâ.
Let us begin with the second expression. It is important for the whole approach taken by the early Church toward the facts of Jesusâ life. What the risen Lord taught the disciples on the road to Emmaus now becomes the basic method for understanding the figure of Jesus: everything that happened to him is fulfilment of the âScripturesâ. Only on the basis of the âScripturesâ, the Old Testament, can he be understood at all. With reference to Jesusâ death on the Cross, this means that his death is no coincidence. It belongs in the context of Godâs ongoing relationship with his people, from which it receives its inner logic and its meaning. It is an event in which the words of Scripture are fulfilled; it bears within itself Logos, or logic; it proceeds from the word and returns to the word; it surrounds the word and fulfills it.
A pointer toward a deeper understanding of this fundamental relationship with the word is given by the earlier qualification: Christ died âfor our sinsâ. Because his death has to do with the word of God, it has to do with us, it is a dying âforâ. In the chapter on Jesusâ death on the Cross, we saw what an enormous wealth of tradition in the form of scriptural allusions feeds into the background here, chief among them the fourth Suffering Servant Song (Is 53). Insofar as Jesusâ death can be located within this context of Godâs word and Godâs love, it is differentiated from the kind of death resulting from manâs original sin as a consequence of his presumption in seeking to be like God, a presumption that could only lead to manâs plunge into wretchedness, into the destiny of death.
Jesusâ death is of another kind: it is occasioned, not by the presumption of men, but by the humility of God. It is not the inevitable consequence of a false hubris, but the fulfillment of a love in which God himself comes down to us, so as to draw us back up to himself. Jesusâ death is rooted, not in the sentence of expulsion from Paradise, but in the Suffering Servant Songs. It is a death in the context of his service of expiation - a death that achieves reconciliation and becomes a light for the nations. Thus it is that the twofold qualification that Paul adds, when handing on this creedal formula, to the expression âhe diedâ opens up the path from the Cross to the Resurrection.
The question of the empty tomb
Next in the confession of faith, abruptly and without commentary, comes the statement âhe was buried.â This makes it clear that Jesus really was dead, that he fully participated in the human destiny of death. Jesus traveled the path of death right to the bitter and seemingly hopeless end in the tomb. Jesusâ tomb was evidently known. And here the question naturally arises: Did he remain in the tomb? Or was it empty after he had risen?
In modern theology this question has been extensively debated. Most commentators come to the conclusion that an empty tomb would not be enough to prove the Resurrection. If the tomb were indeed empty, there could be some other explanation for it. On this basis, the commentators conclude that the question of the empty tomb is immaterial and can therefore be ignored, which tends also to mean that it probably was not empty anyway, so at least a dispute with modern science over the possibility of bodily resurrection can be avoided. But at the basis of all this lies a distorted way of posing the question.
Naturally, the empty tomb as such does not prove the Resurrection. Mary Magdalene, in Johnâs account, found it empty and assumed that someone must have taken Jesusâ body away. The empty tomb is no proof of the Resurrection, that much is undeniable. Conversely, though, one might ask: Is the Resurrection compatible with the body remaining in the tomb? Can Jesus be risen if he is still lying in the tomb? What kind of resurrection would that be? Today, notions of resurrection have been developed for which the fate of the corpse is of no consequence. Yet the content of the Resurrection becomes so vague in the process that one must ask with what kind of reality we are dealing in this form of Christianity.
Be that as it may: Thomas SĂśding, Ulrich Wilckens, and others rightly point out that in Jerusalem at the time, the proclamation of the Resurrection would have been completely impossible if anyone had been able to point to a body lying in the tomb. To this extent, for the sake of posing the question correctly, we have to say that the empty tomb as such, while it cannot prove the Resurrection, is nevertheless a necessary condition for Resurrection faith, which was specifically concerned with the body and, consequently, with the whole of the person.
In Saint Paulâs confessional statement, it is not explicitly stated that the tomb was empty, but this is clearly presupposed. All four Gospels speak of it extensively in their Resurrection accounts.
For a theological understanding of the empty tomb, a passage from Saint Peterâs Pentecost sermon strikes me as important, when Peter for the first time openly proclaims Jesusâ Resurrection to the assembled crowds. He communicates it, not in his own words, but by quoting Psalm 16:8-10 as follows: â ⌠my flesh will dwell in hope. For you will not abandon my soul to Hades, nor let your Holy One see corruption. You have made known to me the ways of lifeâ (Acts 2:26-28). Peter quotes the psalm text using the version found in the Greek Bible. The Hebrew text is slightly different: âYou do not give me up to Sheol, or let your godly one see the Pit. You show me the path of lifeâ (Ps 16:10-11). In the Hebrew version the psalmist speaks in the certainty that God will protect him, even in the threatening situation in which he evidently finds himself, that God will shield him from death and that he may dwell securely: he will not see the grave. The version Peter quotes is different: here the psalmist is confident that he will not remain in the underworld, that he will not see corruption.
Peter takes it for granted that it was David who originally prayed this psalm, and he goes on to state that this hope was not fulfilled in David: âHe both died and was buried, and his tomb is with us to this dayâ (Acts 2:29). The tomb containing his corpse is the proof of his not having risen. Yet the psalm text is still true: it applies to the definitive David. Indeed, Jesus is revealed here as the true David, precisely because in him this promise is fulfilled: âYou will not let your Holy One see corruption.â
We need not go into the question here of whether this address really goes back to Peter and, if not, who else may have redacted it and precisely when and where it originated. Whatever the answer may be, we are dealing here with a primitive form of Resurrection proclamation, whose high authority in the early Church is clear from the fact that it was attributed to Saint Peter himself and was regarded as the original proclamation of the Resurrection.
If in the early creedal formula from Jerusalem, transmitted by Saint Paul, it is stated that Jesus rose according to the Scriptures, then surely Psalm 16 must have been seen as key scriptural evidence for the early Church. Here they found a clear statement that Christ, the definitive David, will not see corruption - that he must truly have risen.
âNot to see corruptionâ: this is virtually a definition of resurrection. Only with corruption was death regarded as definitive. Once the body had decomposed, once it had broken down into its elements - marking manâs dissolution and return to dust - then death had conquered. From now on this man no longer exists as a man - only a shadow may remain in the underworld. From this point of view, it was fundamental for the early Church that Jesusâ body did not decompose. Only then could it be maintained that he did not remain in death, that in him life truly conquered death.
