Air. Fresh, sweet, beautiful. Joseph wiped hair from his face as he surfaced out of the small lake next to his home in Arimathea. What beautiful air it was indeed. He took in several deep breathes before letting out a long and tired sigh.
The last twenty-four hours had drained the man mentally and physically. Yeshua, his great nephew and close friend, had been put on trial with the Sanhedrin for being a blasphemer, a hypocrite, and several other irrelevant and false charges. Normally, this wouldn't bother Joseph much, as he knew the truth about his nephew and the claims made about him. Not only that, but Joseph was also a member of the Sanhedrin, and had felt very confident that he could dispel any doubts his fellow council members might have had about the man which had been thrown before them so violently those hours ago.
It had not gone as hoped.
Scores upon scores of people had testified against Yeshua—many of them false accusations—and through it all the man had remained completely silent. Again, Joseph knew none of them to be true, and knew beforehand that Yeshua would most likely not respond to the accusations hurled at him. It was not the accusations that had bothered him, it was the end result of the trial. Joseph had been dumbfounded as the many accusers dragged Yeshua to Prefect Pilate, demanding his execution.
They had not taken his council-ling at all. It had been as though their minds were made up even before the trial began. Joseph barely had a chance to get a word in before his fellow council-members stated their unanimous decision to take Yeshua to Pilate. Indeed, many of them even accompanied the mob of accusers.
Joseph knew Yeshua was the messiah. He knew Yeshua was the son of God. He had seen him dispel the arguments of the Pharisees and Sadducees countless times in places much more public than a Sanhedrin court. Joseph knew Yeshua could have persuaded for his release when it came his time to speak, but he had not; he had barely uttered more than a sentence. The messiah's words echoed again and again in Joseph's head: “If I do tell you, you will not believe. And if I ask you, you will not answer. But from now on, the Son of Man will be seated at the right hand of the Power of God.”
That had been his moment; his chance to escape the death wished upon him—and he had calmly brushed it aside. Joseph knew Yeshua spoke truth in those words, but he couldn't help but wonder why his great nephew was setting himself up for death.
“What wonders could he possibly be planning this time?” muttered the older man to himself, shaking his head. Joseph began making his way back to shore, where servants awaited with towels and a fresh robe.
“You have not slept.” commented one of the servants as Joseph quickly wrapped himself in a towel.
“How can one sleep?” replied the wealthy disciple, “One of my closest friends is setting himself up for death.”
“He is fulfilling the prophecy.” offered another of the servants. Joseph shook his head: “He is barely over thirty years! There is so much more he could accomplish in the rest of his days! What about delivering our people from the hands of the romans? That is a prophecy is it not? Yet even now he delivers himself to our enemies.” the servant was about to respond when a woman's cry cut him off.
Joseph looked up to see his niece; Mary, running towards him with tears streaming down her face.
“They have handed him over to Pilate!” she cried as she buried her head into Joseph's damp shoulder, “They have given Yeshua to Pilate in return for the release of Barabbas!” Joseph choked back tears: “Barabbas...the criminal?” stammered the old man.
Mary stifled her cries enough to let out a wailing, “Yes!” and after another moment of sobbing she added, “Yeshua is to be crucified tomorrow at Golgotha.”
The words hit Joseph like a slap in the face. The color left his skin, and his eyes stared into nothing. Again he thought of the council several hours before.
“Has he said anything in his defence?” asked Joseph quietly.
“Nothing more than the words spoken at the council.” came the wailing reply.
“This is not like him.” Protested the old man, “Why has he not spoken out against the fools?”
This time the second servant spoke: “He is fulfilling the scriptures written about the coming messiah. Have you not heard the predictions of these days?” Joseph said nothing. He had heard rumors that Yeshua was predicting his own death, but he had brushed them off as just that—rumors.
Yet, as always, it seemed as if Yeshua was right.
-
He hung there. Broken. Beaten. Lifeless.
Joseph stood alone on Golgotha hill. The crowds had left several hours ago with grim looks on their faces. They had not come as such, for many had been jeering and mocking as Yeshua was nailed to the cross and raised up for each and every person to see. Oh how they had mocked him!
