Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale

First United Presbyterian Church

“Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale”

Rev. Amy Morgan

April 1, 2018

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Isaiah 25:6-9

6 On this mountain the LORD of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.

 7 And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations;

 8 he will swallow up death forever. Then the Lord GOD will wipe away the tears from all faces, and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the LORD has spoken.

 9 It will be said on that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us. This is the LORD for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.

Mark 16:1-8

When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him.

 2 And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb.

 3 They had been saying to one another, "Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?"

 4 When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back.

 5 As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed.

 6 But he said to them, "Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him.

 7 But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you."

 8 So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

Comedian Jim Gaffigan wonders at some of the things we do at Easter in a conversation with himself: 

“Easter, the day Jesus rose from the dead.  What should we do?”

 

“How ‘bout eggs!” 

“What does that have to do with Jesus?” 

“All right, we’ll hide ‘em!”

 

“I don’t think I’m following your logic…”

“Don’t worry – there’s a bunny.”

There is certainly something comical about the great reversal that occurs on Easter morning. Weeping women, approaching the tomb in anguish, expecting to anoint a dead body, instead find a lively young man announcing that the deceased is very much alive and has gone on a road trip to Galilee. They should grab some friends and join in. And the women scream and run away.

It’s a comical scene, really.

But before this comic reversal, there is a tragic one. As Frederick Beuchner says in his book, Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale, “The Gospel is bad news before it is good news.” Last Sunday, we celebrated Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. People hailed him as one would welcome a king. The whole world had gone after him. And then, in the course of less than a week, Jesus has been betrayed, arrested, abandoned, disowned, humiliated, tortured, and, finally, slowly, executed. The first part of the Great Mystery of our faith: Christ has died.

This tragic reversal of fortunes is a perfect model of the Greek philosopher Aristotle’s definition of tragedy. The plot of a tragedy, according to Aristotle, must contain a peripeteia, a reversal, a change of fortune for the hero that occurs contrary to the audience's expectations, but that nonetheless appears as a necessary outcome of the preceding actions.

The Gospel is not only the light and the joy of Easter morning, the comedic reversal, the hilarious implausibility of the resurrection. If the Gospel is to be news at all, it must encompass the bad news, the tragic reversal, as well as the comedic one. If the Gospel is to be good news, it must address the bad news head on, stand face-to-face with the horror and anguish of our experience.

The tragic reversal of the Gospel is the tragic reversal of all our fortunes. The bedroom of one who should have gone to college left just as it was on the day he died. The word “hospice” on the lips of a young mother. The shards of porcelain from a dish thrown across the room. The desperate sobs that can only emanate from the feeling that even God has forsaken us, that we are all alone, that maybe Nietzsche was right and God is, after all, dead. The absence, or at the very least, the uselessness, of God, the shame, and judgement, fear, and pain, anxiety, and terror of our lives are the first word the Gospel.

But that is not the last word.

Buechner says that, “if the tragic is the inevitable, the comic is the unforeseeable.” Aristotle’s tragic reversal may be surprising, but the comic reversal comes completely out of left field. We can see how a man who ruffles the feathers of the religious authorities and teaches people to live counter to the prevailing values of a power-hungry empire might end up getting himself killed. It’s sad, and maybe we’re surprised because we’d hoped he would win. But in the aftermath, you know you saw it coming.

But the resurrection. That’s something totally unexpected. It’s a pratfall of astronomical proportions. It’s a jump scare that makes us scream and then fall apart laughing. It’s so ridiculous, we still don’t know what to do with it.

So we color eggs and hide them. We eat chocolate bunnies and wear colorful bonnets. We make sugar-coated marshmallows in the shape of small chickens. This is our hilarious answer to the comic reversal of the Gospel. And, I have to say, it is delicious. Especially if you roast the Peeps over an open fire.