What the early Church deduced from the Septuagint version of Psalm 16:10 also determined the viewpoint of the entire patristic period. Resurrection essentially implies that Jesusâ body was not subject to corruption. In this sense, the empty tomb is a strongly scriptural element of the Resurrection proclamation. Theological speculations arguing that Jesusâ decomposition and Resurrection could be mutually compatible belong to modern thinking and stand in clear contradiction of the biblical vision. On this basis, too, we have further confirmation that a Resurrection proclamation would have been impossible if Jesusâ body had been lying in the grave.
The third day
Let us return to our creedal formula. The next article states: âHe was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scripturesâ (1 Cor 15:4). âIn accordance with the Scripturesâ applies to the entire phrase, not specifically to the third day, although this is included. The essential point is that the Resurrection itself is in accordance with the Scriptures - that it forms part of the whole promise that in Jesus became, not just word, but reality. So for scriptural background we could certainly look to Psalm 16:10, but also to basic promise texts like Isaiah 53. There is no direct scriptural testimony pointing to the âthird dayâ.
The thesis that the third day may possibly have been derived from Hosea 6:1-2 cannot be sustained, as Hans Conzelmann and likewise Martin Hengel and Anna Maria Schwemer have shown. The text reads: âCome, let us return to the LORD; for he has torn, that he may heal us; he has stricken, and he will bind us up. After two days he will revive us; on the third day he will raise us up, that we may live before him.â This text is a penitential prayer on the part of sinful Israel. There is no mention of resurrection from the dead, properly speaking. The text is not quoted in the New Testament or at any point during the second century (cf. Hengel and Schwemer, Jesus und das Judentum, p. 631). It could become an anticipatory pointer toward resurrection on the third day only after the event that took place on the Sunday after the Lordâs crucifixion had given this day a special meaning.
The third day is not a âtheologicalâ date, but the day when an event took place that became the decisive turning point for the disciples after the calamity of the Cross. Josef Blank formulated it like this: âThe expression âon the third dayâ is a chronological indication in harmony with the earliest Christian tradition in the Gospels, and it relates to the discovery of the empty tombâ (Paulus und Jesus, p. 156).
I would add: it relates to the first encounter with the risen Lord. The first day of the week - the third after Friday - is attested in the New Testament from a very early stage as a day when the Christian community assembled for worship (cf. 1 Cor 16:2; Acts 20:7; Rev 1:10). Ignatius of Antioch (late first century, early second century), provides evidence, as we saw earlier, that for Christians Sunday had already supplanted the Jewish Sabbath culture: âWe have seen how former adherents of the ancient customs have since attained to a new hope; so that they have given up keeping the Sabbath and now order their lives by the Lordâs day instead (the day when life first dawned for us, thanks to him and his death)â (Ad Magn., 9:1).
If we bear in mind the immense importance attached to the Sabbath in the Old Testament tradition on the basis of the Creation account and the Decalogue, then it is clear that only an event of extraordinary impact could have led to the abandonment of the Sabbath and its replacement by the first day of the week. Only an event that marked souls indelibly could bring about such a profound realignment in the religious culture of the week. Mere theological speculations could not have achieved this. For me, the celebration of the Lordâs day, which was characteristic of the Christian community from the outset, is one of the most convincing proofs that something extraordinary happened that day - the discovery of the empty tomb and the encounter with the risen Lord.
The witnesses
While verse 4 of the Pauline confession expounds the fact of the Resurrection, verse 5 introduces the list of witnesses. âHe appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelveâ, it states succinctly. If we regard this verse as the conclusion of the original Jerusalem formula, then this indication of names carries particular theological weight: it reveals the very foundation of the Churchâs faith.
On the one hand, âthe Twelveâ remain the actual foundation stone of the Church, the permanent point of reference. On the other hand, the special task given to Peter is underlined here, the commission that was first assigned to him at Caesarea Philippi and then confirmed during the Last Supper (Lk 22:32), when Peter was, as it were, introduced into the Churchâs eucharistic structure. Now, after the Resurrection, the Lord appears first to him, before appearing to the Twelve, and thus once again renews Peterâs particular mission.
If being a Christian essentially means believing in the risen Lord, then Peterâs special witnessing role is a confirmation of his commission to be the rock on which the Church is built. John, in his account of the risen Lordâs threefold question to Peter, âDo you love me?â and Peterâs threefold commissioning to feed Christâs flock, clearly underlined once more Peterâs continuing mission vis-Ă -vis the faith of the whole Church (Jn 21:15-17). So the Resurrection account flows naturally into ecclesiology; the encounter with the risen Lord is mission, and it shapes the nascent Church.
B. The Narrative Tradition
Let us now move on - having considered the most important element of the confessional tradition - to the narrative tradition. Whereas the former authoritatively condenses the shared faith of Christianity in fixed formulae and insists on their binding character, down to the letter, for the whole believing community, the narrative accounts of the Resurrection appearances reflect different traditions. They are linked to various bearers of tradition, and they can be divided geographically between Jerusalem and Galilee. They are not binding in every detail in the same way as the confessions; but by virtue of being taken up into the Gospels, they are clearly to be regarded as valid testimony, giving content and shape to the faith. The confessions presuppose the narratives and grew out of them. They express in concentrated form the nucleus of the narrative content, and at the same time they point back toward the narratives.
Every reader will be struck immediately by the differences between the Resurrection accounts of the four Gospels. Matthew, apart from the risen Lordâs appearance to the women at the empty tomb, gives only one other appearance - in Galilee to the Eleven. Luke gives only Jerusalem traditions. John tells of appearances in both Jerusalem and Galilee. None of the evangelists recounts Jesusâ Resurrection itself. It is an event taking place within the mystery of God between Jesus and the Father, which for us defies description: by its very nature it lies outside human experience.
The ending of Mark poses a particular problem. According to authoritative manuscripts, the Gospel comes to a close with 16:8 - âand they went out and fled from the tomb; for trembling and astonishment had come upon them; and they said nothing to any one, for they were afraid.â The authentic text of the Gospel as it has come down to us ends with the fear and trembling of the women. Previously the text had spoken of the discovery of the empty tomb by the women who came to anoint the body and of the appearance of angels who announced Jesusâ Resurrection to them and urged them to tell the disciples, âand Peterâ, that Jesus would go before them to Galilee as he had promised. It is impossible that the Gospel would have ended with the words that follow concerning the womenâs silence: it takes for granted that the news of their encounter was passed on. And it must obviously have known of the appearance to Peter and the Twelve, described in the essentially older account of the First Letter to the Corinthians. For what reason our text breaks off at this point, we do not know. In the second century, a concluding summary was added, bringing together the most important Resurrection traditions and the mission of the disciples to proclaim the Gospel to the whole world (Mk 16:9-20). Whatever the facts of the case, even the short ending of Mark presupposes the discovery of the empty tomb by the women, the message of the Resurrection, and knowledge of the appearances to Peter and to the Twelve. Its enigmatic interruption we must leave unexplained.
