Joanna's Resurrection Account

Bonus Story of the Month! Happy Easter!

Dear Readers, I published this biblical fiction story in April 2021. I am republishing it especially for all my new subscribers since then (and for those of you who might have missed it)! The story was inspired by Luke 8:1-3 and Luke 24:9-10 where Joanna is mentioned along with Mary Magdalene, Susanna, and other women who supported Jesus.

Joanna, a servant of Jesus Christ, whose husband, Chuza, served as steward of Herod’s household.

To Luke, my dear brother in the faith. Grace and peace be yours in abundance.

You have asked for my account as an eyewitness to our Lord’s crucifixion and resurrection so that you may write to Theophilus. This is my story as I experienced it. I was a much younger woman then, but my memories have not faded over the years. I am convinced that even if I lived a thousand lifetimes, my wonder would not dim when recalling those days.

***

This can’t be happening my mind screamed over and over that morning as Susanna and I rushed to join the crowd heading toward Jerusalem’s hill called Golgotha. Up ahead, we glimpsed Mary Magdalene and other friends as they fought to push through the fevered mass in their efforts to find Rabboni. Roman soldiers shouted, trying to keep order, but people cursed, pushed, and pressed against one another to get ahead, as if driven by a maniacal, unseen force.

Where is he? Where? Susanna and I pulled each other along as we followed the chaotic procession. Suddenly we halted, appalled at the scene. A Roman soldier stood shouting at Rabboni as he staggered, weighted by a heavy wooden beam lashed to his arms and shoulders. Our beloved teacher was hardly recognizable from lacerations and bruises all over his body. We moved as close as we dared. He groaned and paused to shift the beam, his breath ragged. The soldier raised his cudgel and suddenly Rabboni collapsed. No! They can’t do this to the most beautiful person I’ve ever known!

People pushed in front of us. Some yelled insults while others wept loudly. I could hardly distinguish my sobs from the cacophony of wailing and shouts. Someone, please stop this! Adonai, have mercy! As the crowd moved ahead slowly, every so often we caught glimpses of our beloved teacher. Being as close to him as possible while he took his last steps on earth was all that remained to show our love and devotion.

When we reached the top of the hill, we stopped a short distance from the crucifixion site, as we knew the soldiers would not allow us any closer. Susanna and I clung to each other, sobbing. Soon we heard the sound of hammering and cries of agony. I’ll never forget Rabboni’s scream as they hoisted him into the air, and all I could think was, How is this possible? A cross instead of a throne?

Other women who’d served him also joined us, but the disciples and Jesus’ brothers remained conspicuously absent. We knew that it was not safe for them to be there. Up ahead, Mary Magdalene, her blue headscarf fluttering in the wind, gestured wildly at the soldiers. I knew she was begging them to let her stay near her beloved Master. The rest of us simply were not so bold.

Then Mary, Jesus’ mother, came up the hill, her face contorted in anguish as she sobbed, “My son, my son, oh, my son!” She was barely able to stand as she leaned on her two companions—her sister, Salome, and sister-in-law, Clopas’ wife. John trailed behind the women, his young face ashen. When Mary neared the cross where Rabboni hung, she suddenly screamed and sagged to the ground. At this, our wails chorused even louder. No mother should outlive her child, much less witness his murder.

A strong wind whipped through the area as the crowd shouted insults at Rabboni. Pharisees in their long-tasseled robes walked by, wagging their heads, making snide remarks like, “He helped others; now let’s see him help himself.” Inwardly, I screamed at them, You murderous snakes! You pompous hypocrites! You know very well you’re killing an innocent man!

I turned to my friend, who stood shivering as the wind flicked wisps of dark hair across her wet face. “Susanna, how can they mock? All he ever did was good!” She nodded, her large brown eyes sorrowful as they gazed into mine, but she seemed unable to speak. I pulled off my wool cloak and placed it around both our shoulders, holding her close against the wind.

Susanna was like a sister to me, as she was a childhood playmate who had lived on my street. We were about the same age, in our early thirties now. People often commented that we looked alike. Though we longed to bring our husbands happiness by producing many children, Elohim had only granted each of us one child—we shared the stigma of “less than” in the eyes of women blessed with large families.

