DATE: April 15, 2001 Easter Morning
TEXT: John 19:38-41
TOPIC: Joseph of Arimathea
PURPOSE: Encourage boldness for Christ
Copyright 2001, William A. Groover Jr.
I am Joseph Ben Abijah, Pharisee and member of the ruling Sanhedrin from the town of Arimathea. Or at least I was a Pharisee and member of the Sanhedrin. Today I don’t know what they will do with me, or what I will do with them. Let me tell you my story.
My father before me, Abijah Ben Samuel, was a Rabbi in the village of Arimathea. Arimathea is a small villege about twenty miles northwest of Jerusalem, as the crow flies. But, alas, though I have been called an old crow, I do not fly like one, and the mountain roads get longer each time I walk them.
My father, bless his memory, raised me with every advantage he could give a son, and I, too, was groomed from birth to be a Priest. But not just any Priest. It was my father’s ambition for me, and my ambition from a very early age, to be a Pharisee and a member of the Sanhedrin. To be a Priest among Rabbis. To be a keeper of the Torah—the Law of Israel.
During my lifetime the Torah took on tremendous importance. Our country had been conquered by many nations, Assyrians, Babylonians, Greeks, and now we were under submission to Rome. We longed for our freedom and independence. The LORD, Adonai Elohim, had promised to send a deliverer, a Messiah, to restore the throne of David. And we believed that the LORD would keep this promise if the entire nation of Israel could keep the Sabbath holy just one time. If no Jew in our country worked on one Sabbath, if no Jew broke any law on one Sabbath, Messiah would come!
Thus when anyone claimed to be the Messiah, or to know of him coming, we were naturally interested.
About four years ago Messianic expectations were heightened by an itenerant preacher from Judea, a man named John Ben Zechariah. We called him the Baptizer because he was calling people to repent and be baptized before the Messiah came and the Kingdom of God arrived.
But when he displayed his utter lack of respect for his superiors and dared to say WE were sinners, we knew—he could NOT be the messenger who was to come before Messiah.
About a year later we began to hear of another traveling preacher, a self-proclaimed rabbi named Yeshua Ben Yosef, Jesus Son of Joseph, from Nazareth in Galilee. It was reported that he performed miracles and healed people. As part of our religious and professional responsibilities, we were interested. We were the true guardians of the faith and teachers of Israel. Any religious message proclaimed in Judea had to come under our scrutiny. So we listened.
Some of the teachings of this Jesus were innocent enough. “Love your enemy. Do good to him who hates you.” There was much with which to credit him. And try as we might, we could not disprove any of his miracles. Nonetheless he was a serious threat to all for which we stood. This Jesus was a repeated Sabbath breaker. He and his followers traveled on the Sabbath, and they went into a wheat field and harvested grains of wheat to eat. He even healed a woman on the Sabbath—right in front of a TRUE rabbi in a synagogue! It was as though he wanted to flaunt his disrespect for Torah right in our faces.
We began to put pressure on him, and thought one day it had worked. He preached on the Law and said he had not come to destroy the Law, and that not one jot or tittle, the smallest marks made with a pen, would disappear form the Law. We said, “Good.” Maybe now we will not have to take further action. But could he leave well enough alone, I ask you? No! He had to put more gray hairs on his mother’s head. He claimed he was the one who had come to FULFILL the Law! And then he began openly rebuking us, the true keepers of the Law.
One of our members, an old friend named Nicodemus, was the first of several to believe this Jesus may truly be a prophet—or more! He went to Jesus and spoke with him, and he was totally convinced God had his hand on this man. “Jesus may even fulfill the Law by being Messiah,” Nicodemus told me privately.
I couldn’t believe him, but such was my respect for Nicodemus that I had to see for myself. I began listening to some of Jesus’ sermons.
By this time he was under such pressure he did much of his teaching by telling stories, parables, that could have different meanings. I was there when he told a beautiful story of a son who took his inheritance and squandered it, but his father forgave him. And how the faithful older brother was indignant, and the father was pained by the older brother’s refusal to forgive. The Pharisees were absolutely sure he was talking about us, but we couldn’t prove it.
Every time I started to agree with what Jesus was saying, he slapped me in the face. He was making demands no one could keep. But still I listened. And slowly I began to believe.
I think it was his eyes more than anything else. When he wanted to comfort someone, there was more compassion in his gaze than any mother could have for a sick child. But when he needed to rebuke someone, there was enough fire and strength in his eyes to make Pilate look like a coward! Those eyes could look straight into a person’s heart and uncover every secret, and every sin.
The Council of the Sanhedrin was becoming increasingly disturbed. The High Priest, Caiaphas, had already determined Jesus must die. He was gaining far too much popularity, and people were beginning to question why we didn’t follow his teachings.
