The Madonna and the Political Prisoner, Chapter 25

Chapter 25 Joseph of Arimathea AD 26

I failed. I tried to save him, but I failed. Offering the family the use of my tomb is the least I can do for him. It seems insensitive to interrupt them now in their grief, but I need to tell them, to save them worrying what will happen next; to let them know that his body will not be thrown with the corpses of the other criminals onto the rubbish tip and just covered with a thin layer of earth to deter the crows but which will hardly deter the foxes and wild dogs. I recognise the young man from Yeshua’s description of him, it must be John, the youngest of his disciples. I don’t know the women with him, but I assume one is his mother.

John is already trying to persuade the group to leave the dead man, so I call him and tell him that I have the burial of his body in hand. I give John details of the location of the grave so that Yeshua’s relatives can prepare the body properly when they feel ready. I have written permission from the Governor’s chief official to take possession of his body and arrange its burial before the commencement of the Sabbath. The official didn’t argue. He didn’t seem to care. I’d had a word with the Centurian in charge of the execution party too, asking for his help to ensure the Master didn’t suffer the agony for too long dragging on overnight and then be left hanging and exposed throughout the Sabbath, to await disposal the following day.

Surprisingly the soldier seemed understanding and sympathetic. I’d expected to receive abuse or scorn and be treated as a criminal myself for making such a request, but once he’d seen my official authorisation, he became quite chatty and quizzed me about the condemned man. He expressed the opinion that Yeshua was highly unusual, a man who bore the humiliation, indignity and pain of the crucifixion in a restrained and passive way as if he’d accepted his fate. He’d even seemed thoughtful about the rough soldiers who were forced to pin him to the execution cross, although he must have been in agony for his back was raw from a flogging he had received just prior to the final act.

The Centurian asked me about the inscription he’d been commanded by the Governor to nail to the upright – that the man was the ‘King of the Jews’. ‘He didn’t strike me as a terrorist or member of a nationalist group. We‘ve crucified a number of those recently and they either die full of bravado and yelling nationalist slogans or they curse and swear at the soldiers whom they despise as the occupation force. Several of my soldiers, uncouth as some of them are, remarked on this man and felt uneasy about what they were doing.’

So I told him about the Master. How he’d been a famous prophet, renowned in Galilee, but had fallen foul of the religious leaders here in Jerusalem who’d been jealous of his following and resented his criticism of them. How they’d had to bribe witnesses to give evidence that Yeshua had claimed kingship, so that he could be condemned under Roman law. That really they’d accused him of blasphemy, but no Roman court would convict a man and sentence him to death just on a Jewish religious law. They observe the niceties here under the noses of you Romans, although they’d apply their own barbaric practices unhindered in the remote villages.

The Centurian asked in that case why they’d not dealt with him outside the capital and I said that his following was too strong outside Jerusalem, the priests and Pharisees would have to face the mob themselves who’d never let them get away with it. “So was he a king?’ he’d asked and I talked to him about his spiritual message. I’m not sure the soldier understood, but he grasped the fact that he was innocent of the crime for which he’d been condemned and assured me he’d do his best to minimise his suffering as far as he could.

So the Centurian orders his men to take down the body of the Master and help me to take it to the tomb, which is inside the city walls. The soldiers express surprise as executed criminals are not allowed to be buried within the city, but the Centurian assures them that I have the appropriate permission. Luckily I had to get this only from the Roman authorities. The Jewish leaders would never have permitted it. It doesn’t take them long. We’ve covered his body so that bystanders do not realise that this is the corpse of a crucified man and ask awkward questions. We’ve only just laid his body to rest on the stone slab within the tomb, when another delegation of soldiers turns up with a couple of rabbis, whom I recognise from the Temple establishment.

“Why are you allowing this? You know the regulations concerning the burial of criminals. You must remove this body at once, it’s an insult to Jehovah that he, a vile blasphemer, should find a place inside the city of David.” One of the rabbis has rounded on me and intends to use force if necessary to get his way. I show the commander of the Roman patrol who has accompanied the rabbis my official letter of authorisation, signed by the Governor himself and the soldiers who’ve brought the body of Yeshua from the execution site back me up and the new group of soldiers accept that and ignore the protests of the rabbis. These two say they’ll complain of my actions officially in the Sanhedrin and get me censored, but since the military will take no further action, they go away muttering that they’ll complain to the Roman official, saying that if there’s evidence that I’ve bribed anyone, they’ll have me barred from the chamber meetings.

We’re still securing the tombstone across the entrance when the rabbis return, flustered and out of breath.

“We’ve obtained orders from your official to place a military guard on the tomb. We can’t get him to have the body removed but here are the written orders for at least two soldiers to remain by the tomb here for the next few days until the body has decomposed sufficiently to make it impractical for removal.”