The Gospel of Mark’s telling of the resurrection story is by far my favorite. And I think it’s the funniest. Sure, there are comic embellishments in some of the other gospels. Matthew’s overly-dramatic earthquake and angels descending from heaven with lightening-clothes. Luke’s depiction of the women calmly pondering this reality-altering news. John’s story of Mary mistaking Jesus for the gardener. That’s a good one.

But none of them compare to Mark’s telling of this story for comedic effect. Because Mark, like all good comedians, knows where the punch line is. He knows when to stop talking.

Scholars believe the gospel of Mark to be the first of the four gospels to be composed. And the verses that follow what we read today, which attest to sightings of the resurrected Jesus, appear to be a later addition. The earliest manuscripts of Mark’s gospel end at verse 8: So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. The word “afraid” is the Greek word phobeo – from which we get phobia. So the earliest telling of the resurrection joke ends with women who have a Jesus phobia.

The people who are tasked with sharing the good news that Jesus is risen are absolutely phobic. God works the miracle of bringing Jesus back from the dead. Anybody could have been the first person to stumble upon the open tomb. Could have been Lazarus, who, having been raised from the dead himself, might not have suffered such a shock. Could have been Pilate, whose political power and appreciation for symbolic action might have given the event a larger audience. Could have been Thomas, whose cynicism would have buffered the blow and maybe enticed Jesus to show up right then and there instead of going ahead to Galilee. Could have been someone fearless, or charismatic. It could have been anybody else.

But it wouldn’t have been as funny.

The great cosmic joke, the second part of the Great Mystery of our faith: Christ is risen, is a slapstick comedy. A solemn group of Jesus devotees who, as soon as they find out Jesus is alive, immediately develop a Jesus phobia and run away.

And the real punchline is, that’s all it took for us to now have over 2 billion people following Jesus today. Not because Jesus later appeared to the disciples or to hundreds of other people. Not because he ascended into heaven. Not because the apostles were such great preachers. The earliest memory the followers of Jesus have of the resurrection ends with fear and trembling and phobia and running away. That’s our heritage. And I find it rather humorous.

But that’s still not the end of the story.

The place where tragedy and comedy converge is fairy tale. The tragic reversal of the crucifixion is followed by the unlikely, comedic reversal of the resurrection, and those who live in the kingdom of God live happily ever after.

Once upon a time begins with creation, an impossibly long, long ago. The plot twists and turns, with many missteps and lessons learned, with prophets and kings, tax collectors and sinners. And after the great climax of Easter there is the realization that this is not only “once upon a time,” or “long, long ago,” but now and always and forever. Now, always, and forever the tomb is empty, light wins out over darkness, life conquers death.

The dramatic cycle of the Gospel – tragedy, comedy, and fairy tale – shows up all over if we’re looking for it, if, like children, we wait with expectant joy for the kingdom of God to show up. The Gospel shows up whenever we’re willing to trust that, unlike other fairy tales, this one is true, is real, meaning that it is more than factual or historical, it is tangible and experiential. An empty tomb in first-century Palestine has no meaning if it makes no difference in the world today. The Gospel is fairy tale in the sense that it continues to transform the world with a message, a hope, a vision that far outstrips its historical significance.

All sorts of things make it difficult for us to trust in this fairy tale. We take ourselves so seriously most of the time, the smallest slight or inconvenience feels like a tragedy. We’re so suffocated with news of others’ tragedies that we haven’t the breath to laugh at life’s surprising comedic turns when we see them. And sometimes we are so deafened by the echoing silence of God that we can’t hear the punchline of the joke.

But the joke is still being told, the hilarious good news that God chose the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, that God chose the weak things of the world to confound the strong, that God is goofy love-sick for this world and would do absolutely anything, take a pie in the face, slip on a banana peel, live, die, rise from the dead, to show God’s love for us.

And as the apostle Paul declared: love never ends. The last part of the Great Mystery of our faith is: Christ will come again. This story has a fairy tale ending. And when that last great comedic reversal occurs, when Christ comes again in final victory, we might scream and run away, find ourselves to be Jesus phobic. And it’ll be hilarious. Comedy will overtake tragedy. Happily, ever after. Amen.