I am Joseph of Arimathea, Let me tell you my story.
I don’t remember the first words Yeshua spoke that drew me… only the feeling that the air in the synagogue had changed, almost as if the breath of God shifted. I had sat through thousands of teachings. Thousands. But when He opened the scroll and spoke of the Spirit of the Lord being upon Him, it wasn’t reading. It was… claiming. I leaned toward Nicodemus and whispered, “Do you hear that?” He whispered back, “Joseph, quiet. Half this room is ready to throw stones and the other half is thinking about following Him home.”
But I couldn’t help it. Something stirred in me. Something ancient. Something I hadn’t felt since boyhood, when I still believed miracles lived in the dust of the prophets’ footprints.
I followed Him from a distance at first. Not because I didn’t believe Him, because I did, too quickly, too dangerously. And I do believe He knew that. The council watched Him. The political currents were treacherous. And I had responsibilities. A family name. Influence. Lands. A tomb carved out waiting for my bones someday…
One afternoon, my friend Nicodemus came to my home with unlit torches hidden under a cloak. “He’s up in the north quarter teaching,” he said. “You want to go hear Him privately?”
“Do you?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “but I need to.”
“Then the answer is yes,” I told him. I grabbed the pouch of coins I had set aside that I knew He and His followers would need, and hid it inside my cloak.
We went. We listened. On the way home, we wrestled with our words, Nicodemus wanted to call Him a prophet, I wanted to fall at His feet. All night I paced, running my mind over Moses, Isaiah, Daniel, David, every prophecy, every thread. There was only one tapestry that made sense.
The Messiah stood among us, radiant and unshakable, and the council was too blind; or too threatened, to see it. They whispered behind folding hands, eyes darting, hearts pounding not with faith but with fear of losing their influence. Every law they claimed to uphold was a mask, every righteous word a shield for control. They envied Him, hated the truth He carried, and could not abide it. I watched them, their pride stiff, their plots swirling like smoke around them, and I understood how deeply they had lost their way. The God of Israel spoke through Him, yet they would not hear.
But I played my part. I sat in all the meetings where the elders snarled His name, where fear twisted into rage. I said nothing that would betray Him, but I said just enough to make them think I was simply “cautious.” Cowards love to believe everyone else is one of them.
Then came the night of His arrest.
A servant burst into the room, panting and wide-eyed. “They’ve taken Yeshua of Nazareth!”
My heart dropped. I grabbed my outer cloak and ran into the night like a fool.
I found Nicodemus already out there, face pale.
“What do we do?” he asked.
“What we can,” I said. “And for what we can’t… we pray.”
The trial, it was a sham. Lies piled on lies, rotten bricks, crushing Him. I couldn’t…I wouldn’t consent. “This is injustice!” I shouted. Heads snapped. Eyes… sharp, narrow, dangerous. If looks could kill, I’d be in that tomb of mine already, stone over me, done. I glared back at them.
One priest leaned forward, red in the face, shaking. “Mind your place, councilman!” he spat.
“I know the law!” I said, voice shaking. “This isn’t law! It’s…” I couldn’t even finish it. Murder, yes. Murder.
Nicodemus grabbed my arm, whispered, “Joseph… stop. Stop. You’ll ruin yourself.”
I looked at him. I wanted to nod. I wanted to pull back. My body said yes, but my heart refused. I had to say it. Had to. For Him.
Every false witness. Every twisted accusation. The room pressed in. Guards shifting. Priests sneering, breathing like snakes. I could feel it all on my skin. Crushing. And I thought, this is why I followed Him quietly. I stayed hidden all these months, but not now. Not now.
When they dragged Him to Pilate, I pressed through the crowd, elbows jostling, heart hammering. I had to see. I had to know. When He stood before Pilate, the governor looked at Him carefully, asking questions I couldn’t fully hear over the shouting of the false priests. They hurled accusation after accusation, twisting His words, making lies into weapons. My stomach churned.
I saw Pilate’s face shift, doubt flickering in his eyes. He spoke, soft at first, trying to reason, but the crowd would not be silenced. “Release Barabbas!” they screamed. “Crucify Him!” The air was thick with fury, with fear, with hunger for power, pressing against my chest.
