For the true story see see Matthew 27:57-60; Mark 15:42-46; Luke 23:50-54; John 19:38-42.
Well, it is all over, and now I am waiting for Pilate’s answer to my request.
When I left the temple earlier, I
had decided that it was too late to do anything about Jesus. Nothing that I could do would help him anymore, and it was not worth the risk to my career to try to help a dying man anyway. I had even decided that it was not worth returning to Golgotha just to see more hours of suffering. It was better, I thought, to put it all out of my mind, however unjust it had been.
But then, as I walked towards my house, the sun began to go strangely dark, and
all of my doubts and guilt came flooding back. Immediately I changed my mind and went to Golgotha. By the time I got there, it was almost completely dark, and I waited there for hours as the darkness lingered. Some of the chief priests and other members of the council were still there, but this sudden unexplained darkness made no obvious impression on them: their laughter and abuse continued with very little letup. I stood there, near them, but not with them. Yet I
could not bring myself to speak to Jesus. Some of his followers were there; I recognised them. One of them was a young man called John, who knew, and was known by, the High Priest – and that made me think again. He was known and recognised, yet he still stood by the cross of Jesus. His courage inspired me, but not enough; still I could not go and speak to Jesus or openly express my support for him. I kept trying to work up the courage to do so, but then, suddenly,
it was all too late.
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” Jesus said. His first words cut through me like a knife, for I felt strongly that I needed forgiveness, but his following words made it even worse, for I felt that I had known what I was allowing, but had let fear close my lips. Though I believed him innocent, in the end, my actions had shown that I did not consider him worth the possible loss of my consequence and reputation. I
wanted the praise of men more than the praise which comes only from God.
Then Jesus shouted out with a loud voice, saying, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” His voice was a bit hard to understand – his throat must have been dry after hours on the cross. Some of the people listening got mixed up about what he had said, while others went to give him a drink so that they could hear his words more clearly. In the misunderstanding, Jesus did ask for a
drink, and it seemed to give him the energy for one last effort.
“It is finished,” he cried, and then his head slumped forward onto his chest and that was it: Jesus was dead. I had missed my chance to speak to him.
When the centurion who was supervising the crucifixions realised that Jesus was dead, he said two things that made an impression on me, coming as they did from a heathen: “This man was innocent,” he said; and then, in wonder, “This man was the
son of God.”
He was right in both. Suddenly I knew that he was, and also that I must do whatever I could for Jesus.
Some years ago, I had a tomb cut out of the rock in a garden near Golgotha, and it has been sitting there unused ever since. Normally, the bodies of crucified men are disposed of in the local rubbish dump, where they are burned to ash with the other rubbish of society, and I knew that that was where Jesus’ body would go if I continued
to keep quiet. Suddenly I found the courage and determination to stand up against the chief priests and their ilk. I would go and ask for the body of Jesus and bury it in my tomb. What better way was left to me to declare my support for him and for the kingdom of God which he had preached? Immediately, I went directly to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. It was a situation in which I was able to use my position for good; he would never have even considered the
request if it had come from any of Jesus’ known followers.
So now I am waiting for his answer. Waiting while he checks that Jesus is really dead.
The day is over and the Passover has begun. It is a special Sabbath today, yet I am unclean through contact with a dead body – the body of Jesus. This month, I cannot eat of the Passover in memory of God’s deliverance of my
people from Egypt.
But although I am sorry to miss the Passover, I think it was worth it, and Nicodemus agrees.
As I waited for Pilate’s answer, I thought carefully about what to do, and decided to ask Nicodemus to come and help me. It was a big thing to ask of him, since he too is on the council, and likewise stood to lose his position in society if he showed support for Jesus. He agreed immediately, though, and even offered to bring the mixture
of myrrh and aloes that we use for a burial. I think he feels as guilty as I do.
Once Pilate gave me permission to take the body, I took the linen shroud I had bought and went with Nicodemus to arrange the burial. Together we took down the body, with the help of the centurion and his men.
Apparently, the High Priest had heard about our plans to bury Jesus, because he sent some of his servants to watch what we did. It must have been a big
surprise to them to hear that Jesus’ body would not be burned as they had expected – and probably wanted. I’m glad that we upset that much of their plans. I just wish we had been able to stop their plans to kill Jesus in the first place.
Human bodies are heavy, but both Nicodemus and I were amazed at how light Jesus’ body was. He could multiply loaves and fish enough to feed thousands, but he clearly didn’t feed himself that way! People had welcomed him
into their homes and provided great feasts for him, but it was obvious that he had concentrated on the people who were there rather than on the food itself. His body was like that of an old man who is worn out with hard work. Now, anyone who took any interest at all in Jesus knew that he took no comforts for himself, but preparing his gaunt body for burial highlighted this to me so very clearly.
Nicodemus and I carried the body very carefully to my tomb on a
stretcher. Nicodemus’ servant carried the spices and my servant carried the linen cloths and the shroud. We could have had our servants carry the body, but that didn’t seem quite right. We were the ones who wanted to make sure he was buried. We were the ones who felt the guilt, and were willing to make ourselves unclean to make amends as best we could.
There is a certain
irony in the idea that the chief priests and members of the council who lied and cheated to kill an innocent man can eat the Passover feast, confident that they are clean, while Nicodemus and I must not eat because we did what we could to give the son of God the honourable burial he deserved.
None of Jesus’ day-to-day followers could ever have got permission from Pilate, and even if they had miraculously done so, the chief priests would have been sure to have followed with the
temple guard and taken the body away to dispose of it. And where would Jesus’ followers have buried their Lord anyway? My position on the council, and Nicodemus’ as well, gave Jesus the burial he deserved.
Whatever this may cost us, the cost is worthwhile. Jesus was the son of God.
