The Women at the Tomb
I wrote this in preparation for Holy Week, months earlier.
Luke 23.50-56
My father died just a few months ago, three weeks before Christmas. This is my first time reading through this passage since then. This time the wording of the scripture struck me differently than before. The actions of Joseph and the women seem so strange, yet natural.
Their actions are a mix of legalism and personal mourning. Legalism because Joseph, a member of the council who knows the Old Testament scriptures well, knows Deuteronomy 21 requires that any person executed “must not remain all night upon the tree” but that “you shall bury him that same day.” At the death of his friend and teacher, Joseph reverts to his instincts, back to what the scriptures said, hoping to make sense of Jesus’ death.
The women hang on to their Jewish teachings, as well. Jesus is buried on a Friday, the same day he is put to death. Friday is called the day of preparation, in which the people prepare everything they need for the following day, so they can participate in the sabbath. On this Friday evening, they even prepared the burial spices and ointments they would use on Jesus’ body on Sunday morning.
But there is one phrase my eye keeps focusing on. The women “saw the tomb and how his body was laid.” The text doesn’t give us a detailed description of what this scene looked like, but I can see those women standing at the entrance to the tomb. I don’t know their faces. I don’t know how tall they were. I don’t even know how big the tomb is, but I can picture them there.
I can picture them because in some sense I’ve been them. I’ve stood in front of a columbarium niche as I placed my father’s remains in one spot for the last time. I can remember the exact moment I read his name on the urn before my eyes filled with tears and I ran back to my wife to bury my head in her shoulder. And, I remember looking back to see my mom and sister, standing there, looking into the niche.
I have seen the women at the tomb.
My mother and sister go back to that place once or twice a week. They sit on the bench in front of the columbarium wall. They linger there for a while. My mom leaves flowers. My sister listens to some of dad’s favorite songs (most recently she listened to the Smokey Joe’s Café version of Leiber and Stoller’s Trouble.) They go there to sit in the presence of death, not sure how to move on from it quite yet.
I’m jealous of their time spent at the grave, to sit there and linger in the solace of red marble, cold metal benches, and the soft scent of flowers left by others who were there to do the exact same thing with their loved ones. We often want to skip the uncomfortable nature of Holy Saturday. We want to remember Christ on the cross and jump immediately to the joys of Easter morning. But, today, let us sit on the metal bench and feel its cold sting, even through our clothes. Let us sit and stare at the tomb, unsure of how to move on from death. There will be time for rejoicing tomorrow. But, today, and tonight, and until dawn tomorrow, we linger at the grave.