It was essentially a cave in the earth. A hewn-out space in the rock. Perhaps there were others like it in the vicinity. It was originally the burial place for a rich man and his family, but it was still just another gravesite for the dead. It represented nothing but a sad end, even for its original owner—a wealthy man named Joseph of Arimathea.
It was a place of darkness, especially when its entrance was covered by a large stone; there was no light on the inside. Silence reigned there, for no voices spoke from the inside of the tomb. It was a place of memory more than it was a place of hope. Finality hung in the air—no one ever came out of this place.
Not this time, though.
Somebody unique had been buried there—somebody who had already announced that he had no intention of staying there. It’s okay to be buried in somebody else’s tomb when you don’t plan to be there long anyway.
No, this time it was Jesus buried there. The Son of God. The one who said he was the way, the truth, the life. When you’re “the life,” it makes sense that death wouldn’t be able to hold you. No rock would be large enough to keep in the tomb the one who had made the rock in the first place. This time, somebody would indeed come out.
And that dark hewn-out cave? The light of the world would brighten it. Hope would spring forth from it. Death would lose its power in it. And, because of its emptiness, unknown, ordinary, unspectacular followers of Jesus would give their lives to tell the story of his victory.
You and I have the same privilege today. Let’s not keep the story of resurrection to ourselves!