I couldn’t look away. The soldiers had Him now, striking Him, mocking Him, twisting a crown of thorns onto His head, draping a purple robe over His back like a cruel joke. His back! His back… looked like torn parchment, blood and sweat mingled. I pressed a hand to my mouth, biting my palm to keep from crying out His name.
Pilate stepped forward, presenting Him to the people. “Behold your King,” he said. And the crowd roared back, “Crucify Him!” More shouted, “We have no king but Caesar!” I felt it deep in my bones, the injustice, the envy, the fear, the greed. Every hidden motive, every secret desire for control, it all burst into the open. I could barely breathe, barely think, but I kept moving forward, eyes fixed on Him, heart caught between awe, sorrow, and rage.
At Golgotha, I saw Peter stumbling among the crowd, eyes wild, guilt dripping off him like sweat. I grabbed his arm. “Peter! Peter! Come! Look at me!”
He shoved me off. “I failed Him! Don’t look at me!”
“Then stand here and don’t fail Him again,” I said.
He wouldn’t. He fled. Fear does that to even the strongest men.
I stayed. I watched every hammer strike. Every breath. Every word. And when the spear of that soldier pierced His side and the blood mingled with His water flowed out, I felt my knees give. “Dear God,” I whispered, “what have we done? What have I not done?”
When He died, the crowd thinned. Storm clouds hit hard, dark and heavy, slashing across the sky. The wind whipped through, tearing at robes and sandals. The air turned electric; I could smell ozone, dust, sweat, and fear mingled together. People gasped, stumbled, whispered, some falling to their knees.
And then the earth shook violently under my feet. Stones rattled in the streets, dust puffed from cracks in the walls, and the ground seemed to heave with grief itself, like the city wailing through rock and soil. I had to steady myself on the edge of the hill, gripping a wooden post, heart hammering. Some soldiers cried out, bracing themselves. A few priests fell back, clutching one another, faces pale.
I could feel the tremor beneath my sandals, through my bones, and through the tremble in my chest. Every heart in that place skipped a beat, and the air smelled sharper now, metallic almost, as if even the sky itself was crying with Him.
I stood among the onlookers when He cried out once more and gave up His spirit. In that instant, the curtain of the Temple, the great veil hiding the Holy of Holies, split in two from top to bottom. I felt the air shudder as though creation itself held its breath. Stones rattled in the streets, walls cracked, dust and small rocks tumbled from buildings. The people around me gasped, stumbled, some fell to their knees, trembling. I sensed the ground moving beneath me, as if the city itself were mourning.
The soldiers guarding the crosses staggered, sword-hands falling limp, faces ashen. A centurion close enough to see what had happened stood frozen, horror and wonder wrestling in his eyes. Women at a distance, faithful ones from Galilee, fell silent, tears streaming, trembling. The men who had shouted for His death, the priests, scribes, council members, they looked at one another, eyes widened, color drained. Arrogance vanished, power dissolved. They had demanded control, demanded justice, but standing there, in that shuddering moment, they were powerless.
I realized then, with the weight of heaven pressing on my chest, that this quake, this tearing of the veil, was no ordinary act of nature. It was God Himself marking the moment. The old barriers between God and man, between holy and common, had collapsed. Everything had shifted; the world itself had changed.
I did not move. I dared not. I watched. I shook. And in that trembling silence, I heard a truth more real than blood or stone or fear: the God of Israel was revealing Himself through the blood of His Son, and everything had just shifted.
I could not tear my eyes away. Priests ran about, mouths open, stunned. Some fell to their knees. Some covered their faces. And I, Joseph, stood frozen, trembling, heart pounding so violently it might have been heard above the storm. That death, this moment of apparent defeat, was victory. That veil, rent from top to bottom, was a sign: God Himself had marked the moment. Heaven had moved. I swallowed hard, staring at the dust and chaos, and knew the world had changed. The old barriers, between God and man, between holy and common, had collapsed.