As the hours dragged on, I alternated between rage and grief. Once, the high priest and his father-in-law, Annas, walked by. I overheard Annas, this white-washed-tomb-of-a-man, say, “Tonight we’ll celebrate with the best wine, Caiaphas. We’ve done it! Better for him to die than for the entire nation to be destroyed, as you said.”

I couldn’t stand it. How was Rabboni destructive for Israel? I wanted to yell, How dare you celebrate murder! “Susanna,” I said, my voice quavering, “why do they hate him so much?” She shook her head sadly as her eyes searched mine. My face flushed, and my breath came in ragged gasps. She stroked my cheek and then began tucking in some of the black curls that kept escaping my veil. I knew she was trying to calm me, but the pressure in my chest threatened to choke off all air and would not subside.

At about 3:00 pm, Rabboni cried out in an unusually loud voice, “It is finished!” Immediately, the ground began to thunder and heave. Susanna and I tried to steady each other, but the shaking dropped us to our knees. Was the earth going to open beneath us now and pile everyone into the abyss? Oh, what did it matter if I died? All my previous reasons for living hung limp and helpless on a tree, pierced through with nails.

After the tremors stopped, a hushed terror fell on the crowd, and Susanna said, “Surely this was a sign from God.”

I frowned. “But what does it mean?”

She slowly shook her head, her face thoughtful. “I don’t know . . . ”

As we helped each other up, Rabboni’s last cry, “It is finished,” kept ringing in my mind. His voice had sounded so triumphant, even joyful. Why? And how did he have the strength to shout with that kind of volume as he was suffocating to death? Nothing made sense.

Some time later, I noticed new activity as two soldiers slammed cudgels against the thieves’ legs. Suddenly one plunged his spear into Rabboni’s side. A primal scream pierced the air, and Jesus’ mother once again sagged to the ground, and her companions quickly kneeled beside her. Susanna and I clutched each other more tightly. After that, all sounds seemed to come from far away; even my sight felt dimmed, and I hardly breathed.

Later, my senses revived somewhat as Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus arrived, bringing three burly servants: two carrying large jars of myrrh and aloes on their shoulders and another hauling a bier, a flat wooden frame, on his back.

The crowds had dispersed, and the soldiers seemed more relaxed, so we drew closer; however, we remained at a respectful distance because typically only men prepare a male body for burial and women prepare females because of strict modesty practices. John brought Mary to us, and the other women joined our little group as well.

From this modest distance, we watched as Joseph and his servants lowered the cross and extracted the nails. Then they lifted the body onto a linen sheet. I noticed that Joseph and Nicodemus did not perform “tahara,” the purification ritual of washing, because Rabboni had died a violent death, and blood must not be separated from the body in such a case.

Instead, they covered him with the myrrh and aloes mixture. Then John handed them strips of linen with which they wrapped the body. They bound the arms and legs with bands separately. In order for the cloth to harden properly, they kept adding more mixture into the folds. As I watched the men work, it felt as if my life was being folded away as well.

When they finished, Joseph of Arimathea waved us over. Mary immediately fell to the ground next to her son, caressing his face, weeping. Was she thinking of the first time she held him in her arms? His first steps? When they lost him at age twelve at another Passover and finally found him at the temple? I sank to the ground next to her and said, “Oh Rabboni, I will forever bless the day I met you.” The others, too, took the opportunity for a last goodbye.

Then Nicodemus covered Rabboni’s face with the sudarium, a separate face cloth, and bound it from the chin to the head with a strip of linen. Oh, that beloved face, bloodied and distorted beyond recognition. I would never see him smile again. I would never look into those kind, pure eyes again. I groaned as tears once more streamed down my face. I was too hoarse from hours of wailing to make much sound. All of us appeared to be in a similar state.

