Holy Week-Joseph Gives His Tomb
John 19:38-42: After these things, Joseph of Arimathea,
who was a disciple of Jesus, though a secret one because of his fear of the
Jews, asked Pilate to let him take away the body of Jesus. Pilate gave him
permission; so he came and removed his body. Nicodemus, who had at first come to
Jesus by night, also came, bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about
a hundred pounds. They took the body of Jesus and wrapped it with the spices in
linen cloths, according to the burial custom of the Jews. Now there was a garden
in the place where he was crucified, and in the garden there was a new tomb in
which no one had ever been laid. And so, because it was the Jewish day of
Preparation, and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.
Joseph Gives His Tomb.
Welcome to my store!
I'm Joseph of Arimathea. You're not interested in
shopping today? No problem! Let's just sit and talk for a while. My shop's not
busy and there's nothing I like better than telling others about my Lord.
I haven't always been such a bold disciple of Jesus. My
friend Mark, in that book he wrote, says I "boldly went to Pilate and asked
for Jesus' body." But let me assure you, I was as frightened as anyone on
that Friday when Jesus was crucified.
As a matter of fact, even though I'm the one who's
called "bold," it was actually my colleague on the ruling council,
Nicodemus, who was the bold one. He's the one you may think was cowardly because
he came to see Jesus at night. But let me assure you he was no coward. If anyone
was cowardly, I was the one.
At a time when all sorts of rumors were flying around
about Jesus, it was Nicodemus who took action, not me. Some were calling Jesus
the Messiah, the son of David. Others, my colleagues on the ruling council, the
Sanhedrin, were saying Jesus was a charlatan and a liar. In the midst of this
controversy, it was Nicodemus, not me, who decided to find out the truth.
The best way to do that was simply talking with Jesus
face to face. And that's just what Nicodemus did one night after work. Honest
and to the point, Nicodemus had said to Jesus, "Rabbi, unless you are from
God, you couldn't perform the miraculous signs you are doing." Jesus could
tell that Nicodemus was close to faith. Speaking directly to his heart, Jesus
said, "I tell you truthfully, no one will see the kingdom of God unless he
is born again."
Born again? Those were strange words, but not words of
a maniac or enemy of God. The more I contemplated these words, the more truthful
they seemed. I was certainly not pleased with myself. How I wished I could be
born again. How I wished I could have a new beginning in my life. Is that
something you've ever wished?
Hostility against Jesus grew within the Sanhedrin.
Charges made in ignorance became more and more reckless. The temple guard was
ordered to arrest Jesus. But after finding him and hearing him speak, they
couldn't do it. "No one ever spoke the way this man does," the
commanding officer had said to the council, trying to explain why he hadn't
obeyed orders. How angry that made the Pharisees on the council. "You mean
he has deceived you also?" they replied. "Have any of us, the rulers
of the people, believed in him?"
I cringed, silently. You see, though I was one of the
rulers of the people and as well educated as any of them, I found myself more
and more on Jesus' side. But afraid of public ridicule, I just hadn't told
anyone. Nicodemus spoke up. On the basis of the very law so dear to the
Pharisees, he challenged them. "Does our law judge a man without hearing
him first?" he asked. Though it was obviously a wise and reasonable word of
caution, the other leaders simply ignored it. They argued that since Jesus was
from Galilee, he couldn't possibly be a true prophet. To be the Christ, he'd
have to come from Bethlehem. Case closed.
What fools! Had it not occurred to any of them simply
to ask where Jesus was born? That's the very question I should have asked at
that moment. But no. I was afraid of them, I, a "ruler of the people,"
and said nothing. Only Nicodemus had the courage to speak up in defense of
Jesus.
How I wished that the whole problem would simply go
away. But it didn't. The whole city was dividing up into camps, those who were
ready to crown Jesus as king and those plotting to kill him. "What side are
you on, Joseph?" my customers would ask as they came into the store.
"You're on the council? Where do you stand?"