I couldn’t stay back. I couldn’t. My heart pounding, hands trembling, but I had to move. Every fear, position, family, life, flared up and vanished like smoke. I stepped forward through the chaos, brushing past soldiers, toward the body, toward the action I had delayed for too long. I would take Him. I would care for Him. I would honor Him. I would not hide anymore. I would follow Him openly, whatever it cost.
The sky still raged. The earth trembled. The veil hung in its torn glory. And beneath it all, I felt the weight of eternity settle on my shoulders.
I marched to Pilate’s quarters. Guards tried to turn me away; I pushed through. “I want His body,” I said.
Pilate looked at me like I was half-mad. “You? A council member? Aren’t you all celebrating His death?”
“I am not celebrating,” I said. “Grant me His body.”
He waved a hand, exhausted. “Take it. It’s done.”
When I returned to the hill, Nicodemus was there with seventy-five pounds of spices. He met my eyes. “Joseph… are you ready to stop pretending?”
“I stopped pretending the moment I saw the spear go in,” I said.
We lowered His body together. His head fell against my shoulder. I felt the weight of Him, the kind of weight that changes a man forever. We wrapped Him carefully. Reverently. I kept brushing hair from His face like He might wake and tell me to stop fussing. We carried Him to my tomb. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the linen. Nicodemus steadied me. “Easy,” he murmured. “He’s safe now.”
Safe. If only He knew.
We sealed the stone, and I leaned against it, pressing my forehead to the cold surface. “Forgive me,” I whispered. “Forgive me for every moment I stayed silent. Forgive me for not standing beside You.”
Three days later, chaos.
Mary Magdalene was banging on my door. “Joseph! Joseph, He’s gone!” Opening the door, I grabbed her as she was about to fall. “What do you mean gone?”
“The tomb, open! Empty! Angels!”
I helped her stand and we ran. Nicodemus ran with us. Half the city ran.
John arrived out of breath, looked inside, and burst into tears. Peter fell to his knees. Mary kept repeating, “I saw Him… I saw Him… He called my name.”
Something in my spirit cracked, no, not cracked. Awakened. “Of course,” I whispered. “Of course You did. Death couldn’t hold You.”
In the days that followed, we gathered in secret rooms, not out of shame but because the city itself seemed to hold its breath, as though it too feared what had just happened. The air inside those rooms was thick with sorrow, with disbelief, with trembling hearts that still felt the echoes of the cross. We prayed, sometimes in broken whispers, sometimes in silent awe, our words stumbling over each other, trying to reach God and failing, yet knowing He could hear every unformed thought.
We shared what we had seen, every detail of the crucifixion, every tremor of the earth, the tearing of the Temple veil, the darkness that had fallen across the land. Each story spilled into the next, sometimes with tears, sometimes with a catch in the throat, as we tried to make sense of the impossible.
“Did you see the way the soldiers fell back when the earthquake shook the ground?” someone would whisper.
“The veil… it tore from top to bottom!… no one could have done that,” another would add.
And every time, fear and awe collided in the room, leaving us wide-eyed and breathless.
We trembled, not just at what had happened, but at what we thought it meant. Some clutched one another for reassurance; others stared into space as if expecting Him to appear in the doorway at any moment. We argued not in anger, but in a desperate search for understanding:
“How could this be?”
“Was this the end?”
“Or is it only the beginning?”
Every question was laced with hope and dread, a mixture of awe for the miracle we had witnessed and fear of what the authorities might do next.
And all the while, we waited, trembling, praying, talking, listening to every small sound outside the walls, knowing that life had been changed forever, and that what had happened on that hill outside the city gates had shifted the course of the world in ways we could barely comprehend.
And every night, I sat awake thinking: The tomb I bought for myself is now a testimony. A marker that I once hid… and then finally stood.
I, Joseph of Arimathea, was a coward before courage found me. But I buried my Messiah with my own hands and saw the world change three days later. And that, more than wealth or council seats or reputation, is what I will remember, and be remembered for.
And I would choose it again, every fear, every tear, every moment, just to serve Him again.
images were done by chatgpt at my direction (it doesn’t “listen” very well)