The narrative tradition tells of encounters with the risen Lord and the words spoken by him on those occasions; the confessional tradition merely establishes the key facts that serve to confirm the faith: this is another way of describing the essential difference between the two types of tradition. Specific differences ensue from this.
One initial difference is that in the confessional tradition only men are named as witnesses, whereas in the narrative tradition women play a key role, indeed they take precedence over the men. This may be linked to the fact that in the Jewish tradition only men could be admitted as witnesses in court - the testimony of women was considered unreliable. So the âofficialâ tradition, which is, so to speak, addressing the court of Israel and the court of the world, has to observe this norm if it is to prevail in what we might describe as Jesusâ ongoing trial.
The narratives, on the other hand, do not feel bound by this juridical structure, but they communicate the whole breadth of the Resurrection experience. Just as there were only women standing by the Cross - apart from the beloved disciple - so too the first encounter with the risen Lord was destined to be for them. The Churchâs juridical structure is founded on Peter and the Eleven, but in the day-to-day life of the Church it is the women who are constantly opening the door to the Lord and accompanying him to the Cross, and so it is they who come to experience the Risen One.
Jesusâ appearances to Paul
A second important difference, by which the narrative tradition completes the creedal formulae, lies in the fact that the risen Lordâs appearances are not only confessed but described in a certain amount of detail. How are we to picture to ourselves the appearances of the Risen One, who had not returned to normal human life, but had passed over into a new manner of human existence?
To begin with, there is a marked difference between, on the one hand, the appearance of the risen Jesus to Paul, described in the Acts of the Apostles, and, on the other hand, the Gospel narratives concerning the encounters of the Apostles and the women with the living Lord.
According to all three accounts of Saint Paulâs conversion in the Acts of the Apostles, there were two elements to his encounter with the risen Christ: a light that shone âbrighter than the sunâ (26:13) together with a voice that spoke to Saul âin the Hebrew languageâ (26:14). Whereas the first account says that the people accompanying Saul could hear the voice but â[saw] no oneâ (9:7), the second account says, conversely, that they âsaw the light but did not hear the voice of the one who was speaking to meâ (22:9). The third account says of the people accompanying Saul only that they all fell to the ground with him (cf. 26:14).
This much is clear: there was a difference between what was perceived by the people accompanying Saul and what Saul himself perceived. Only he was the direct recipient of a message involving a mission, but the people with him were also in some sense witnesses of an extraordinary event.
For the one who actually received the message, Saul/ Paul, the two elements belong together: first, the blinding light that recalls the Tabor story - the Risen One is simply light (cf. Part One, pp. 309-10), and second, the words by which Jesus identifies himself with the persecuted Church and entrusts Paul with a mission. While in the first and second accounts Paul is sent to Damascus, where he will receive more precise instructions for his mission, in the third account a detailed and quite specific mission statement is communicated directly: âRise and stand upon your feet; for I have appeared to you for this purpose, to appoint you to serve and bear witness to the things in which you have seen me and to those in which I will appear to you, delivering you from the people and from the Gentiles - to whom I send you to open their eyes, that they may turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sanctified by faith in meâ (Acts 26:16-18).
Despite all the differences between the three accounts, it is still clear that the apparition (light) and the word belong together. The risen Lord, whose essence is light, speaks as a man with Paul in Paulâs own language. His words serve, on the one hand, as self-identification, and this includes his identification with the persecuted Church, and, on the other hand, they serve to communicate a mission, whose content will be further explained in what follows.
The appearances of Jesus in the Gospels
The appearances that we read of in the Gospels are manifestly different. On the one hand, the Lord appears as a man like other men: he walks alongside the Emmaus disciples; he invites Thomas to touch his wounds, and in Lukeâs account he even asks for a piece of fish to eat, in order to prove his real bodily presence. And yet these narratives do not present him simply as a man who has come back from death in the same condition as before.
One thing that strikes us straightaway is that the disciples do not recognize him at first. This is true not only of the two in the Emmaus story, but also of Mary Magdalene and then again at the Lake of Gennesaret: âJust as day was breaking, Jesus stood on the beach; yet the disciples did not know that it was Jesusâ (Jn 21:4). Only after the Lord has instructed them to set out once again does the beloved disciple recognize him: âThat disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, âIt is the Lord!â â (21:7). It is, as it were, an inward recognition, which nevertheless remains shrouded in mystery. For after the catch of fish, when Jesus invites them to eat, there is still a strange quality about him. âNone of the disciples dared ask him, âWho are you?â They knew it was the Lordâ (21:12). They knew from within, not from observing the Lordâs outward appearance.
This dialectic of recognition and non-recognition corresponds to the manner of the apparitions. Jesus comes through closed doors; he suddenly stands in their midst. And in the same way he suddenly withdraws again, as at the end of the Emmaus encounter. His presence is entirely physical, yet he is not bound by physical laws, by the laws of space and time. In this remarkable dialectic of identity and otherness, of real physicality and freedom from the constraints of the body, we see the special mysterious nature of the risen Lordâs new existence. Both elements apply here: he is the same embodied man, and he is the new man, having entered upon a different manner of existence.
The dialectic, which pertains to the nature of the Risen One, is presented quite clumsily in the narratives, and it is this that manifests their veracity. Had it been necessary to invent the Resurrection, then all the emphasis would have been placed on full physicality, on immediate recognizability, and perhaps, too, some special power would have been thought up as a distinguishing feature of the risen Lord. But in the internal contradictions characteristic of all the accounts of what the disciples experienced, in the mysterious combination of otherness and identity, we see reflected a new form of encounter, one that from an apologetic standpoint may seem rather awkward but that is all the more credible as a record of the experience.
A help toward understanding the mysterious appearances of the risen Jesus can, I think, be provided by the theophanies of the Old Testament. I would like to mention briefly just three types of such theophanies.
