The last Advent poem last year, in fact
the last two, were about Mary Magdalene.
And Mary wound up in Britannia, 3,000
miles from Jerusalem, and it was 30 years
after the death of Jesus, and she was
ministering to the Queen of Isoni, named Boadicea,
and helping her die.
And in that moment of death, the Queen
of Isoni asked Mary Magdalene if she'd ever
been married, and she said yes, and that
she'd had three children.
And so I promised you that we would
return to that, and the Advent poem this
morning and next Sunday are to fill in
the gaps with what probably did not happen,
but may have happened.
That's my goal as far as historical reliability
is concerned.
Nothing that would contradict known reality, but everything
else out of my head, except that when
you tell a story out of your own
head, and you do it as a Christian
from a world view, you mean it to
be true.
So, this is part one of Joseph of
Arimathea.
The evening sky behind the cross was crimson
as if all the loss of blood from
Jesus' veins had spread across the heavens like
a red stain lifted from the earth.
The Lord hung limp and cast a shadow
toward Jerusalem.
Joanna and Salome and the little band, who
had the stomach and the strength to bear
the sight and stay the length of eight
long, bloody hours, stood and wondered what to
do.
And would it be permitted if a friend
or family should make an end of this
grim spectacle before the Holy Sabbath hid the
gore with evening gloom?
A soldier kept his watch to see that
no one crept in secret to the cross
to pay some final tribute or to play
the fool with corpses and pretend to worship
him whom God condemned.
But Mary Magdalene could not endure another hour
of what she saw as cowardice.
This was the Lord, she thought.
And just because of fear would they ignore
His shame?
Where were the men, the blind, the lame,
the deaf that He had healed?
And where this rock who would not run
or spare his own sweet life but die
with Him?
Where now this boast, this fair sky whim?
Was there no man with courage in Jerusalem
or who had been with Jesus long enough
to know His worth?
Just then, against the glow of crimson skies,
she saw a man.
He came along the path that ran up
from the garden where the rich have tombs,
as if a costly niche of stone or
clay might cool the heat of hell or
make our heaven more sweet.
He dragged a ladder with his hand behind
him on the path.
A band of linen, beautiful and fine, hung
folded on his back with twine bound fast
to keep it off the ground.
The soldier gripped his spear and frowned.
And what are you about to do?
I have my orders and will run you
through if you but touch the crucified.
The women held their breath and tried to
see if there was any dread in this
man's face.
You could be dead with one more step,
the soldier said, and pressed the sharp and
pointed head of his long spear against the
chest of Joseph.
Slowly, Joseph pressed a parchment in the soldier's
hand to read.
He stared.
You took your stand in Pilate's court for
this?
Man, you're a fool.
You think you'll be secure to walk the
streets of Zion if you treat him like
a king?
One whiff of this before the Jewish court
and they will make more vicious sport of
you than him, he pointed to the middle
cross, perhaps.
And you?
He asked the guard.
How will you fare when Caesar, nor his
realm is there, nor Pilate, nor the council
of the Jews, but only Christ above the
earth and sovereign over all the courts, both
great and small?
As Joseph climbed the final mound to reach
the cross, the daring sound of his bold
words pierced Mary's heart as nothing ever had.
The start of something that would last for
ten short, happy years.
No other men had ever wakened what she
felt when Joseph knelt before the cross and
wept.
How could a man, the loss of his
whole life in peril by courageous words, then
kneel and cry like this?
It hadn't always been this way with Joseph.
Once, the sin of fear had almost total
sway in Joseph's life.
From children's play through teenage years to high
respect on the Sanhedrin ruled unchecked the heart
of fear.
He was a rich and pampered child.
The rod and switch were never used.
His parents bought him everything he liked and
sought to make him safe with what their
wealth could buy.
They were convinced that health and everything their
son would need could be supplied with riches.
Freed from poverty, he would be free indeed.
But it was not to be.
No toys, no trips, no clothes, no horse,
no privileged schools could be the source of
peace, much less of bravery.
He dreamed of exploits on the sea when
he was young and in the isles, untamed,
unclaimed, three thousand miles away.
But then the fears would rise, the way
a nightmare terrifies, and he would settle back
to known and common ways.
When he was grown, the bondage was complete.
He dared not marry, lest it fail.
And scared of every craft and trade, he
leaned instead on wealth and lived unweaned from
all the worries of the world.
And yet, with childish fingers, curled around the
dream that someday he might have a lion
heart set free.
Then one day, when Joseph, near to forty
years of age, began to hear that Christ
had come, he paid a friend to take
him to a meadow's end where he could
hear the Lord, but not be seen.
And there, the stubborn blot of bondage to
a life of dread was washed away, as
Jesus said, Look at the birds, they neither
sow, nor plow, nor reap, nor make a
stow of wealth in barns, and yet God
feeds them all.
Are not your simple needs well known to
Him, before you ask?
And is it not your toil and task
on earth to trust your Father's care?
Does He not number every hair?
And don't you sell two sparrows for a
cent, yet God does not ignore their life?
Nor one falls, except He wills.
And shall you not be kept because you
are more precious than the birds?
Does worry pay, or can you add a
cubit to your length of life?
Does fear increase your strength?
Consider how the lilies grow.
They neither toil nor spin, but oh, how
beautiful their brilliant dress in spring.
Nor did God ever bless a king in
all his wealth like this.
Oh, do not ruin childlike bliss by fretting
over what you wear, or eat, or drink.
These are a snare, and all the world
who turn away from God seek these.
But you, I say, seek first His kingdom.
Seek His rule, and sway, and righteousness, and
you'll be given all the rest.
The strife appointed for tomorrow's life, put safely
in tomorrow's place, then bear it with tomorrow's
grace.
And as the sun set on the field
where Jesus spoke, a rich man kneeled and
put his faith in God.
Three years went by, and all of Joseph's
fears began to fall away, except for one.
The secret that he kept from the Sanhedrin,
that he was a follower of Christ.
Because it was His glory, and renown, and
known in every Jewish town that Joseph ranked
among the one and seventy.
There was none more highly honored in the
hall than he.
But now, the horrid call was ringing in
his ears, the voice of Caiaphas.
It is your choice, Sanhedrin.
Is this blasphemy or not?
This Jesus that you see on trial says
He's the Christ, the Son of God.
We need no witness.
Done.
What say you?
All the voices cried aloud, let Him be
crucified.
But one, his eyes were fixed on Christ,
and Christ's on His.
And that sufficed.
The final chain was broken.
He was free.
He rose for all to see, a hush
fell on the council room, and everyone turned
from the doom that they had spoken over
the accused, and looked to see what Joseph's
rise and silence meant.
He spoke.
My brothers, I descend.
And now, as Mary watches there, this man,
beneath the cross in prayer, this wealthy, weeping,
fearless man, come, join this woman, if you
can, and stand in awe of what you
see, a man, enslaved to fear, set free.
Let candle one now softly speak of birds
and lilies, fragile, weak, like us, and Jesus
hanging there, and of the Father's costly care.
Be done with all anxiety.
And in its place now let there be
a death to him.
No faithless fear, but broken-hearted boldness here.