I didn’t believe the stories at first.
Yes, it is true that I had requested the body of the Rabbi
Jesus from the Roman authority by going to Pilate even though I was not a
follower of the man.
Yes, it is also true that I purchased a burial cloth for the
man and laid him in my own tomb.
Yes, the faithful women, Mary, Salome, and Mary of Magdala
helped me with the rushed burial. The men who had followed this rabbi were no
where to be found.
Yes, I carefully rolled the stone into place to close the
tomb. It was heavier than I expected, but with the help of Nicodemus, we got it
into place.
That should have been the end of it all. I knew the women
planned to return after the Sabbath to complete the ritual cleansing and
anointing of the body. I would not interfere with what they thought was their
duty to the man they called Lord and Master as well as Rabbi.
I heard that my fellow Sanhedrin members requested a guard
for the tomb, ‘lest his disciples come to steal his body’. As if the men who
hid from the crucifixion and burial would plan any such thing. In fact, the
joke among the temple guard was that they ‘ran like rabbits’ when Jesus was
arrested. Some of the guard joked about one of them running away so swiftly
that he left his clothing behind. Those men would not be planning any secret
removal of the dead body to pretend there was a resurrection.
I could have told my fellow members, but I no longer
understood their viewpoint. Ever since the talk of arrest and death started
both Nicodemus and I had tried to speak up for sanity. It had been to no avail.
We were not even present on that night when the man was arrested and brought
before the Council. It was only those who Annas and Caiphas trusted who knew of
the late night assemblage. By the time the rest of us heard of it, the rabbi
Jesus was already before Pilate and there was no appeal possible.
So, except for the ability to bury the dead body in my own
tomb, there was nothing I could do. I warned the women about the guard at the
tomb. They simply stared at me numbly and nodded. I wasn’t sure they even
comprehended that there was danger in returning to the tomb.
The morning after Sabbath, I decided to go to the tomb. I hoped
to protect the women from any rudeness, or worse, from the guards. By the time
I started out, light was just barely touching the world, and the crazy rumors
were already flying.
“It wasn’t our fault! Lord Joseph, tell Caiphas it wasn’t
our fault!” At the city gate, I was confronted by two guards from the temple.
They looked terrified.
“There was an earthquake!” gasped one. “The stone was rolled
to one side by an earthquake.”
“There was lightening!” the other insisted. “It was an
angel!”
“We were thrown to the ground by the earthquake. Then we saw
women coming. We knew we had to tell someone.”
“The angel was terrifying,” mumbled the second man. “I was
afraid to even look at the figure. This was more than a natural event.”
“Don’t tell Lord Caiphas that,” the first guard grabbed his
friend by the tunic. “It was an earthquake that dislodged the stone. There was
no angel. There was no amazing light. There was nothing, except an earthquake.”
He released his partner to plead with me, “It wasn’t our
fault. It was an earthquake.”
“You had better go make your report. I have no influence
with the High Priest.” I knew I sounded brusque, but I could not make any sense
of the raving of the two men. My inmost thoughts emerged from my mouth before I
could stop them. “Perhaps he will not think you have been drinking.”
“We are not drunk!” Both men responded in a unison of
outrage.
“Go, then, and make your report. I will go and see what has
happened at my gravesite.”
The two guards lowered their heads and plodded on toward the
gate. I didn’t envy them their interview with the High Priest. Caiphas would be
enraged that the tomb had been breached—if it had. I quickened my pace. I had
to see for myself.
“He is not in the tomb!” The next person I encountered was
Salome running back to Jerusalem.
“What do you mean?” My mind couldn’t comprehend what she was
saying. Her words seemed even more strange than the guards report of
earthquakes and angels. “Has someone
desecrated my tomb and stolen Jesus’ body?”
Salome stopped and stared at me, as if just recognizing me.
“Jesus is not in the tomb,” she repeated. “The burial cloth is there, but his
body is not. We don’t know what to do. The angel said to tell Peter and the
others.”
The woman darted away. I stared after her, then hastened toward
the Garden at a trot. Who would have thought that an Elder of the People would be
moved to run toward a burial ground? But who would have thought that the
miscarriage of justice of the past week could happen in Jerusalem by Jews
against one another.
I reached the tomb in a few more brisk steps. On the ground
lay shattered pieces of the oil jars that the women must have brought. The area
was scented by the rich spices and oils. I stared at the stone that I had so
carefully rolled into place. It was tilted as if by some force from within the
tomb.
I looked around and saw the place where the guards had been.
There was a flask, which I picked up and sniffed. It held the weak mead doled
out to soldiers, certainly not strong enough to cause hallucinations. The
remains of their meal was also on the ground along with abandoned spears and one
helmet. It was obvious that the men I had met left abruptly.
I didn’t see evidence of an earthquake, except for the stone
tilted awkwardly. None of the other graves appeared disturbed. As I mulled the
evidence, I saw Peter and John running toward the tomb. I stepped back so they
wouldn’t see me. John paused just outside the opening. Peter barged straight
in.
“He is not here! The Master is gone!” his shocked
exclamation echoed from within.
Then John stooped and entered. A moment later both men
emerged looking stunned.
“The burial cloth is there, the head cloth is folded up
neatly. The body is gone.” Peter spoke in a stunned and barely audible monotone.
“What does it mean?”
“Could he be risen like Mary of Magdala told us?” John asked
in awe.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe any more.” Peter
shook his head and stumbled back toward Jerusalem with the younger man trailing
behind.
Only when they were out of sight did I enter my loaned tomb.
As Salome, Peter, and John had said, there was no body. The burial cloth lay
limply, and the head covering was separately folded. I stared for a long time
at the incomprehensible evidence. Feeling the need to do something, I gathered
up the shroud and carried it from the tomb.
I slowly left the Garden carrying the cloth and not knowing
what to think.
“I must talk to Nicodemus,” I told myself. “He spoke to
Jesus once. Maybe he will have some insight.”
