Christianity in the United States is an enigma. Our society is
bursting at the seams with religion. We claim a Judeo-Christian
ethic at the core of our history and national life. Americans go
to church in droves; ministries are flourishing; religious
discourse permeates all facets of our culture, including politics
and even sports. A billion-dollar industry has sprung up around
Christian-oriented music and other spiritual paraphernalia.
Yet much of what passes as Christian faith in this society is
vapid and shallow, if not dangerously distorted. The very
language used betrays at least one aspect of this Americanized
pantomime of biblical faith: We "go to" church. We step
out of our lives to practice our faith in a specified and
compartmentalized time and place.
During this liturgical year, thousands of churches will follow
the lectionary and read the gospel of Mark. While congregants sit
in comfortable pews facing an altar bedecked with an American
flag, the voice of the earliest evangelist will cry out with his
stark and uncompromising vision of Jesus and his clarion call to
follow God's anointed one along a way of conflict and challenge.
Mark's gospel offers an antidote to domesticated, superficial
Christianity: It is a radical manifesto of discipleship. The
gospel of Mark is as much about the formation of a discipleship
community responding to Jesus' proclamation of God's reign as it
is about Jesus himself. According to Mark, that response requires
breaking from the corrupt social order and accompanying Jesus on
the way of the cross.
THE SHORTEST AND earliest of the canonical gospels (and most
likely the model for the later texts of Matthew and Luke), Mark's
account of Jesus exudes a sense of urgency, crisis, and high
drama. Traditionally, Mark was believed to have been written for
a community of Christians undergoing severe persecution in Rome.
More recent scholarship has posited an alternative
backdrop—the Jewish uprising against Roman occupation in
Palestine, which would lead to the disastrous destruction of the
temple in 70 B.C.E. A fledgling community of followers of Jesus
are trapped between the violence of the empire and the
revolutionary violence of Jewish militants.
Whatever the actual setting, one senses between the lines of
the gospel a historical cauldron of crisis, civil disturbance,
and apocalyptic fervor. Mark is calling on a group of believers
to stake a claim of ultimate loyalty and radical faithfulness
amidst a world of violence, injustice, and oppression.
Mark's sense of urgency is apparent even in his literary
style. His language is terse and unpolished. The narrative is
action-oriented, featuring far fewer discourses of Jesus than
the other gospels do. Mark's story plunges us in quickly and moves
us rapidly in the direction of conflict with the authorities.
Jesus and his followers are always on the move—images of
journeying "on the way" abound in the gospel. Clearly,
Mark wants to convey a sense of "ortho-praxis" to his
audience. Mere belief is not sufficient—the gospel must be
lived out.
The simplicity of Mark's narrative should not blind us to his
literary and theological craft. The evangelist shrewdly molds the
traditions of Jesus, wielding symbol, imagery, repetitions, and
parallelisms, beckoning the reader to a deeper understanding.
Mark knows that the radical faith Jesus calls us to is
demanding—and he won't let us off the hook with a cursory
reading. Mark's Jesus constantly queries the disciples about
their understanding—and upbraids them for their failures.
"Do you still not understand?" (8:21). The many images
of perception—healings from blindness and deafness—are
Mark's symbolic way of urging us to turn from the illusions of
the world and to the truth of God's reign.
A tone of urgency is already manifest in the prologue
(1:1-15). Within a few verses, using a rapid succession of
assertions and episodes, Mark has begun the literary
deconstruction of the unjust world and the introduction of a new
world, through the person of Jesus.
BY CALLING HIS work a "gospel," Mark, like the early
Christian movement, is ingeniously delegitimating imperial power.
The phrase evangelion, meaning "good news" or
"glad tidings," was part of the lexicon of Roman
propaganda, used to formally announce an emperor's birth or
accession to the throne, or to spread news of a military victory.
Note that the arrest of John the Baptist (1:14), which we later
find out to be the work of the imperial lackey Herod (6:17-29),
is the precipitating moment for Jesus' proclamation of the
"good news." Mark knows that the gospel is about a
clash of two realities: God's reign vs. worldly empire. They
cannot co-exist—and we must make our choice.