How would you answer an enemy of Jesus? I would stammer
out a few noncommittal words and then try to direct the customer's attention to
a basket of almonds or a jar of oil I could sell him at a special price. But I
knew in my heart that eventually I would have to take a position.
Meanwhile, I busied myself with my work and family and
made plans for the future. A man of my status and wealth needed a proper burial
place. My father and many other relatives were buried in Arimathea, a town north
of Jerusalem. But I had set down roots here in the capital. My wife and sons and
their wives and children would need a tomb.
I located the perfect spot, a garden on a rocky
hillside just outside the city. It was near the Joppa road so it would be easy
for relatives to find. There was only one problem. It was near Golgotha, the
place where the Romans crucified criminals. Perhaps by the time I needed it, the
Romans would be gone, or they'd have found some other place to kill their
prisoners.
Having purchased an appropriate family burial place, I
hired stone cutters to carve out the burial chambers. To begin with, there would
be just one small room, about six feet wide and nine feet long, just high enough
to stand up in. In the wall of this room I had a niche prepared for myself. One
day, when I died, I would be given a fine funeral at my home. After a procession
to the grave, my body would be wrapped with layers of cloth and spices and then
laid to rest in that very spot. An eloquent oration would be given and then the
grave would be sealed. Later, as need be, the tomb could be opened and more
niches could be carved into the rock.
All this I had expected would be done. I had no way of
knowing when I bought my tomb that its only occupant would be Jesus, the very
one about whom I was too afraid to say a word. Nor could I have imagined that I,
silent Joseph, would soon be standing before the governor himself asking for the
body of Jesus.
The eve of Passover was upon us. Spies were constantly
bringing new reports to the Sanhedrin about the activities and teaching of
Jesus. A blind man had been healed. A dead man, Lazarus, whose home was just
outside Jerusalem in Bethany, had been raised to life. Jesus, without consulting
the Sanhedrin or any of the priests, had thrown out the animal sellers and
money-changers from the temple. Encounters with Pharisees and other leaders
became more frequent. At first these meetings had been more like discussions and
debates. Jesus would be asked questions such as "What must I do to inherit
eternal life?" or "Which is the greatest commandment?" or
"Is it right to pay taxes to Caesar?" And with great wisdom he would
answer.
But before long the encounters became ugly
confrontations. Jesus was accused of casting out demons by Beelzebub. He was
called a Samaritan and demon-possessed. Jesus would respond by describing his
enemies as "white-washed tombs," blind guides," and
"children of the devil." In every confrontation, Jesus was the obvious
winner. But the leaders were unmoved. Clearly nothing would convince his enemies
to believe in him, not even the raising of Lazarus from the dead. Far from
having a change of heart, most of my fellow councilors began to plot the murder
of Jesus.
As you can imagine, it became increasingly difficult
for me to remain noncommittal and serve on the Sanhedrin. Almost daily, new
charges were being raised against Jesus and new strategies were being devised to
arrest and kill him. It all came to a head on the first night of Passover. One
of Jesus' disciples, Judas, had begun cooperating with the priests. Well before
dawn on Friday, a small army of soldiers, officers, priests, and Pharisees
descended on the quiet garden of Gethsemane where Jesus was praying. Judas came
with them, identifying Jesus with a deadly kiss. After a brief scuffle between
Peter and the slave Malchus, Jesus was led away.
Several times that night Jesus was tried. There were
trials before the high priests Annas and Caiaphas; there were two trials before
Pilate. There was even a trial before Herod. I heard each accusation: that Jesus
had threatened to destroy the temple, that he claimed to be the Christ, that he
called himself the Son of God, that he had made himself out to be a king in
opposition to Caesar, that he opposed paying taxes, that he was nothing but a
troublemaker.
All this I heard and yet said nothing in Jesus'
defense, not even when he was mercilessly beaten and mocked. I knew where it was
all leading, to death by crucifixion. My heart told me to speak, but my tongue
refused.
