THE EMPTY TOMB

It has been some time since I posted a story about the life of Jesus. I am proud to present one once more, and just in time for Easter. I hope you all have had a blessed holiday, Christians and non-Christians alike.

Please refrain from flaming me when you review, assuming you do. As I always say, I don't expect everyone to agree with me. But I have just as much a right to express my beliefs as you do with yours.

Story (at least in this format) © unicorn-skydancer08

All rights reserved.

It was a bright, beautiful Sunday morning. Flowers of all shapes and colors were in full bloom, and the soft music of bees and birds graced the air.

There was scarcely a cloud in the brilliant blue sky, and there was but a slight breeze that barely stirred the leaves on the trees. Overall, this morning could not have been more ideal.

Yet there was no joy to be found in this day, at least for some people.

At the sepulcher that was the property of Joseph of Arimathea, a young woman could be found sitting forlornly on the ground, weeping bitterly. The stone that blocked the entrance to the tomb had been rolled away; within, there was nothing. Some would have wondered why the woman was grieving the way she was, as there was no body in the chamber to grieve over. Yet that was precisely the reason for Mary Magdalene's grief.

Only days before, she had seen the body of Jesus of Nazareth—the greatest and most beloved of men, a man of God, the man whom she had followed steadfastly for years—laid to rest in this very crypt.

He had died a horrible death at the hands of the Romans; Mary was but one of the many attendants at the grisly scene. Even now, the memory of her beloved Master hanging on that crude cross on that barren hillside, torn and bleeding, with those cruel spikes penetrating his very flesh and bone, was as sharp and lurid as ever. If she lived to see a hundred years, she knew she would never forget it.

The burial had been brief, as the Sabbath was at hand.

This morning, after the Sabbath had ended for that week, Mary, along with a handful of other women, had come to the tomb to properly anoint the body—only to find it open and uninhabited. What made it even more astonishing was that the vault had been securely bound as soon as the body had been wrapped up and placed inside, and marked with the seal of Pontius Pilate, the Roman procurator himself. Several Roman soldiers had been set to guard the tomb, as there were rumors floating around that Jesus's followers would steal the body and claim that Jesus arose from the dead, thereby spreading riots and rebellion throughout the domain.

But the guards were gone, the seal was broken, and all that remained of Jesus was the fine linen cloth in which he had been enshrouded.

Had someone else pillaged the tomb and stolen the body? If that was so, how could that man (or men) have defeated the soldiers? It would have taken someone exceptionally strong, exceptionally clever—or both—to thwart Pilate's men.

Where was Jesus now? Could they truly hate him so much that they couldn't even let his mortal remains rest in peace?

That was the explanation for Mary's tears.

How much time passed her by in that desolate place, she neither knew nor cared. She might very well remain there until she died herself. She certainly didn't see any reason left for living, now that Jesus was gone, in every sense of the word.

At length, she heard the soft pad of feet behind her. Someone was coming this way, but she didn't bother to turn her head to see who it was. She figured it was probably only the man who tended the gardens here.

"Woman," a deep, strong voice addressed her. "Why do you weep so? Who is it that you are looking for?"

In a weak voice, thickened from tears, Mary answered, "If you know where the body of my poor, dear Lord is, sir, be kind enough to tell me where, and I will take him away."

"Mary."

At the mention of her name, spoken in such a kind, compassionate, loving way, Mary finally did look over her shoulder.

A tall man stood a short distance from her, garbed in a long, flowing robe that was the purest white color she had ever seen. He was quite handsome, with a trim beard and dark hair that crowned his head like a nimbus, curling appealingly around his face and ears and trailing well past the nape of his neck. His eyes emanated a sweet spirit, yet they seemed able to look directly into Mary's very soul.

At that instant, Mary recognized him, and it was as if time itself had come to a complete standstill.

"Master!" was the only logical word she could find to say, her voice no more than an awestruck whisper.

Indeed, it was Jesus himself, alive and well. It was as though the events of the previous week had never transpired to begin with. Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. She couldn't see how this was possible, but it had to be.

When she stretched out a trembling hand to her Lord, he held up his own hand to stop her—and she could clearly make out the wounds from the nails in his palm and wrist. "Do not touch me," he told her, speaking gently yet firmly, "for I have not yet ascended to my Father. But go to my brethren, and tell them that I ascend to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God."

Fresh tears broke out onto Mary's face, but this time they fell for an entirely different reason. "Oh, Master!" she sobbed. "Oh, Master—you still live!"

Jesus smiled at her, and that smile alone was enough to melt her bones.

"No, Mary," he said in a voice as soothing as a caress, "I live again. I was dead once, and now I live once more."