A small group of the inner circle of Priests met together with one of Jesus’ Disciples to arrange for his capture, and just last Thursday night it was accomplished. We had an emergency session of the Sanhedrin beginning in the middle of the night to handle the matter. It was illegal for us to meet then, but Caiaphas was adamant about having this matter behind us before Passover. So we met.
Nicodemus spoke up for Jesus and tried to point out what we were doing was illegal, there was no real evidence against Jesus, and we were over reacting. But they shouted him down. I knew as soon as he spoke out, his career was over. Even if he remained on the council, he would never again be allowed to address the assemble.
I wanted to speak up. There was a time I had considerable influence on the Council—but I froze. Fear gripped my throat like a lion gripping its prey. Nicodemus looked to me for help. If there were three witnesses for Jesus we might have been able to stop things. There were others on the council who had begun to believe. I knew I wasn’t the only one. Surely a couple of others would speak up and I wouldn’t have to jeopardize myself. But no one did. I turned away from Nicodemus, unable to see the disappointment in his face because of the tears filling my own eyes. I have never felt so ashamed of myself in all my life.
They took Jesus to Pilate, hoping they could make a deal and have the Romans execute him. They could have just stoned him on the spot, but they wanted someone else to do their dirty work. Several of the inner circle, the most angry ones, followed along. And Nicodemus went, too, still arguing his case. He motioned for me to come, but I turned away. I just wanted to go home and go back to bed—a bed I hoped would provide the numbness of sleep, but which instead provided the court in which I tried myself for cowardice all night long.
The next morning it was determined; Pontius Pilate had sentenced Jesus to be crucified.
Pharisees never attended such affairs. To do so would be to risk becoming ceremonially unclean. And the last thing we wanted was to be unclean at Passover. Nonetheless, I went. I walked right up to the cross where he hung—people scattering and making sure they stayed well away from me, knowing the wrath they would receive if they accidentally touched me and defiled me. They couldn’t believe a Pharisee would be there, standing right under a crucified man where blood was dripping and splattering all around us. One drop of blood would make a person ceremonially unclean and thus unable to celebrate Passover. But somehow I knew his blood wouldn’t make me unclean; somehow that was what I needed to be made clean! This blood was sacrificial blood of higher atoning power than all the lambs we had ever burnt!
People were mocking him and yelling at him: “You saved others, why don’t you save yourself!”
Anger rushed to my face and I started to silence them when he said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” And I wept. He forgave them; could he forgive me, as well? Me, who remained silent and let this happen? Me, whose sin sent him to die?
I had to do something to honor him, no matter what it cost me. I knew my career as a Pharisee and a member of the Sanhedrin would be over, but I didn’t care. I would give up everything I had just to done one thing to honor him. So I went to Pilate and asked for his body.
Pilate was surprised at such a request, as were the other Pharisees who were still lurking around, making sure everything went according to their plans. When I returned, Nicodemus was there. He had brought spices with which to anoint Jesus’ body. In silence we carefully took him down from the cross, wrapped him in a shroud, and took him to the garden on the mount of Olives. We were still unable to look each other in the eye.
I had only recently bought a small piece of land and had a new tomb carved into the hillside. This would be where my wife and I would await the end of time. And this was where we laid him.
When we finished, I finally mustered the courage to speak to my old friend Nicodemus. “Do you think he forgave me, too?”
“Yes, my friend. But the hard part will be forgiving yourself! Still if you pray and ask, I’m sure he will help with that, too.”
We walked in silence back into Jerusalem. The Passover was starting, and our absence at the Temple would be noticed—but not missed. We were unclean, yet for the first time in my life I felt truly clean! No sacrifice had ever lifted the burden of the guilt of my sin the way Jesus had.
The next morning—yesterday--knowing there was nothing left for me in Jerusalem, I returned to the family home place in Arimathea, not only breaking Sabbath to travel, but breaking Passover as well. But I had to get away.
But now, even more passionately, I must return. For just a little while ago before I began telling you my story a messenger came from Nicodemus—good old Nicodemus—telling me the news, “Jesus is alive! He is risen from the dead! Death could not hold him! He is the Messiah!”
So before I go, let me say one thing to you today. Please, learn from my example. I was silent when he needed me. Today, he needs you. Yours are the only voices he has in this world. Some of you practice silence just as I did, only in slightly different manner. When you fail to invite a friend to worship, you are bing silent. When you fail to speak out against injustice or racism, you are being silent. When you fail to support him or his church, you are being silent.
I took my “silence” and my shame to his cross and laid them at his feet. You may lay your silence down today as well as I did then. And you may receive your forgiveness as I did.