Afterwards, we gathered around to gape at the large jars that had contained the myrrh and aloes mixture. Seventy-five pounds worth of spices, Nicodemus said with a sweeping gesture and a sad smile on his aged face. I gasped. That was four times the usual amount used to bury ordinary people! But then our beloved Rabboni was not ordinary. The resinous, astringent fragrance that filled the air began to calm me a little. How fitting that Rabboni would be buried in a manner equal to only great men and royalty.

Nearby lay a garden with a newly chiseled tomb, which belonged to Joseph of Arimathea. The servants lifted Rabboni onto the wooden stretcher to carry him there. We followed to see where they put him. Mary Magdalene and Clopas’ wife decided to stay until the men rolled the stone in place, but the rest of us left. We were exhausted.

Though I lived in Jerusalem, most of the disciples had walked the eighty-five miles from Galilee to celebrate Passover and stayed with friends or relatives. John Mark’s mother had put up several disciples.

And so we began the seven-day mourning period with traditional prayers and Torah readings, but all we could talk about was our shock and confusion at the horrific events we had witnessed. We’d been so convinced that Rabboni was the Christ, the promised Messiah. How could we have been so wrong?

I kept feeling nauseous and hardly ate or slept. My mind raced from one thought to another, and I felt detached from my body. Everything seemed surreal—how could Rabboni really be dead? When sleep did come, nightmares tormented me, and I would wake sobbing. My husband, Chuza, would hold me then and whisper soothing words. He, too, was deeply shaken by the loss of our beloved teacher.

For three years, we women had served and provided for Rabboni out of our personal funds. Oh, how we wanted to perform the final burial rituals to honor him. After sundown on the Sabbath, we went to the marketplace and bought spices and perfumes. It was a relief to have something constructive to do. Then I brought the women to my house to make preparations.

Chuza had given me permission to bring my friends, but this involved risk. Since he worked in Herod’s household, identifying with a crucified criminal who was considered a threat to Rome required the utmost discretion. However, he secured a private room with a separate, outside entrance next to a secluded alley. There we remained undisturbed as we prepared anointing oils of frankincense, cedarwood, spikenard, and sandalwood. When we finished, my friends returned to their lodgings for the night.

***

It was early and still dark the next morning when I stepped outside. The air felt cool on my face as I scanned the street to get my bearings. How strange it felt to be in a world without my beloved teacher. How would I ever get used to this?

Susanna was the first to arrive, tall and serene as always, still managing to emanate quiet strength despite sorrow. We smiled at each other sadly. Then the others arrived carrying their oil lamps. In the glow cast by the flickering flames, our faces looked puffy and drawn. Clopas’ wife shifted her sturdy frame from one foot to the other. Always restless, she was one of the hardest-working women I’d ever met. I gave her a welcoming nod. Rabboni’s deceased father, Joseph, and her husband, Clopas, were brothers.

I turned to Salome, holding a gray shawl around her erect shoulders, white hair shimmering at the edges of her head covering. As the wife of Zebedee and the mother of James and John, she played an important leadership role among the women. But these last two days she had focused only on supporting and comforting her sister. I grasped Salome’s hands and said gently, “I’m assuming Mary was too exhausted to join us?" She nodded, and tears welled in her eyes

As I passed out the jars of anointing oils we had prepared, I noticed that Mary Magdalene looked like a wilted desert flower, her usually spirited young face pale, expressionless. She worried me. She had already endured so much in life; how was she going to cope without her beloved Master? I handed her my oil lamp and said, “Here, with our two lamps, would you lead the way?” Her eyes lit up. “It would be an honor,” she said and started up the street.

Our alabaster jars of spices brought a strong, musky fragrance to the air as we walked in silence, each of us absorbed in our thoughts. I kept my eyes on the ground, straining to see, grateful that the streets remained empty. In the quiet, I struggled with tormenting thoughts. Why, oh why, didn’t you intervene, God? Rabboni spoke with such power and authority. I’d known no one that loving, that kind, that . . . holy. Why, God?

Fragmented images arose. Rabboni’s face, creased with joy at Zaccheus’ house. His face, wet and contorted at the tomb of Lazarus. His face, eyes blazing, as he overturned the tables of the temple money changers.