First there is Godâs appearance to Abraham at the oak of Mamre (Gen 18:1-33). Three men present themselves at Abrahamâs home. And yet Abraham knows at once, from deep within, that it is âthe Lordâ who wishes to be his guest. In the Book of Joshua, we are told that, lifting up his eyes, Joshua suddenly sees standing before him a man with a drawn sword in his hand. Not recognizing him, Joshua asks: âAre you for us, or for our adversaries?â He receives this reply: âNo, but as commander of the army of the Lord I have now come ⌠Put off your shoes from your feet; for the place where you stand is holyâ (Josh 5:13-15). The stories of Gideon (Judg 6:11-24) and Samson (Judg 13) are also significant. In each case the âangel of the Lordâ appearing in human form is recognized only at the moment of his mysterious withdrawal. Both times a flame consumes the food-offering as the âangel of the Lordâ disappears. The mythological language expresses, on the one hand, the Lordâs closeness, as he reveals himself in human form, and, on the other hand, his otherness, as he stands outside the laws of material existence.
Admittedly these are only analogies. What is radically new about the âtheophanyâ of the risen Lord is that Jesus is truly man: he suffered and died as man and now lives anew in the dimension of the living God. He appears now as true man and yet as coming from God - as being God himself.
So two qualifications are important. On the one hand, Jesus has not returned to the empirical existence that is subject to the law of death, but he lives anew in fellowship with God, permanently beyond the reach of death. On the other hand, it is important that the encounters with the risen Lord are not just interior events or mystical experiences - they are real encounters with the living one who is now embodied in a new way and remains embodied. Luke emphasizes this very strongly: Jesus is not, as the disciples initially feared, a âghostâ or a âspiritâ: he has âflesh and bonesâ (Lk 24:36-43).
What a ghost is, what is meant by the apparition of a âspiritâ as opposed to the apparition of the risen Lord, can best be seen in the biblical account of the medium at Endor, who at Saulâs behest conjures up the spirit of Samuel from the underworld (cf. 1 Sam 28:7-19). The âspiritâ that she calls forth is a dead man dwelling among the shadows in the underworld, who from time to time can be summoned forth, only to return to the realm of the dead.
Jesus, however, does not come from the realm of the dead, which he has definitively left behind: on the contrary, he comes from the realm of pure life, from God; he comes as the one who is truly alive, who is himself the source of life. Luke underlines quite dramatically how different the risen Lord is from a mere âspiritâ by recounting that Jesus asked the still fearful disciples for something to eat and then ate a piece of grilled fish before their eyes.
Most exegetes take the view that Luke is exaggerating here in his apologetic zeal, that a statement of this kind seems to draw Jesus back into the empirical physicality that had been transcended by the Resurrection. Thus Luke ends up contradicting his own narrative, in which Jesus appears suddenly in the midst of the disciples in a physicality that is no longer subject to the laws of space and time.
I think it is helpful here to consider the other three passages in which the risen Jesus is presented participating in a meal.
Immediately before the text just mentioned is the Emmaus story. It ends with Jesus sitting down to table with the disciples, taking the bread, giving thanks and praise, breaking the bread, and giving it to the two of them. At this moment their eyes are opened, âand they recognized him; and he vanished out of their sightâ (Lk 24:31). The Lord sits at table with his disciples as before, with thanks and praise and breaking of bread. Then he vanishes from their outward view, and through this vanishing their inner vision is opened up: they recognize him. It is real table fellowship, and yet it is new. In the breaking of the bread he manifests himself, yet only in vanishing does he become truly recognizable.
In terms of their inner structure, these two meal narratives are quite similar to the one in John 21:1-14: the disciples have spent a fruitless night, and not a single fish has been caught in their nets. In the morning, Jesus is standing on the shore, but they do not recognize him. He asks them: âChildren, have you any fish?â When they respond in the negative, he instructs them to set out once again, and this time they come back with an abundant catch. Yet Jesus, who already has fish cooking on a charcoal fire, himself invites them: âCome and have breakfast.â And now âthey knewâ that it was Jesus.
Particularly important and helpful for an understanding of the risen Jesusâ participation in meals is the last account, found in the Acts of the Apostles. In most translations, admittedly, the singular significance of this text is not brought out. The Jerusalem Bible corresponds to the conventional type of translation when it says: âFor forty days he had continued to appear to them and tell them about the kingdom of God. When he had been at table with them, he had told them not to leave Jerusalemâ (1:3-4). Through the period after the word âGodâ, which the sentence construction requires, an inner connection is concealed. Luke speaks of three elements that characterized the time spent by the risen Jesus in the company of his disciples: he appeared to them, he spoke to them, he sat at table with them. Appearing, speaking, and sharing meals: these three self-manifestations of the risen Lord belong together; they were his ways of proving that he was alive.
For a correct understanding of the third element, which like the first two extends over the âforty daysâ, the word used by Luke - synalizĂ´menos - is of great significance. Literally translated, it means âeating salt with themâ. Luke must have chosen this word quite deliberately. Yet what is it supposed to mean? In the Old Testament the shared enjoyment of bread and salt, or of salt alone, served to establish lasting covenants (cf. Num 18:19; 2 Chron 13:5; cf. Hauck, TDNT I, p. 228). Salt is regarded as a guarantee of durability. It is a remedy against putrefaction, against the corruption that pertains to the nature of death. To eat is always to hold death at bay - it is a way of preserving life. The âeating of saltâ by Jesus after the Resurrection, which we therefore encounter as a sign of new and everlasting life, points to the risen Lordâs new banquet with his followers. It is a covenant-event, and in this sense it has an inner association with the Last Supper, when the Lord established the New Covenant. So the mysterious cipher of eating salt expresses an inner bond between the meal on the eve of Jesusâ Passion and the risen Lordâs new table fellowship: he gives himself to his followers as food and thus makes them sharers in his life, in life itself.
Finally, it is helpful to recall here a saying of Jesus from Saint Markâs Gospel: âFor every one will be salted with fire. Salt is good; but if the salt has lost its saltness, how will you season it? Have salt in yourselves, and be at peace with one anotherâ (9:49-50). Some manuscripts add, with reference to Leviticus 2:13: âand every sacrifice will be salted with salt.â The salting of sacrifices was similarly intended to add spice to the offering and preserve it from putrefaction. So different meanings come together here: covenant renewal, the gift of life, and purification of oneâs own being for self-offering to God.
