Good Friday

ENGLAND was once an intensely Christian country, and longed to have Christ’s presence—His physical presence as Man and God—made real in England. As the early 19th century poet William Blake—an eccentric believer, to be sure—plaintively questioned: “And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God on England’s pleasant pastures seen?”

Blake was putting into verse the ancient legend that Christ had actually visited Britain, as it then was, accompanying his uncle (legend) Joseph of Arimathea, who was a tin merchant (legend), and member of the Jewish council, the Sanhedrin (fact), who gave his own tomb as a resting place for the crucified Christ (fact).

The connection? Tin was mined and smelted in the south-west tribal area of Britain—known as Dumnonia then and as Cornwall and Devon today, the pointy tail on the lower left corner of Britain. That connection was enough for the mediaeval imagination; let it be enough for our imaginations as well, as we listen to what Joseph of Arimathea “might could” have said, just after Christ’s body was taken down from the cross, in this piece of speculative historical fiction.

Pause. Slow tempo. Drop pitch.

YOU MAY be wondering why I was planning to make that journey from Israel to Britain, almost two decades ago. Why indeed. I didn’t need the money, and as a member of the Sanhedrin I was expected to stay in Jerusalem, study the Law and the Prophets, and hear cases.

You might also ask how I came to join the highest court in Israel. I was born into a prominent family, and my international trading in tin and other metals gave me some skills in the laws of trade, on which I made several judgments. But what I genuinely loved was learning about God and the Torah from learned rabbis. And what I genuinely hated was learning about clever ways to avoid the spirit of all laws—justice, peace, mercy and humility before God—from worldly rabbis.

To get back to your question about the trip to Britain: it was several bad experiences with those worldly rabbis that forced me back to the ships again. To avoid scandal, the excuse I made to family and friends was that I was owner of a fleet, and it was time I went.

You may also be wondering why I took Jesus on the journey. It was because of my niece Mary, His mother, who asked me to take Him on the voyage I was planning. “I think He’s feeling cooped up in Galilee. I’d like Him to see the kingdoms of the world—and all their glory,” she added with a chuckle. “Not that He would ever be tempted by them. He’s a fine young craftsman and loves His tools and the Law.” She paused and then continued in a more serious tone: “And I’d like to see Him get away from Rome’s power for a while.” She always was nervous about Rome—nervous about its power in that serene manner in which she always expressed her anxieties; she would touch her side gently as though warding off pain, whenever the subject came up.

You will recall that Tiberius had just become Emperor that year, after the long and relatively quiet reign of Augustus—and who knew how he would act? He had been a successful general and governor, and so Tiberius was more than qualified to be Emperor. But we Jews have been carefully taught not to put our trust in princes.

Now, let me tell you about that trip. Jesus was a remarkable young man. He never got seasick, and He had none of that terror of the sea—or even of a stormy lake—that assails most of us Jews whenever we get into a boat. Out on the open sea, He eagerly climbed the ropes to the cross beam to trim the sails, as though He were crew and not the nephew of the commander of the fleet—a true servant.

The winds on the Mediterranean and Atlantic had been tame—even tamed, it seemed—and we arrived safely. Southwest Britain, where the tin miners live, crashes into the ocean; the hills are just as rugged as ours in Israel, but darker and wetter, and the land is green and pleasant. Jesus loved those hills, as He loved all things beautiful. As we approached landfall, He recited the psalm as if He had written it: “I will lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”

Not that He had His head in the clouds. No indeed. He took a lively interest in the ways that the ore was smelted, and remarked on several small, smooth, and unmarked coin-shaped ingots of tin: “Look, Uncle Joseph—perfect coins for Jews—no image or inscription. Who can you pay taxes to with these?” He said with a laugh.

That, I say, was nearly twenty years ago. You know what happened since then: the years of obscurity, then His baptism, His ministry and miracles, the kingdom of God breaking through. And the jealousy of the worldly rabbis, and that rigged trial before the Sanhedrin. My friend and I protested. Nicodemus cried out: “I curse this decision! I will have no part in this shameful judgement in blood.” And I shouted to their deaf ears: “I too will leave this Council, where innocence is murdered” (cf. The Oberammergau Passion Play , 1984).

I’ll not run away from scandal this time.

I defy them. I’ll not let them throw His body into a nameless unmarked grave. I give Mary my tomb for Her son. Let Him take my place in death.

Holy Friday (West)
Anno Domini 2019, April 19

Michael Mates was converted to Christ at St Luke’s Episcopal Church, Seattle. He holds a BA and MA (Greek and Latin) from the University of Washington, and a PhD (Church History) from Fuller Theological Seminary; his dissertation examined the British Church from St Patrick to Gildas, and has earned nothing in royalties. After teaching English at the International School of Islamabad, he joined the U.S. Department of State, serving mostly as a political analyst in Pakistan, Australia, Romania, and Moldova—and a brief posting in Washington DC.

He retired in 2011, gardens in Monroe WA, and worships at Peace Lutheran.