Saturday, March 22, 2008

Today’s text

John 19:38-42

Joseph of Arimathaea, who was a disciple of Jesus--though a secret one because he was afraid of the Jews--asked Pilate to let him remove the body of Jesus. Pilate gave permission, so they came and took it away. Nicodemus came as well-the same one who had first come to Jesus at night-time-and he brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. They took the body of Jesus and bound it in linen cloths with the spices, following the Jewish burial custom. At the place where he had been crucified there was a garden, and in this garden a new tomb in which no one had yet been buried. Since it was the Jewish Day of Preparation and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.

Prayer

My heart breaks as I see them, Jesus. They make ready the place to lay you. They clean the cave, brush away the dust and lay out the spices and linens in which to wrap you.

They fumble with the dead weight of your body, turning it, holding you up, reaching under and around, winding the fabric about your form. Slowly your wounds disappear, your feet and legs, hands and side, chest and shoulders and then your face, the face they had learned to love, even though they never really understood you.

How could they? How can anyone? We don’t understand a love that loves to the end.

I understand only that I love them--and you--as they carry out their heart breaking work, laying to rest their fondest hopes, burying, too, the inexplicable yearning they knew in you presence.

Dead, now, all of it: you, the hopes for that kingdom not of this world, the unrequited longing you awakened in their depths. Dead and gone. Laid to rest. Surrendered to the dust.

All is quiet. The crowds have dispersed. Ancient blood lust has been satisfied. Now is the hour of regret and sorrow--and whispers in the silence.

That is all we have in the hour death, as hopes are dashed and blessed memories lie a crumpled in a heap on earth’s tired crust.

But, My Lord, it is not all you have.

So we wait in the stillness, daring to imagine that the garden of your tomb will bloom with everlasting tomorrow.

Pr. David L. Miller