When Luke summarizes the post-Resurrection events at the beginning of the Acts of the Apostles and makes reference to the risen Lordâs table fellowship with his followers by means of the expression âeating salt with themâ (1:4), on the one hand, the mystery of this new table fellowship remains. On the other hand, though, its essential meaning is made clear: the Lord is drawing the disciples into a new covenant-fellowship with him and with the living God; he is giving them a share in real life, making them truly alive and salting their lives through participation in his Passion, in the purifying power of his suffering.
What this table fellowship with the disciples actually looked like is beyond our powers of imagination. But we can recognize its inner nature, and we can see that in the worshipping community, in the celebration of the Eucharist, this table fellowship with the risen Lord continues, albeit in a different form.
Summary: Nature of Jesusâ Resurrection and Historical Significance
Let us ask once more, by way of summary, what it was like to encounter the risen Lord. The following distinctions are important:
Jesus did not simply return to normal biological life as one who, by the laws of biology, would eventually have to die again.
Jesus is not a ghost (âspiritâ). In other words, he does not belong to the realm of the dead but is somehow able to reveal himself in the realm of the living.
Nevertheless, the encounters with the risen Lord are not the same as mystical experiences, in which the human spirit is momentarily drawn aloft out of itself and perceives the realm of the divine and eternal, only to return then to the normal horizon of its existence. Mystical experience is a temporary removal of the soulâs spatial and cognitive limitations. But it is not an encounter with a person coming toward me from without. Saint Paul clearly distinguished his mystical experiences, such as his elevation to the third heaven described in 2 Corinthians 12:1-4, from his encounter with the risen Lord on the road to Damascus, which was a historical event - an encounter with a living person.
On the basis of all this biblical evidence, what are we now in a position to say about the true nature of Christâs Resurrection?
It is a historical event that nevertheless bursts open the dimensions of history and transcends it. Perhaps we may draw upon analogical language here, inadequate in many ways, yet still able to open up a path toward understanding: as already anticipated in the first section of this chapter, we could regard the Resurrection as something akin to a radical âevolutionary leapâ, in which a new dimension of life emerges, a new dimension of human existence.
Indeed, matter itself is remolded into a new type of reality. The man Jesus, complete with his body, now belongs totally to the sphere of the divine and eternal. From now on, as Tertullian once said, âspirit and bloodâ have a place within God (cf. De Resurrect. Mort. 51:3, CCSL II, 994). Even if man by his nature is created for immortality, it is only now that the place exists in which his immortal soul can find its âspaceâ, its âbodilinessâ, in which immortality takes on its meaning as communion with God and with the whole of reconciled mankind. This is what is meant by those passages in Saint Paulâs prison letters (cf. Col 1:12-23 and Eph 1:3-23) that speak of the cosmic body of Christ, indicating thereby that Christâs transformed body is also the place where men enter into communion with God and with one another and are thus able to live definitively in the fullness of indestructible life. Since we ourselves have no experience of such a renewed and transformed type of matter, or such a renewed and transformed kind of life, it is not surprising that it oversteps the boundaries of what we are able to conceive.
Essential, then, is the fact that Jesusâ Resurrection was not just about some deceased individual coming back to life at a certain point, but that an ontological leap occurred, one that touches being as such, opening up a dimension that affects us all, creating for all of us a new space of life, a new space of being in union with God.
It is in these terms that the question of the historicity of the Resurrection should be addressed. On the one hand, we must acknowledge that it is of the essence of the Resurrection precisely to burst open history and usher in a new dimension commonly described as eschatological. The Resurrection opens up the new space that transcends history and creates the definitive. In this sense, it follows that Resurrection is not the same kind of historical event as the birth or crucifixion of Jesus. It is something new, a new type of event.
Yet at the same time it must be understood that the Resurrection does not simply stand outside or above history. As something that breaks out of history and transcends it, the Resurrection nevertheless has its origin within history and up to a certain point still belongs there. Perhaps we could put it this way: Jesusâ Resurrection points beyond history but has left a footprint within history. Therefore it can be attested by witnesses as an event of an entirely new kind.
Indeed, the apostolic preaching with all its boldness and passion would be unthinkable unless the witnesses had experienced a real encounter, coming to them from outside, with something entirely new and unforeseen, namely, the self-revelation and verbal communication of the risen Christ. Only a real event of a radically new quality could possibly have given rise to the apostolic preaching, which cannot be explained on the basis of speculations or inner, mystical experiences. In all its boldness and originality, it draws life from the impact of an event that no one had invented, an event that surpassed all that could be imagined.
To conclude, all of us are constantly inclined to ask the question that Saint Jude Thaddaeus put to Jesus during the Last Supper: âLord, how is it that you will manifest yourself to us, and not to the world?â (Jn 14:22). Why, indeed, did you not forcefully resist your enemies who brought you to the Cross? - we might well ask. Why did you not show them with incontrovertible power that you are the living one, the Lord of life and death? Why did you reveal yourself only to a small flock of disciples, upon whose testimony we must now rely?
The question applies not only to the Resurrection, but to the whole manner of Godâs revelation in the world. Why only to Abraham and not to the mighty of the world? Why only to Israel and not irrefutably to all the peoples of the earth?
It is part of the mystery of God that he acts so gently, that he only gradually builds up his history within the great history of mankind; that he becomes man and so can be overlooked by his contemporaries and by the powers that shape history; that he suffers and dies and that, having risen again, he chooses to come to mankind only through the faith of the disciples to whom he reveals himself; that he continues to knock gently at the doors of our hearts and slowly opens our eyes if we open our doors to him.
And yet - is not this the truly divine way? Not to overwhelm with external power, but to give freedom, to offer and elicit love. And if we really think about it, is it not what seems so small that is truly great? Does not a ray of light issue from Jesus, growing brighter across the centuries, that could not come from any mere man and through which the light of God truly shines into the world? Could the apostolic preaching have found faith and built up a worldwide community unless the power of truth had been at work within it?
If we attend to the witnesses with listening hearts and open ourselves to the signs by which the Lord again and again authenticates both them and himself, then we know that he is truly risen. He is alive. Let us entrust ourselves to him, knowing that we are on the right path. With Thomas let us place our hands into Jesusâ pierced side and confess: âMy Lord and my God!â (Jn 20:28).