That same choice is at the core of the entire biblical
revelation, as Mark clearly understands. In setting the stage for
his gospel, he deftly evokes the primal proclamation of the
Genesis creation ("In the beginning," the opening of
the heavens at Jesus' baptism), the Torah traditions of Exodus
and wilderness, the prophetic traditions of judgment and
proclamation (through the figure of John and echoes of Isaiah and
Malachi), the promises of God's messianic salvation, and the
apocalyptic hope. By drawing on these rich veins of biblical
understanding, Mark heightens expectation and sets the stage for
God doing something radically new, and very old.
In fact, the gospel of Mark demonstrates how urgently we need
to develop critical skills of "biblical literacy."
Beginning with this prologue, the whole gospel is saturated with
references to the Jewish biblical tradition, which many
Christians fail to grasp. Much like the contemporary computer
phenomenon of "hypertext," almost every sentence of
Mark "links" the reader to Torah, the prophets, the
Psalms, and other parts of scripture. As with other New Testament
writers, much of Mark's meaning depends on our comprehension of
biblical images, phrases, and allusions. By not grasping the
reference to the manna story in Exodus, for instance, we
superficially interpret the stories of wilderness feedings
(6:30-44, 8:1-10) as nothing more than Jesus' miraculous
multiplication of material substances. If we don't resonate with
the image of "widow" that is so crucial to Torah and
the prophets, we miss the scathing critique of economic exploitation
in the episode of the "widow's mite" (12:41-44) and
instead applaud the widow for "giving of her all."
The early chapters of Mark show Jesus simultaneously engaging
in a frontal assault on the prevailing social order and
demonstrating the new order of God's reign. Like Jeremiah, he
both tears down and builds up (Jeremiah 1:10).
Healing and Liberation
Even the most perfunctory reading of the gospels reveals
Jesus healing, casting out demons, and forgiving sins. But Mark's
narrative recounts these deeds so as to draw out deeper meanings.
Why, for instance, would apparently humane and healing gestures
evoke the ire of the authorities?
Mark knows well just what the authorities know: These very
actions serve as public critique and social subversion. Jesus'
healings and exorcisms symbolize his prophetic challenge to what
biblical scholar Walter Wink has called the "Domination
System." They act not only to mercifully alleviate personal
suffering but also to reveal the oppressive nature of the
prevailing political and religious power systems.
Jesus' first public action is an exorcism that occurs in a
synagogue (1:21-28). In Mark's text, what is ultimately at stake
is "authority" (1:22, 27). The compassionate act of
liberating a possessed man is also an assault on a corrupted
scribal system. In order to open space for the reign of God,
Jesus must liberate his community from the evil spirit of
religious hypocrisy. This exorcism is the opening act of Jesus'
prophetic challenge to religious authority systems, which
culminates in his condemnation of the temple state (chapter 11).
The parallel exorcism in gentile territory (5:1-20) represents
a second prong of Jesus' subversion of the social order. This
particularly rich and detailed Markan narrative mingles a sharp
satirical swipe at Roman military power (the demonic
"legion," a Roman military term, is transformed into
unclean swine) with a clear allusion to Pharaoh's army being cast
into the sea. Just as Yahweh proved triumphant over the imperial
forces of Egypt, so too Jesus proclaims victory over Roman
imperialism. No wonder then that Mark constructs his account of
Christ's passion to show that Jewish and Roman authorities,
equally cognizant of Jesus' threat, collude in his execution.
Mark then recounts Jesus' healing of a "leper"
(1:40-45)—likewise etched as an act of social subversion. As
in almost all the healings, Jesus effectively frees the man from the
segregation mandated by his "uncleanness." The
religious leadership of the day, in an abuse of Torah
regulations, socially stigmatized lepers and others suffering
from bodily unwholeness or disease (very much the case with the
woman with the flow of blood in 5:25-34). Jesus understood that
this "purity code," like rigid Sabbath rules (2:27-28),
was being wielded for oppressive and inhumane purposes of social
control. By healing people, he restored them back to community
while at the same time castigating practices of social
marginalization. (Note that Jesus sends the leper to the priest.
A traditional reading assumes Jesus is piously abiding by the
religious regulation to obtain an imprimatur of cleanliness from
the establishment. However, Mark's language suggests Jesus sends
the man more as a witness against the priestly system and the
purity code.)