Most of the charges were absurd. Others were based on a
deliberate misrepresentation of what Jesus taught. And some charges I had
concluded were true. Jesus was in truth the Christ, the Son of God, the King of
Israel. But if I spoke up in that den of hatred and violence, would I not be
killed too? How frightened I was!
Just before noon Pilate made his decision: Jesus would
die by crucifixion, even though he was guilty of nothing worthy of death. Faced
with an impending riot and the loss of his job, it seemed the politically
expedient thing for the governor to do. As I watched Jesus being mocked by the
soldiers and whipped, I felt myself a worse betrayer than Judas.
Along with two condemned thieves, accompanied by a
crowd that both mourned him and scorned him, Jesus was led away to Golgotha
carrying his own cross. In silent grief, I returned home to await word of Jesus'
death. There my heart agonized within me. Again and again I relived those
moments when I could have said something on behalf of Jesus but didn't. Then
something Jesus had said came to my mind: "Whoever confesses me before men,
I will also confess him before my Father in heaven."
I thought about my beautiful garden tomb. Did I really
want to go to the grave denying my Lord through my silence? No! It was too late
to undo the past, but there was still time for me to speak up for my Savior. I
would go to his cross and confess him there regardless of what the other members
of the council thought of me. Even if they expelled me and charged me with
crimes of blasphemy, no more would I be silent.
Hurrying from my home, I made my way through the city
toward the north gate. It was just the middle of the afternoon, but oddly, the
crowds that had accompanied Jesus to Golgotha were returning. Did they not kill
him after all? Had someone come forward at the last minute with proof of his
innocence?
Nicodemus, his face streaked with tears, walked slowly
toward me. "Nicodemus! Tell me, what's happened?" "Jesus is
dead," he replied matter-of-factly. "Dead? Already?" I asked
incredulously. "How can that be? The cross can take days. Surely you are
wrong." "Jesus is dead," Nicodemus repeated. "I saw him die.
Why would you be concerned now? Never before have you seemed to care about
Jesus."
"Nicodemus, I was so wrong," I told him.
"I know I should have spoken out for him, but I was afraid. Surely he was
the Messiah, the Son of God. Nicodemus, I failed him. Is there any hope for
me?" After a long pause, Nicodemus answered. "Brother Joseph, yes,
there is forgiveness even for you. Before Jesus died, he asked God to forgive
his enemies. He promised paradise to a dying thief. Yes, surely, there is
forgiveness for you, too."
Almost miraculously, I felt the burden of my guilt
lifted. "What will they do with the body of Jesus?" I asked.
"Probably bury it in the potter's field with the criminals and the poor and
the foreigners," Nicodemus answered. "No, not that!" I cried.
"He can have my grave. I'll go to Pilate and ask for his body."
You know what happened next. Pilate released the body
of Jesus to me after the centurion certified that Jesus was dead. Just before
sunset, Nicodemus and I carried the body of Jesus to my tomb. Gladly I would
give it to him. Together we wrapped the body of Jesus in the cloths and spices
Nicodemus had brought, and laid it in the place I would have lain. Mary
Magdalene and Jesus' mother watched from a distance. Finishing hastily, we left
the tomb, straining to roll the heavy stone against the doorway.
There, it was done! Now there was no doubt what side I
was on, or where my heart lay. The governor, Nicodemus, the Sanhedrin, the
women, the disciples - they all knew. Jesus was my Lord and Savior! Mark says I
was bold.
If I was, my boldness was simply that of a forgiven
sinner confessing Jesus even when I was afraid. That was really my gift to
Jesus. It can be yours, too. Confessing him before others is a far better gift
than the most costly tomb. And besides, he doesn't need one of those anymore.
Prayer
Lord God, as we contemplate the great love of your Son
that moved him to die publicly for unworthy sinners such as ourselves, move us
publicly to acknowledge him as our Savior. Help us become as Joseph of Arimathea
became, bold to confess Jesus before men. In his name. Amen.
Sermon by The Rev. Charles E. Blakely, Professor, Presbyterian
College, Clinton SC, who resides with his wife, The Rev. Nancy Blakely in Pelzer, SC