Epilogue - He Ascended Into Heaven âŚ
All four Gospels, as well as Saint Paulâs Resurrection account in 1 Corinthians 15, presuppose that the period of the risen Lordâs appearances was limited. Paul was conscious of being the last to whom an encounter with the risen Christ was granted. The meaning of the Resurrection appearances is also clear from the overall tradition. Above all, it was a matter of assembling a circle of disciples who would be able to testify that Jesus did not remain in the grave, that he lives on. Their testimony is essentially mission: they must proclaim to the world that Jesus is alive - that he is Life itself.
The first task they were given was to attempt once again to gather Israel around the risen Jesus. For Paul, too, the message begins with testimony to the Jews, the first to be destined for salvation. But the final command to those sent out by Jesus is universal: âAll authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nationsâ (Mt 28:18-19). âYou shall be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria and to the end of the earthâ (Acts 1:8). And as the risen Lord said to Paul: âDepart; for I will send you far away to the Gentilesâ (Acts 22:21).
Included in the message of the witnesses is the proclamation that Jesus will come again to judge the living and the dead and to establish Godâs kingdom definitively in the world. There has been a substantial trend in recent theology to view this proclamation as the principal content, if not the very heart of the message. Thus it is claimed that Jesus himself was already thinking in exclusively eschatological categories. The âimminent expectationâ of the kingdom was said to be the specific content of his message, while the original apostolic proclamation supposedly consisted of nothing else.
Had this been the case, one might ask how the Christian faith could have survived when that imminent expectation was not fulfilled. In fact, this theory goes against the texts as well as the reality of nascent Christianity, which experienced the faith as a force in the present and at the same time as hope.
The disciples undoubtedly spoke of Jesusâ return, but first and foremost they bore witness to the fact that he is alive now, that he is Life itself, in whom we, too, come alive (cf. Jn 14:19). But how can this be? Where do we find him? Is he, the risen Lord now âexalted at the right hand of Godâ (Acts 2:33), not for that reason completely absent? Or is he somehow accessible? Can we penetrate âto the right hand of Godâ? Within his absence is there nonetheless at the same time a real presence? Is it not the case that he will come to us only on some unknown last day? Can he come today as well?
These questions have left their mark on Johnâs Gospel, and Saint Paulâs letters also attempt to answer them. Yet the essential content of this answer can be gleaned from the accounts of the âAscensionâ at the end of Lukeâs Gospel and the beginning of the Acts of the Apostles.
Let us turn, then, to the end of Lukeâs Gospel. Here it is recounted that Jesus appears to the Apostles gathered in Jerusalem, who have just been joined by the two disciples from Emmaus. He eats with them and issues instructions. The closing lines of the Gospel are as follows: âThen he led them out as far as Bethany, and lifting up his hands he blessed them. While he blessed them, he parted from them, and was carried up into heaven. And they worshiped him, and returned to Jerusalem with great joy, and were continually in the temple blessing Godâ (24:50-53).
This conclusion surprises us. Luke says that the disciples were full of joy at the Lordâs definitive departure. We would have expected the opposite. We would have expected them to be left perplexed and sad. The world was unchanged, and Jesus had gone definitively. They had received a commission that seemed impossible to carry out and lay well beyond their powers. How were they to present themselves to the people in Jerusalem, in Israel, in the whole world, saying: âThis Jesus, who seemed to have failed, is actually the redeemer of us allâ? Every parting causes sadness. Even if it was as one now living that Jesus had left them, how could his definitive separation from them not make them sad? And yet it is written that they returned to Jerusalem with great joy, blessing God. How are we to understand this?
In any case, it follows that the disciples do not feel abandoned. They do not consider Jesus to have disappeared far away into an inaccessible heaven. They are obviously convinced of a new presence of Jesus. They are certain (as the risen Lord said in Saint Matthewâs account) that he is now present to them in a new and powerful way. They know that âthe right hand of Godâ to which he âhas been exaltedâ includes a new manner of his presence; they know that he is now permanently among them, in the way that only God can be close to us.
The joy of the disciples after the âAscensionâ corrects our image of this event. âAscensionâ does not mean departure into a remote region of the cosmos but, rather, the continuing closeness that the disciples experience so strongly that it becomes a source of lasting joy.
Thus the ending of Lukeâs Gospel helps us to understand better the beginning of the Acts of the Apostles, in which Jesusâ âAscensionâ is explicitly recounted. Before Jesusâ departure, a conversation takes place in which the disciples - still trapped in their old ideas - ask whether the time has yet come for the kingdom of Israel to be established.
Jesus counters this notion of a restored Davidic kingdom with a promise and a commission. The promise is that they will be filled with the power of the Holy Spirit; the commission is that they are to be his witnesses to the ends of the earth.
The questioning about times and seasons is explicitly rejected. Speculation over history, looking ahead into the unknown future - these are not fitting attitudes for a disciple. Christianity is the present: it is both gift and task, receiving the gift of Godâs inner closeness and - as a consequence - bearing witness to Jesus Christ.
In this context belongs the statement about the cloud that takes him up and withdraws him from their sight. The cloud reminds us of the hour of the Transfiguration, in which the bright cloud falls on Jesus and the disciples (cf. Mt 17:5; Mk 9:7; Lk 9:34-35). It reminds us of the hour of Maryâs encounter with Godâs messenger, Gabriel, who announces to her the âovershadowingâ with the power of the Most High (cf. Lk 1:35). It reminds us of the holy tent of God in the Old Covenant, where the cloud signified the Lordâs presence (cf. Ex 40:34-35), the same Lord who, in the form of a cloud, led the people of Israel during their journey through the desert (cf. Ex 13:21-22). This reference to the cloud is unambiguously theological language. It presents Jesusâ departure, not as a journey to the stars, but as his entry into the mystery of God. It evokes an entirely different order of magnitude, a different dimension of being.
The New Testament, from the Acts of the Apostles to the Letter to the Hebrews, describes the âplaceâ to which the cloud took Jesus, using the language of Psalm 110:1, as sitting (or standing) at Godâs right hand. What does this mean? It does not refer to some distant cosmic space, where God has, as it were, set up his throne and given Jesus a place beside the throne. God is not in one space alongside other spaces. God is God - he is the premise and the ground of all the space there is, but he himself is not part of it. God stands in relation to all spaces as Lord and Creator. His presence is not spatial, but divine. âSitting at Godâs right handâ means participating in this divine dominion over space.