I stumbled against a rock and felt Susanna grab my arm to steady me. His hands, making a paste in the mud for the blind man’s eyes. His hands, blessing the tousled heads of children crowding around him. His hands, breaking bread before a meal. Meals! How many had we prepared? And now those beautiful hands had been pierced through with nails, and he would not need us anymore.

As light dawned, phantom-like gray homes on the street began to take on the soft, natural colors of clay and stone. Why, God? Why did you take him from us? From me? The day I met him, I had followed the crowd in my usual twisted, bent, and contorted way, always hiding behind people, trying to conceal the tumor on my neck with a shawl. The tumor so severely contracted the muscles that my head remained perpetually pulled sideways to my shoulder.

But he had seen me. And then he kneeled so that he could look into my eyes. Kneeled! Only servants who wash feet do that. I couldn’t look at him.

“Daughter,” he said. “Take my hand.” And for a moment I hesitated.

“Don’t be afraid.” The words landed gently. I must have looked awkward as I contorted my body to peer into his earnest dark eyes, astonished at the compassionate welcome I met there.

I put my hand in his, and a feeling of safety and protection came over me. Slowly he stood up. As he rose, my eyes never left his. I will never forget the feeling of how I somehow found myself rising too, growing taller and taller. And then came the twinge that had made my hand check my neck. And the jolting thought, This can’t be happening!

Oh, how I wish you were here, Rabboni! I groaned. If only there were some miracle that could make this nightmare go away. My face was wet. Susanna put her arm around me, and we continued walking.

The sun’s early rays began to shine beyond the town’s rooftops. Soon we came to the hill that led to Golgotha and began the laborious ascent. Images from three days ago filled my mind. My stomach clenched, and I felt sick. Once again, I felt detached from my body, and my surroundings seemed unreal. But this path was the only way to reach the garden and the tomb. Somehow I kept my feet moving.

Susanna stopped abruptly, frowning. “How are we going to roll the stone away?” In our grief, we hadn’t thought this far. We discussed what to do, but nothing came to mind, so we just resumed walking.

Behind the hill, violet and gold rays now lit the sky, becoming more and more vibrant as the sun rose. When the garden’s olive grove came into view, I felt my sense of dread increasing. I have always hated the smell of death. Not even seventy-five pounds of spices would obscure that stench, especially after three days.

Suddenly Mary Magdalene gasped and pointed. “Look! The tomb is open!” We stared at each other wide-eyed. She ran ahead to look inside. “Someone has taken the body!” she shouted as she rushed back to join us. “Where have they taken him?” Her voice quavered, and her eyes darted frantically in every direction.

We stood stunned, and I felt heat rising to my head. After all the injustice, now they’re going to deprive us of a proper burial too?

Then Salome said, “We should tell Peter and John. They’re staying at a house nearby.”

Mary Magdalene said, “I’ll go!”

“Tell them to hurry!” Salome shouted after her as she ran in the direction of town, holding her scarf to keep it from flying off.

“I want to see this for myself,” I said. When we entered the tomb, the first thing I noticed was a pleasant scent that reminded me of almond blossoms. The air felt cool and fresh on my face. I stared at the hollow linen cocoon and the face cloth, neatly folded nearby. Had I not personally watched the men wrap Rabboni’s body in this hardened shell? How was it now empty?

As we stood bewildered, suddenly a bright light flashed and two tall men in gleaming white robes stood beside us. We fell with our faces to the ground in fright. But then they said in gentle voices, “Do not be afraid.”

When I dared to look up, I noticed that their faces were radiant. One of them said, his voice ringing with joy, “Why are you looking for the living among the dead?” I could not comprehend his words. He gestured at the empty shell. “He’s not here! He has risen!” What does this even mean?

The angels shook their heads as if baffled by our lack of understanding. “He predicted that he would be crucified and then rise on the third day,” they said smiling. “Don’t you remember?”

Memory lit a flicker of hope. Then they said, “But now go quickly and tell the disciples that he will meet them in Galilee!” They vanished as quickly as they had appeared.

As we stood up, we stared at each other, and I’m sure that my companions’ faces mirrored my shock and wonder.

