So Joseph [of Arimathea] took the body [of Jesus] and wrapped it in a clean linen cloth and laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn in the rock. He then rolled a great stone to the door of the tomb and went away. (Matthew 27:59-60)
Anyone who has ever been through the death of a loved one knows that strange and sometimes horrible awareness that crashes in immediately following the death. Something is going to need to be done with the now lifeless body of our beloved. In our day we refer to it as making arrangements, and it is largely about brokering the connection between the hospital and the mortuary. Much of the transition from death to grave happens out of our sight. It is not common for us to have the opportunity to do what Joseph of Arimathea did with the body of Jesus. We do not personally carry the newly lifeless body of our loved one to the place where he or she will be entombed. We do not experience the physical strain of leaning down to place them on a surface even more lifeless than their body. We do not struggle to roll a stone door over the mouth of the tomb.
Yet whether we have this more intimate experience of death or not, we all know, or will know, what it feels like to experience the overwhelming presence of our loved one’s absence. The one who was alive and with us, is now dead and gone. The tomb that awaited an occupant, is no longer waiting. And once that space is filled, we have nothing to do but back out of the crypt, or fill in the grave with dirt, or watch the waves wash away the ashes, and then walk away. Alone.
Death is an undeniable “full stop.” It ends something. Yet for those of us who are contemplating Jesus’ death on this Good Friday, we see death as a gateway as well. Unlike Joseph of Arimathea, or Mary Magdalene, or Mary the mother of Jesus, or his disciples, we know the rest of the story. We know that Sunday is coming. We know the promise of resurrection. So the breathless body on the stone slab in the crypt is not the only image we carry as we close the door of the tomb on Good Friday. We hear the echo of his teaching about the grain of wheat needing to fall into the ground and die in order to bear fruit (John 12:24). We remember the stories of his post resurrection appearances to his disciples. We believe that he is alive and with us in a brand new way.
But none of this counters the truth that he died. And Good Friday and Holy Saturday are the days to sit with that truth for a while and ask ourselves what this death means. What new life popped out of this seed that fell into the ground and died. What new doors were opened when it broke the soil and opened itself to light? What died with it? And what part of it could that Roman cross not kill?
Once again Wendell Berry has been God’s gift to me in the contemplation of these Lenten questions. He gives me a picture of the amazing work God does for us in death, how God’s experience of the grave is our gateway to life.
What hard travail God does in death!
He strives in sleep, in our despair,
And all flesh shudders underneath
The nightmare of His sepulcher.
The earth shakes, grinding its deep stone;
All night the cold wind heaves and pries;
Creation strains sinew and bone
Against the dark door where He lies.
The stem bent, pent in seed, grows straight
And stands. Pain breaks in song. Surprising
The merely dead, graves fill with light
Like opened eyes. He rests in rising.
(1980 -- I This Day p.25)
Our God in Christ participates in “creation’s groan” (Romans 8:22). He enters into our bondage and decay in order to free us from it. He descends into the ultimate pit and lets us know in no uncertain terms that not even death can stop his pursuit of us. Not even death can separate us from his love.
David Rohrer
4/10/2020