A second episode of healing also entails forgiving sins
(2:1-12) and once again evokes the ire of the religious elite.
Here, Jesus is challenging the "debt code," by which
scribal systems could impose social definitions of sinfulness as
another means of controlling people. Again, the issue at stake is
authority (2:10)—the authority of worldly systems that
oppress, or the authority of God's reign, which liberates. Later,
as Jesus' conflict with the authorities is reaching its
crescendo, Mark makes the astonishing claim that when the temple
state is destroyed (the symbolic "mountain" thrown into
the sea), what will replace it is a community of prayerfulness
and mutual forgiveness not adjudicated by powerful religious
systems (11:22-25).
THE REIGN OF GOD is not bound up exclusively in the person of
Jesus. Integral to his mission is calling and forming a community
of disciples. Deviating from the standard rabbinical practice,
Jesus calls his core group of followers from the working and
marginalized classes (1:16-20, 2:13-24). As he embarks on his
ministry, he empowers them to likewise heal, exorcise, and
forgive—which is to say, to join him in challenging a
corrupt system and forging a new one (6:6b-13). This means the
disciples too will provoke the wrath of the powerful—which
is the reason Mark situates the odd tale of John the Baptist's
execution right after the commissioning of the Twelve (6:14-16).
A major portion of Mark's gospel is instructing these neophyte
disciples in the nature of the new community of God's reign. Much
of chapters 9 and 10 have been called a "discipleship
catechism," touching on fundamental issues of community
relationships: gender roles, family and children, power dynamics,
money and possessions.
Mark's Jesus calls on his followers to break from socially
defined kinship structures and instead form new covenantal bonds
of family with outsiders (3:31-35). They were to join Jesus in
practicing new forms of "table fellowship," defying
social apartheids based on purity and debt codes (2:15-17). The
households of the Jesus movement would be marked by
nonhierarchical and nonpatriarchal relations (10:1-22),
inclusivity rather than exclusivity (9:35-40), servanthood rather
than domination (9:33-37, 10:41-45). Even the apparently
straightforward healing of Simon's mother-in-law (1:29-31), which
takes place in the symbolic space of "household," is
marked by her rising to a role of "servant"—which
does not mean the housewife setting a meal for the men, but
rather being transformed to the authentic servanthood of
discipleship. The same verb "to serve" recurs in 10:45
as the vocation of "the Human One," and in 15:41 to
describe the faithful women who are present at the crucifixion.
In fact, a profoundly significant dimension of the
discipleship community is evident in Mark's many stories of
women. While these women are often nameless (5:25-34, 7:24-30,
14:3-9), they are in almost every case models of authentic
discipleship. Like Jesus, they assertively break boundaries and
defy social codes, attuned to the liberation of the reign of God.
The Syro-Phoenician woman even tutors Jesus about the most
radical dimensions of inclusivity—breaking the boundary
between Jew and Gentile (7:24-30).
THE PROMINENCE OF women as models of discipleship was central
to Jesus' (and Mark's) critique of patriarchy. A tiny but
explosive detail can be detected by carefully reading 10:29.
Jesus delineates exactly what the discipleship community leaves
behind in order to follow his way. In turn, Jesus promises, they
will regain a hundredfold (in this present age) houses, brothers,
sisters, mothers, children, and land—but not fathers! (Read
the verse carefully!) Fathers are left behind but not received
back. As a social construct of patriarchy, there can be no
fatherhood in the reign of God. No wonder, then, the disciples
will also experience persecution in this age (10:30)—the
patriarchal domination system will not tolerate such a brazen
alternative.
A related practice of the discipleship community is economic.
Like the most ancient practices of the Israelite covenantal
community, the disciples are to live in the economy of God's
grace, in which the goods of the earth are shared, and all are
assured enough. The most obvious passage is Jesus' encounter with
the rich young man (10:17-31). The fact that this encounter is
one of the longest sustained episodes in Mark's usually concise
narrative should alert us to its seriousness. Centuries worth of
sermons and commentaries have sought to dismiss the bluntness of
Jesus' teaching—"How hard for the rich to enter the
reign of God!" But what we often miss in our uneasiness is
Jesus' loving invitation to the rich young man: This is not a
call to austerity, but to joyful participation in the new economy
of grace, an economy that Jesus promises in thoroughly practical
terms will be sufficient (10:29-31).