“Why on earth do you want that? It seems a nonsense. I trust you’re not going to bribe the soldiers to remove the body and take it out of the city as soon as our backs are turned?”

“On the contrary. We fear his disciples will come and steal the body and say he’s risen from the grave.”

“Why on earth would they do that?”

“There’s a rumour that he predicted he’d be destroyed and rise again. Most think he was talking about the Temple which was one of our complaints about him, but some say he was talking about himself. We can’t take that risk. If his body disappeared and the disciples spread the rumour that he’d come back to life, then people all over the country might take it seriously and cause all sorts of problems and heresy.”

“So you just want to be sure he’s still here?”

“Yes.”

“In that case you’ll presumably not mind if I ask the Centurian to permit one of his soldiers to remain on guard as well. I don’t trust you.”

“It’s a poor reflection of your Jewish faith if you can’t trust the word of senior rabbis attached to the most important temple in the land.”

“You’ve done little to justify that trust in that you lot conjured up witnesses to lie about the prophet in order to get the Romans to confirm the death penalty you were determined to impose.”

“We’ll ignore that remark. And if you make it again, I’ll have you accused in the Sanhedrin of slander and face expulsion.”

I don’t know if I can get the Centurian to agree. However, one of the soldiers agrees to stay while the others return to their commander to seek his permission for my request. The rabbis wait until the soldier returns and says the Centurian has approved. The soldiers agree the coverage among themselves and I leave satisfied. I trust the Centurian, which is a poor comment on the behaviour of my own countrymen.

I had better return to my house in the city now and see if the Master’s disciples and family are still there. They don’t know me, but it was Yeshua himself who asked me if he could borrow a room in which they could all celebrate the Passover. We’ve had a series of meetings of the Sanhedrin in the days leading up to the festival and I’ve been with my brother and his family for the ritual meals. It’s been good to be at the meal with them, for I have no family of my own since my wife died in childbirth and I treat my brother’s children as my own.

I said that I’d tried to save the Master. I thought I could use my influence in the Sanhedrin to argue his case when I heard of his arrest. There had been earlier debates about the phenomenon of John who was condemning the hypocrisy of the religious leaders and baptising those who repented of wrongdoing in the Jordan river. Then there had been a couple of references to Yeshua’s actions in the Temple and complaints about his disturbance of the Temple traders. I had defended him then, and they’d let the matter drop as they were unable to assure me that the traders were not charging excessive prices to the pilgrims and that they, the priests, were not themselves benefiting greatly from the trade.

When I heard that they had arrested Yeshua, I was prepared to defend him once more, despite the risk to my own reputation, but I was not prepared for the speed with which he was condemned. The matter was never brought to the Sanhedrin, but was dealt with by the High Priest and his religious court and they got him to the Romans that same night because they said they wanted the matter cleared before the main festival was in full swing. I think it was their plan to move so swiftly to pre-empt any move to speak on his behalf and challenge their arguments, for their mind was already made up.

So I’ve come here to witness the execution and see to his proper burial as befits a man of his integrity and holiness. It has been a rebuke to me to have to witness my friend in such agony, drumming into my brain the magnitude of my failure to speak up for him and save him. I’m ashamed that I was unprepared to speak openly earlier. I’ve since discovered that I’m not his only supporter in the Sanhedrin. Nicodemus stopped me after my last timid intervention there and said that he too had been impressed by the Galilean prophet but had been nervous of admitting it openly for fear of criticism from the High Priest and his faction in the assembly.

What might have happened had the two of us spoken out more boldly? Would we have found others of influence prepared to defend him? We might have saved him. We might even have made it difficult for the priests to have had him arrested at all. I think of my weakness now, my lack of courage, as a direct cause of his death, as great a sin as that of those who actually condemned him, or drove the nails into his hands and feet. So I’m now trying desperately to atone for my failure to act and all I can do is to offer him my own tomb as his last resting place. What an admission of failure!

And now I’ve had to watch the grief of his own family and followers. I daren’t admit to them my lack of timely action. Indeed, it’s embarrassing that in their grief they were so effusive in their thanks for this little service I could undertake. Now I’ve had his body laid to rest and secured some assurance that nothing untoward will happen to it and seen the heavy stone rolled across the entrance, I suppose I’ll have to face his followers who’ll probably still be in my home where I promised Yeshua he could celebrate the Passover.

His followers may not be so grateful as the women, they may suspect that I could have done more and challenge me. Yeshua told me about some of them, especially the rough outspoken fishermen from Capernaum. I guess I’ll get the rough edge of their tongues. But I must face up to that – part of my penance perhaps for not having faced up to my responsibilities earlier. I must make my way there now, for the Sabbath is almost upon us.