Joseph's eyes welled up with tears: “Why?!” he shouted, and dropped to his knees. “Why?” he whispered through sobs. A drop of blood splashed onto Joseph's tightly folded hands.
The elderly disciple turned his gaze upward, recalling the last words of his greatest friend:
“Father, into Your hands I entrust My spirit.”
Through all the jeering, all the mocking, all the insults and beatings, Jesus had uttered little more than those words. According to some of his disciples, Jesus had only spoken several mere sentences between the sanhedrin trial and his death. Not one of them had been a complaint. Joseph thought back to some of Jesus' teachings throughout the past years. How in His own words, Jesus had told his crowds of followers to refrain from complaining so as to become more like Him. Never before had Joseph understood those words as he understood them now.
“Like Christ.” he said quietly as he wiped away the tears and snot from his face: “If only there was a way to honor your many sacrifices.” Joseph paused as an idea crept its way into his mind.
-
“You're certain?” asked Pilate, a confused look scrambled across his face.
“No doubt has entered my mind since the thought came to fruition.” replied Joseph as calmly as possible.
“And he is quite definitely dead?”
Joseph winced at the casual air of the question: “Yes. Yes he is definitely dead.”
Pilate eyed the Sanhedrin council member carefully: “Was it not your order that sentenced Jesus to death in the first place?”
“It was.” replied Joseph steadily, “But my decision was not in agreement with the rest of the council, and so it was over-ruled.”
Pilate sat back in his chair and let out a great sigh: “You spent much time and money on that tomb.”
“All the more reason to give it back to my Lord.” Came Joseph's quivering reply. Uttering such words at such a time and place as this was dangerous indeed.
“And what of Joseph of Arimathea? Where shall his body be lain when his day comes?”
“I am not an unwealthy man. I can build ten more tombs each greater than the last.”
“Ah, but it must be of at least some inconvenience for you to do such a thing.”
“What is convenient for me and what is convenient for my Lord and King are two different things entirely.” replied Joseph slowly, “If God has seen fit to bless me with riches and resources with which to do this service, then I would be a fool to deny it. All I ask is that You allow me to take down and bury the body of my nephew and friend.”
Pilate threw up his hands in frustration: “Fine!” he almost shouted, “Just do it quickly and without too much commotion so that I can forget about this Jesus business.”
Joseph smiled thankfully.
-
“Careful!” urged Joseph as several soldiers assisted Joseph and Nicodemus with taking down the broken and beaten body of Jesus, “Please be careful!”
The soldiers did their best to comply.
Joseph had all but given up trying to hold back tears as he and Nicodemus began wrapping Jesus' body in fresh linens spiced with myrrh. Neither of them could believe this was happening. Neither of them understood why this was happening. This man who had lived the perfect life was lying dead at their feet, and no one would explain why.
Joseph and Nicodemus shared tears as they slowly carried Jesus' body to his tomb. They wept along with many others as they gingerly placed His body down on the stone, and they stood sombrely as several guards closed the door to the tomb, finalizing the burial of Jesus.
Joseph and Nicodemus gave a final cry when the door slammed shut, and the two walked arm in arm as they began the long journey home.
-
Air. Fresh. Sweet. Beautiful. Joseph pushed the hair back from his face as he surfaced out of the small lake which lay next to his home in Arimathea. What beautiful air it was indeed. Joseph took in several deep breathes before letting out a long and tired sigh.
Jesus. Was. Dead. There was no doubt about it. Joseph had seen to the burial himself. Joseph's friend, mentor, leader, relative, and King, was dead. Joseph shook his head to try and rid himself of the thought as he had so many times before.
This couldn't be true! Jesus had raised his own friends from the dead! How had He let the people treat him so violently? How had He not saved himself? If he was the king, why had he allowed such awful things to happen to him?
Joseph turned and began swimming back to shore. He thought again of the bruises on Jesus' body, and thought again of how it had taken great effort from Joseph and Nicodemus to remove the thorn crown from Jesus' head. Tears flowed freely as Joseph stepped out of the water and began drying himself.
A shout from the house grabbed the old man's attention, and he turned to see a servant running towards him at a very fast pace. An enormous smile crept onto Joseph's face as the servant's shouts became more clear.
“He's alive! He's alive! He's alive!”