“What just happened?” I gasped.

“We’ll find out!” Susanna said. “Mary Magdalene, Peter and John will be here any moment. The other disciples are staying at John Mark’s house. Let’s go tell them the good news!” We started running down the hill towards the city. Can it be true? Oh, it has to be true! I want it to be true. He is risen? Where is he? I must find him!

People stared at us, astonished, as we ran by. We were afraid to talk to anyone. Wouldn’t they think we were crazy? If only John Mark’s house weren’t at the far end of the city! An hour’s walk! Mary Magdalene is surely back by now. Will she see angels too?

Finally we reached the bottom of the hill. Faster! I can’t breathe. He is risen? Oh, Adonai, this can’t be happening! We began racing along the east side of the city. Running. Running. Oh, can it be true that we’ll see him in Galilee?

We had been running for quite some time when our path veered a little way in the direction of the Mount of Olives. Up ahead, a tall stranger approached, silhouetted against the morning sun. As we raced past him, he asked, “Where are you going?” No time to stop! Hurry!

“Daughters!” That authoritative voice! I braced to a sudden halt.

Earth and sky and all things in them stilled. I turned.

Arms spread wide, he stood smiling, backlit by the rising sun.

“Rabboni!”

And then, laughing and crying, we ran toward him shouting, “You’re alive! You’re alive!” His face was radiant as he laughed with us. When we reached him, we threw ourselves down, clasping his feet, our words coming in torrents, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God! Oh, praise Adonai, thank you Adonai!”

While my mind jubilantly sang:

This. Can’t. Be. Happening!!!

NOTES:

1. Joanna is mentioned in two places in scripture: “After this, Jesus traveled about from one town and village to another, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom of God. The Twelve were with him, and also some women who had been cured of evil spirits and diseases: Mary (called Magdalene) from whom seven demons had come out; Joanna the wife of Chuza, the manager of Herod’s household; Susanna; and many others. These women were helping to support them out of their own means” (Luke 8:1-3).  ~ When they came back from the tomb, they told all these things to the Eleven and to all the others. It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the others with them who told this to the apostles” (Luke 24:9-10).

2. Joanna’s husband was Chuza, the steward of Herod’s household (Luke 8:3). This office was generally held by a slave who was esteemed the most faithful and was often conferred as a reward of fidelity. 

3. Theophilus—Luke writes his gospel account to Theophilus. “With this in mind, since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, I too decided to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus, so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught” (Luke 1:3-4).

4. Rabboni—master, teacher. Used as a Jewish title of respect applied especially to spiritual instructors and learned persons. The most honorable of all titles. 

5. Susanna is mentioned along with Joanna in Luke 8:3.

6. Salome is the mother of Zebedee’s sons James and John. Some commentators say she was probably the sister of the Virgin Mary. (“Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.” John 19:25) 

7. Clopas’ wife (John 19:25), possibly aka “the other Mary” (Matthew 27:61), is the mother of James and Joses according to commentators. I used the identifier “Clopas’ wife” to avoid the confusion of too many Marys. Clopas, aka Cleopas, has early church tradition identify him as the brother of Joseph, the legal father of Jesus. He is one of the disciples who met Jesus on the Emmaus road (Luke 24:13-32).

8. Nicodemus’  75 lbs of myrrh and aloes mixture (John 19:39) would equal the size of a heavy rectangle bale of hay and be valued around $150,000 to $200,000 in today’s currency. The spices and aloes mixture was a paste that hardened and permeated the bandages until a hard preservative mould or cocoon was formed about the body. 

9. Common spices used in burial -- frankincense, myrrh, sandalwood, cedarwood, spikenard. These were generally in liquid form, perhaps similar to the way we use essential oils today.

10. My research showed different suggested timelines are possible for how the events unfolded at the resurrection. It is very difficult to piece together the women’s movements in the gospel accounts because of scant, fragmented information. I decided to choose a timeline that seemed plausible for telling this fictionalized account. The account where Jesus appears to several of the women after he is resurrected is in Matthew 28:8-10.