Now there was a man named Joseph, of the Jewish town of Arimathea . . . (Luke 23:50)
While the screaming was going on, he couldn’t make his voice heard.
Maybe he didn’t speak loud enough. Maybe he barely spoke at all. In the heat of the trial—or what the officials were pleased to call that travesty of justice—there were a few dissenting voices, such as that himself and Nicodemus and perhaps one or two others. They may have tried to turn the tide quietly, speaking to one man and then another, but the odds were clearly against them. The hour carried the day, and swept a righteous man to his death.
Now it is quiet. Events have passed by the governor’s palace, which is now returned to a place of routine business. Joseph, as a man of wealth and influence, has Pilate’s ear, and now that it is quiet his reasonable voice can be heard: Give me the body.
A reasonable voice; an odd request. But then, this whole business is odd. Pilate handed the man over for execution just that morning—is he already dead? The normal procedure would be to throw the remains in a pit near Gehenna with the other two, once death had wrapped its slow crushing grip around all of them. Then the whole distasteful business would be over and done with. But if Joseph wants to offer the hospitality of his own brand-new tomb, let him. Pilate’s permission, once he’s determined the man is dead, is quick and curt. An odd request, but it seems right. A fitting end, perhaps. Though the governor formally absolved himself for the death of an innocent man, it still troubles him. And though he now goes about his business with a studied show of normality, it always will.
And they made his grave with the wicked
and with a rich man in his death,
although he had done no violence,
and there was no deceit in his mouth. (Isaiah 53:9)
When Joseph first thought of offering his tomb, did he recall the prophecy? Probably not; there was so much to do and so little time before sundown. Supplies must be gathered, servants called to wash the body, strong men recruited to take it off the cross. (How did they do that? Prying the nails out would crush the hands and feet. Perhaps they could just pull the body free, but not without more tearing of tissues—or perhaps, after hanging so long, the holes could have stretched out enough that hands and feet could simply be lifted off the nails once the cross was horizontal.)
With all these dreadful practicalities, it’s doubtful anyone was aware of fulfilling any prophesies, even though that particular prophesy is a very strange one: numbered among the transgressors, buried among the rich. Priests and scribes had probably debated the meaning of that passage through the centuries—set out parameters, debated the particular, and divided into schools of thought. But when the day finally comes, everyone is too rushed to think or too distracted to connect or too numb with grief to do more than set one foot in front of the other, like the women following the servants of Joseph’s household as they carry the body to the tomb. Mary of Magdala, Joanna, and Salome assume it will be their last journey with him. They watch, the observe, they return to the city to purchase spices before the sun goes down. Exhaustion falls on them like the close of day, and they enter a forced and fitful Sabbath rest.
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