The economic teachings of Mark are similarly threaded
throughout the various seed and land parables, the wilderness
feeding stories, as well as in the recurrent food and meal
imagery. Mark's Jesus is doing nothing more than re-articulating
the original Jubilee economics of the covenant (2:23-28, for
instance, reasserts the covenantal practice of gleaning).
JUST AS IT INVITES people to join the way of discipleship,
Mark's gospel is bluntly honest about the cost of heeding that
invitation: Peter's full assertion of faith, at the midpoint of
the gospel (8:27-30), is linked to the announcement of the cross
(8:31-9:1). And Jesus makes it clear that the cross is not only
his own glorified vocation, but the very condition of
discipleship. More than any of the other gospels, the story of
Jesus is overshadowed by conflict and a harrowing sense of
ultimate showdown with the authorities. Similarly, it is marked
by an incessant critique of the disciples, who are unable or
unwilling to accept the reality of the cross.
According to Mark, the cross does not mean a sanctified
suffering for its own sake. It is the inevitable outcome of
opposing the domination system. Jesus' followers must recognize
that the reign of God, and the discipleship community that seeks
to live out that reign, stands as a radical alternative to the
world's injustice, violence, and oppression.
The cross stands for the ultimate confrontation with the
domination system—and in Mark's narrative the domination
system appears triumphant. The prophet is crushed, his followers
scattered in disarray, denial, and failure. Mark understands well
the world's ways.
But the story is not over.
The answer to the apparent tragedy is the mystery of the empty
tomb. The tradition was well known, of course, to the early
Christian movement. But Mark has his own unique angle on the
Easter story.
The earliest manuscripts of the gospel of Mark end at 16:8,
with the women running off in awe, terror, and apparent silence.
(Later editions include a typically triumphant resurrection
appearance, more in the style of Matthew or Luke.) As startling
an ending as it is, it is thoroughly appropriate for a manual on
discipleship. The tomb is empty, yes, but the story is still
open. Divine grace has wrought a miracle—but now it is up to
us. The divine messengers tell the women to go look for Jesus
back in Galilee, where the story began. They are to return to the
margins and take up the journey all over again.
Mark's gospel forces us, the hearer, the reader, to take the
next step. Will we now take up the cross and follow the risen
Jesus?
MODERN-DAY U.S. Christians might want to distance themselves
from the radical fervor of Mark's gospel. After all, this isn't
the oppressive Roman Empire. Christianity, far from being
persecuted, has won acceptance in a free society. Perhaps Mark
isn't for us—maybe we'll look for another gospel with a
kinder, gentler Jesus.
Mark will not let us off the hook so easily. His challenges
are pointedly relevant to us. Do we who call ourselves Christians
participate in an economy in which it is acceptable for 48,000
children to die each day while a handful enjoy prosperity? Do we
accept the subtle social codes of clean and unclean, or do we
break down barriers and practice table fellowship with outsiders
and enemies? Are we seduced by "family values" that
encourage us to take care of our own, or are we willing to
recognize sisters and brothers among society's marginalized? Have
our church institutions opted for social paradigms of power
rather than abiding by Jesus' new definitions of servanthood?
Just as Mark's Jesus will not allow his followers to turn him
into a triumphant, militant messiah, so too Mark will not allow
us to be content with venerating a gilded icon of a triumphant
risen Jesus. Mark will not permit Christians to sit back and pray
to a massive, artistic cross elevated at the front of our
sanctuaries. We cannot know Jesus by going to church. We can only
know Jesus by committing ourselves to active discipleship and
following him—on the way of the cross, which is ultimately
the way of resurrection.
William O'Brien worked with Project H.O.M.E., a program to
provide housing and services for homeless and poor persons in
Philadelphia, was a contributing editor to The Other Side
magazine, and was a coordinator of the Alternative Seminary, a
grassroots program of theological and biblical study, when this
article appeared.
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O'Brien, William
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