I find it fascinating and quite beautiful that in our tradition we spend a week experiencing and remembering the range of emotional responses unto Jesus’ death and resurrection. In one week, we reminisce the joy of waving palms, the shock and shame of betrayal, the grief at the foot of a withering tree in the shape of a cross, and the waiting until the morning of an empty tomb. And yet, so often, there is a moment we long to ignore, a moment we avoid wrestling with because it is so difficult, almost too painful to bear – the tomb.
We re-live the moment all over again, we experience the passion and the pains of the One commissioned to love us even unto the sting of death on a cross. Then silently, we wait until Easter morning to experience the beauty of life made new. A whole day of waiting, lamenting, longing, silence. A day of knowing that our Lord has experienced death’s slumber, a day of preparing the tomb, weeping and wailing, longing for God’s refuge to be made known in the midst of the insurmountable sadness that surrounds the death of Christ.
The gospel of Matthew paints a scene of what this tomb silence might look like. It is written: “when it was evening, there came a rich man from Arimathea, named Joseph, who was also a disciple of Jesus. He went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus; then Pilate ordered it to be given to him. So Joseph took the body 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. Mary Magdalene and the other Mary were there, sitting opposite the tomb” (Matthew 27:57-61). Three people are accounted for in Matthew’s portrayal of the grief at the tomb. I’d venture to argue that it was only in the presence of one another that these weeping loved ones were able to find any source of comfort. Their savior, their beloved, their redeemer was gone – all they had was one another, a collective stream of tears, a unity in the brokenness. The only hope were the words of testimony, the words inscribed upon the hearts of these tender, hurting believers. It is as if they wrap their grief in the words of the psalm upon which Jesus quotes in Luke’s version of the gospel – Psalm 31 – upon his final breath.
As Jesus is bound and wrapped, so too I picture these figures at the tomb responding with all they have, soft spoken words to bind together grief’s shatters. I picture Joseph carrying Jesus’ body, whispering into the ear of his silent Beloved:
In you, O Lord, I seek refuge; do not let me ever be put to shame; in your righteousness deliver me. (Psalm 31:1)
I picture him wrapping Jesus ever so gently in beautiful clean cloth, singing in a broken key:
Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me. (Psalm 31:2)
As Joseph strains all of his energy to roll the stone in front of the tomb, I picture Mary Magdalene and Mary
bracing themselves in order to stand, looking at one another and speaking the only encouragement they knew:
You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name’s sake lead me and guide me, take me out of the net that is hidden for me,
for you are my refuge. (Psalm 31:3-4)
I picture the three making eye contact upon the next verse and stammering through it, remembering the agony and pain of the final breath of Christ:
Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God. (Psalm 31:5)
I picture Joseph silently departing the scene. The women know not how to comfort, only how to grieve. I can hear broken voices trembling as Joseph walks over the hill. I can picture the words of this psalm reigning over the entire community of grieving believers, filling the resounding wounds of hurt, pain, and loss with a voice that connects each believer in Christ’s sacrificial love that transcends even the brokenness of the tomb.
My times are in your hand; deliver me from the hand of my enemies and persecutors. Let your face shine upon your servant; Save me in your steadfast love. (Psalm 31: 15-16)
I truly believe that the time at the tomb is central to the understanding of the Lord’s goodness. Though we know the continuation and hope that is to come of this season, neither Joseph nor the women knew of such glory. At this scene of grief and longing, all they have are each other. All they have are the weary souls of empathy and understanding. I think this has resounding implications for our lives as disciples and followers of the risen Christ. We too have insurmountable experiences of sadness, grief, and hurt in this life. I believe the walls of this city cry out for God’s love, and I believe the caverns of the deepest places in our hearts long for understanding in the midst of chaos and pain. I venture and continue to believe that we need one another, if only so that when we are at the tombs in our lives, we can look into the eyes of another believer, and if we cannot find God anywhere else, we’d faithfully find God there, loving one another as we were once taught by a commissioned servant who taught us that love is the greatest commandment. Barbara Brown Taylor writes “what we have most in common is not religion but humanity. I learned this from my religion which also teaches me that encountering another human being is as close to God as I may ever get – in the eye-to-eye thing, the person-to-person thing – which is where God’s Beloved has promised to show up” (Barbara Brown Taylor, “An Altar in the World”, 102).
May it be so. In the hurt, pain, frustration, in the tombs of this life, unto the hope everlasting may we find Christ in our love for one another. May we remember that we have been commissioned to love, and in doing so, in our humanity, in our love for the Lord and for one another, we shall find the glory of God’s Beloved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Laura is a first level MDiv student at Union in Richmond.
Who Is My Neighbor? 