The Beautiful Upset: WK6 - WED
THE WOMEN WHO STAYED
Mark 15:42-47 (NLT) "This all happened on Friday, the day of preparation, the day before the Sabbath. As evening approached, Joseph of Arimathea took a risk and went to Pilate and asked for Jesus' body... Meanwhile, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joseph were watching and saw where his body was laid."
Here's something you might have missed in the chaos of the crucifixion: when everyone else scattered, when the disciples went underground and Peter was nursing his shame and the crowds went home, the women stayed. They stood at the cross. They watched Him die. And then they followed His body to the tomb. Mark is careful to name them: Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, Salome. These weren't casual observers or distant followers. These were women who had traveled with Jesus from Galilee, who had supported His ministry with their own resources, who had listened to His teaching and believed His message. And when belief became costly, when association with Jesus could get you killed, they stayed visible.
Joseph of Arimathea shows up in this story like an unexpected grace. He's a member of the Sanhedrin, the very council that condemned Jesus, but Mark tells us he was "waiting for the Kingdom of God." He wasn't fully in, but he wasn't fully out either. And in this moment, when it costs him everything, his reputation, his standing, his safety, he goes to Pilate and asks for the body. This is dangerous. Under Roman law, crucified criminals were left on display as warnings. Their bodies were typically thrown into mass graves or left for wild animals. By asking for Jesus' body, Joseph is publicly identifying himself as a follower of a failed Messiah. He's painting a target on his own back. But he does it anyway, because sometimes love requires us to step out of the shadows.
A friend told me about their sister who sat with her brother as he died of AIDS in 1987, when the epidemic was at its peak and fear was everywhere. Their parents wouldn't come. Some of their siblings wouldn't visit. The church they grew up in had made it clear that this disease was judgment, that people who had AIDS deserved what they got. But Sarah showed up. She held his hand. She read to him. She stayed through the end and made sure he had a funeral with dignity. Years later, she said, "I couldn't do theology in that moment. I could only do love."
That's what these women do. That's what Joseph does. They can't fix what happened. They can't reverse the crucifixion or explain the tragedy. But they can stay. They can witness. They can wrap a body with care and lay it in a tomb with honor. They can show up when showing up is all that's left to do.
And here's the thing, when everyone else is managing their reputations or protecting their safety or trying to figure out what comes next, these marginal people, women who couldn't testify in court and a secret sympathizer, become the faithful ones. They're the ones who bridge Friday to Sunday. They're the ones who keep vigil in the dark. They're the ones who will be first to discover that death didn't get the last word.
1. Where are you tempted to distance yourself from costly loyalty?
2. Who in your life needs someone to simply stay present?
3. How might "small" acts of faithfulness matter more than we realize?
Mark 15:42-47 (NLT) "This all happened on Friday, the day of preparation, the day before the Sabbath. As evening approached, Joseph of Arimathea took a risk and went to Pilate and asked for Jesus' body... Meanwhile, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joseph were watching and saw where his body was laid."
Here's something you might have missed in the chaos of the crucifixion: when everyone else scattered, when the disciples went underground and Peter was nursing his shame and the crowds went home, the women stayed. They stood at the cross. They watched Him die. And then they followed His body to the tomb. Mark is careful to name them: Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, Salome. These weren't casual observers or distant followers. These were women who had traveled with Jesus from Galilee, who had supported His ministry with their own resources, who had listened to His teaching and believed His message. And when belief became costly, when association with Jesus could get you killed, they stayed visible.
Joseph of Arimathea shows up in this story like an unexpected grace. He's a member of the Sanhedrin, the very council that condemned Jesus, but Mark tells us he was "waiting for the Kingdom of God." He wasn't fully in, but he wasn't fully out either. And in this moment, when it costs him everything, his reputation, his standing, his safety, he goes to Pilate and asks for the body. This is dangerous. Under Roman law, crucified criminals were left on display as warnings. Their bodies were typically thrown into mass graves or left for wild animals. By asking for Jesus' body, Joseph is publicly identifying himself as a follower of a failed Messiah. He's painting a target on his own back. But he does it anyway, because sometimes love requires us to step out of the shadows.
A friend told me about their sister who sat with her brother as he died of AIDS in 1987, when the epidemic was at its peak and fear was everywhere. Their parents wouldn't come. Some of their siblings wouldn't visit. The church they grew up in had made it clear that this disease was judgment, that people who had AIDS deserved what they got. But Sarah showed up. She held his hand. She read to him. She stayed through the end and made sure he had a funeral with dignity. Years later, she said, "I couldn't do theology in that moment. I could only do love."
That's what these women do. That's what Joseph does. They can't fix what happened. They can't reverse the crucifixion or explain the tragedy. But they can stay. They can witness. They can wrap a body with care and lay it in a tomb with honor. They can show up when showing up is all that's left to do.
And here's the thing, when everyone else is managing their reputations or protecting their safety or trying to figure out what comes next, these marginal people, women who couldn't testify in court and a secret sympathizer, become the faithful ones. They're the ones who bridge Friday to Sunday. They're the ones who keep vigil in the dark. They're the ones who will be first to discover that death didn't get the last word.
1. Where are you tempted to distance yourself from costly loyalty?
2. Who in your life needs someone to simply stay present?
3. How might "small" acts of faithfulness matter more than we realize?
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