In a dispute with the Pharisees, Jesus himself provides a new interpretation of Psalm 110, which points toward a Christian understanding. He contrasts the idea of the Messiah as a new David ushering in a new Davidic kingdom - the very idea that we have just encountered among the disciples - with a grander vision of the one who is to come: the true Messiah is not Davidâs son, but Davidâs Lord. He sits, not on Davidâs throne, but on Godâs throne (cf. Mt 22:41-45).
The departing Jesus does not make his way to some distant star. He enters into communion of power and life with the living God, into Godâs dominion over space. Hence he has not âgone awayâ, but now and forever by Godâs own power he is present with us and for us. In the farewell discourses of Saint Johnâs Gospel, this is exactly what Jesus says to his disciples: âI go away, and I will come to youâ (14:28). These words sum up beautifully what is so special about Jesusâ âgoing awayâ, which is also his âcomingâ, and at the same time they explain the mystery of the Cross, the Resurrection, and the Ascension. His going away is in this sense a coming, a new form of closeness, of continuing presence, which for John, too, is linked with the âjoyâ that we saw in Lukeâs Gospel.
Because Jesus is with the Father, he has not gone away but remains close to us. Now he is no longer in one particular place in the world as he had been before the âAscensionâ: now, through his power over space, he is present and accessible to all - throughout history and in every place.
There is a very beautiful story in the Gospel (Mk 6:45-52 and parallel passages) where Jesus anticipates this kind of closeness during his earthly life and so makes it easier for us to understand.
After the multiplication of the loaves, the Lord makes the disciples get into the boat and go before him to Bethsaida on the opposite shore, while he himself dismisses the people. He then goes âup on the mountainâ to pray. So the disciples are alone in the boat. There is a headwind, and the lake is turbulent. They are threatened by the power of the waves and the storm. The Lord seems to be far away in prayer on his mountain. But because he is with the Father, he sees them. And because he sees them, he comes to them across the water; he gets into the boat with them and makes it possible for them to continue to their destination.
This is an image for the time of the Church - intended also for us. The Lord is âon the mountainâ of the Father. Therefore he sees us. Therefore he can get into the boat of our life at any moment. Therefore we can always call on him; we can always be certain that he sees and hears us. In our own day, too, the boat of the Church travels against the headwind of history through the turbulent ocean of time. Often it looks as if it is bound to sink. But the Lord is there, and he comes at the right moment. âI go away, and I will come to youâ - that is the essence of Christian trust, the reason for our joy.
From a very different perspective, something similar emerges from a story that is extraordinarily rich in its theology and anthropology, namely, the risen Lordâs first appearance to Mary Magdalene. For now, I shall concentrate on just one aspect.
After being addressed by the two angels in white garments, Mary turns around and sees Jesus, but she does not recognize him. Now he calls her by name: âMary!â Once again she has to turn, and now she joyfully recognizes the risen Lord, whom she addresses as Rabbuni, meaning Teacher. She wants to touch him, to hold him, but the Lord says to her: âDo not hold me, for I have not yet ascended to the Fatherâ (Jn 20:17). This surprises us. We would have thought that now, while he is standing before her, she can indeed touch him and hold him. When he has ascended to the Father, this will no longer be possible. But the Lord says the opposite: Now she cannot touch him or hold him. The earlier way of relating to the earthly Jesus is no longer possible.
It is the same phenomenon that Paul describes in 2 Corinthians 5:16-17: âEven though we once regarded Christ according to the flesh, we regard him thus no longer. Therefore, if any one is in Christ, he is a new creation.â The old manner of human companionship and encounter is over. From now on we can touch Jesus only âwith the Fatherâ. Now we can touch him only by ascending. From the Fatherâs perspective, in his communion with the Father, he is accessible and close to us in a new way.
This new accessibility presupposes a newness on our part as well. Through Baptism, our life is already hidden with Christ in God - in our current existence we are already âraisedâ with him at the Fatherâs right hand (cf. Col 3:1-3). If we enter fully into the essence of our Christian life, then we really do touch the risen Lord, then we really do become fully ourselves. Touching Christ and ascending belong together. And let us not forget that for John the place of Christâs âexaltationâ is his Cross and that our own ever-necessary âascensionâ, our âgoing up on highâ in order to touch him, has to be traveled in company with the crucified Jesus.
Christ, at the Fatherâs right hand, is not far away from us. At most we are far from him, but the path that joins us to one another is open. And this path is not a matter of space travel of a cosmic-geographical nature: it is the âspace travelâ of the heart, from the dimension of self-enclosed isolation to the new dimension of world-embracing divine love.
Let us return once more to the first chapter of the Acts of the Apostles. The content of the Christian life, we said, is not speculating on the future, but it is, on the one hand, the gift of the Holy Spirit and, on the other hand, the disciplesâ worldwide testimony to Jesus, the crucified and risen Lord (Acts 1:6-8). And when Jesus was taken from their sight by the cloud, this does not mean that he was transported to another cosmic location, but that he was taken up into Godâs very being, participating in Godâs powerful presence in the world.
The text continues. As happened earlier at the tomb (Lk 24:4), so now there appear two men dressed in white, and they pronounce this message: âMen of Galilee, why do you stand looking into heaven? This Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heavenâ (Acts 1:11). With these words, faith in Jesusâ return is strengthened, but at the same time it is stressed once more that the disciples are not to gaze into heaven or to know times and seasons, which are concealed in the mystery of God. Their task at this moment is to proclaim to the ends of the earth their witness to Christ.
Faith in Christâs return is the second pillar of the Christian confession. He who took flesh and now retains his humanity forever, he who has eternally opened up within God a space for humanity, now calls the whole world into this open space in God, so that in the end God may be all in all and the Son may hand over to the Father the whole world that is gathered together in him (cf. 1 Cor 15:20-28). Herein is contained the certainty of hope that God will wipe away every tear, that nothing meaningless will remain, that every injustice will be remedied and justice restored. The triumph of love will be the last word of world history.
Vigilance is demanded of Christians as the basic attitude for the âinterim timeâ. This vigilance means, on the one hand, that man does not lock himself into the here and now and concern himself only with tangible things, but that he raises his eyes above the present moment and its immediate urgency. Keeping oneâs gaze freely fixed upon God in order to receive from him the criterion of right action and the capacity for it - that is what matters.
Vigilance means first of all openness to the good, to the truth, to God, in the midst of an often meaningless world and in the midst of the power of evil. It means that man tries with all his strength and with great sobriety to do what is right; it means that he lives, not according to his own wishes, but according to the signpost of faith. All this is presented in Jesusâ eschatological parables, especially in the parable of the vigilant servant (Lk 12:42-48) and, in a different way, in the parable of the wise and foolish virgins (Mt 25:1-13).
But what is the position now in the Christian life regarding expectation of the Lordâs return? Are we to expect him, or do we prefer not to? Even in his day, Cyprian of Carthage (d. 258) had to warn his readers not to neglect to pray for Christâs second coming through fear of great calamities or fear of death. Should this passing world be dearer to us than the Lord for whom we are actually waiting?
The Book of Revelation concludes with the promise of the Lordâs return and with a prayer for it: âHe who testifies to these things says, âSurely I am coming soon.â Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!â (22:20). It is the prayer of one who loves, one who is surrounded in the besieged city by all the dangers and terrors of destruction and can only wait for the arrival of the beloved who has the power to end the siege and to bring salvation. It is the hope-filled cry for Jesus to draw near in a situation of danger where he alone can help.
At the end of the First Letter to the Corinthians, Saint Paul quotes the same prayer in an Aramaic version, which as it happens can be divided differently and is therefore open to different interpretations: Marana tha (Lord, come!), or Maran atha (the Lord has come). This twofold reading brings out clearly the peculiar nature of the Christian expectation of Jesusâ coming. It is the invocation âCome!â and at the same time the grateful certainty that âhe has comeâ.
From the Teaching of the Twelve Apostles (Didache, ca. 100), we know that this invocation formed part of the liturgical prayers of the eucharistic celebrations of the earliest Christian communities, and here too we find a concrete illustration of the unity of the two readings. Christians pray for Jesusâ definitive coming, and at the same time they experience with joy and thankfulness that he has already anticipated this coming and has entered into our midst here and now.
Christian prayer for the Lordâs return always includes the experience of his presence. It is never purely focused on the future. The words of the risen Lord make the point: âI am with you always, to the close of the ageâ (Mt 28:20). He is with us now, and in his eucharistic presence he is especially close. Yet, conversely, the Christian experience of the Lordâs presence does include a certain tension toward the future, toward the moment when that presence will be definitively fulfilled: the presence is not yet complete. It pushes beyond itself. It sets us in motion toward the definitive.
This inherent tension in Christian expectation of the Lordâs return, which must leave its mark on Christian life and prayer, may be helpfully clarified by two contrasting theological approaches. On the First Sunday of Advent, the Roman breviary presents us with a catechesis by Cyril of Jerusalem (Cat. XV, 1-3; PG 33, 870-874), which begins with the words: âWe preach not one coming only of Christ, but a second also ⌠Generally speaking, everything that concerns our Lord Jesus Christ is twofold. His birth is twofold: one, of God before time began; the other, of the Virgin in the fullness of time. His descent is twofold: one, unperceived ⌠the other, before the eyes of all, is yet to happen.â This language of the twofold coming of Christ has left its mark on Christianity, and it is an essential element of the Advent proclamation. It is correct, but incomplete.
A few days later, on Wednesday of the First Week of Advent, the breviary offers a reflection from the Advent sermons of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, which fills out the picture somewhat. There we read: âWe have come to know a threefold coming of the Lord. The third coming takes place between the other two [adventus medius] ⌠his first coming was in the flesh and in weakness, this intermediary coming is in the spirit and in power, the last coming will be in glory and majestyâ (In Adventu Domini, serm. III, 4; V, 1; PL 183, 45 A; 50 C-D). Bernard bases his thesis on John 14:23: âIf a man loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.â
Specific reference is made to a âcomingâ of the Father and the Son: it is an eschatology of the present that John has developed. It does not abandon the expectation of a definitive coming that will change the world, but it shows that the interim time is not empty: it is marked by the adventus medius, the middle coming, of which Bernard speaks. This anticipatory presence is an essential element in Christian eschatology, in Christian life.
Even if the term adventus medius was unknown before Bernard, the idea has nevertheless been present in different forms throughout the whole of Christian tradition from the outset. Let us recall, for example, that Saint Augustine sees the clouds on which the Judge of the world is to arrive as the word of proclamation. The words of the message, handed on by the witnesses, are the cloud that brings Christ into the world - here and now. And in this way the world is prepared for his definitive coming. The âmiddle comingâ takes place in a great variety of ways. The Lord comes through his word; he comes in the sacraments, especially in the most Holy Eucharist; he comes into my life through words or events.
Yet he also comes in ways that change the world. The ministry of the two great figures Francis and Dominic in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries was one way in which Christ entered anew into history, communicating his word and his love with fresh vigor. It was one way in which he renewed his Church and drew history toward himself. We could say much the same of the saints of the sixteenth century. Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Ignatius Loyola, and Francis Xavier all opened up new ways for the Lord to enter into the confused history of their century as it was pulling away from him. His mystery, his figure enters anew - and most importantly, his power to transform menâs lives and to refashion history becomes present in a new way.
Can we pray, therefore, for the coming of Jesus? Can we sincerely say: âMarana tha! Come, Lord Jesus!â? Yes, we can. And not only that: we must! We pray for anticipations of his world-changing presence. We pray to him in moments of personal tribulation: Come, Lord Jesus, and draw my life into the presence of your kindly power. We ask him to be close to those we love or for whom we are anxious. We ask him to be present and effective in his Church.
Why not ask him to send us new witnesses of his presence today, in whom he himself will come to us? And this prayer, while it is not directly focused on the end of the world, is nevertheless a real prayer for his coming; it contains the full breadth of the prayer that he himself taught us: âYour kingdom come!â Come, Lord Jesus!
Let us return once more to the ending of Lukeâs Gospel. Jesus led his followers into the vicinity of Bethany, we are told. âLifting up his hands he blessed them. While he blessed them, he parted from them, and was carried up into heavenâ (24:50-51). Jesus departs in the act of blessing. He goes while blessing, and he remains in that gesture of blessing. His hands remain stretched out over this world. The blessing hands of Christ are like a roof that protects us. But at the same time, they are a gesture of opening up, tearing the world open so that heaven may enter in, may become âpresentâ within it.
The gesture of hands outstretched in blessing expresses Jesusâ continuing relationship to his disciples, to the world. In departing, he comes to us, in order to raise us up above ourselves and to open up the world to God. That is why the disciples could return home from Bethany rejoicing. In faith we know that Jesus holds his hands stretched out in blessing over us. That is the lasting motive of Christian joy.