The Exodus of the Tombs
Short Story by John Tuttle
Some say it was not natural when Junia came home. Some said it was unfair. And some others could share in my joy, for they themselves could tell similar stories, they who were blessed to reunite with and embrace their own kin who were once lost and now found anew.
I remember the day vividly. It was the eve of the Sabbath following the celebration of Passover. (It would be hard to forget the forfeiting of one of my best young rams for the sacred meal.) There had been some to-do within the city earlier on, which wouldn’t be anything extraordinary to make note of—apart from all the strange circumstances that accompanied this unrest.
Whispers of secret treachery, an illegitimate trial before the elders, and even a suicide had made their rounds through the streets. Some scoffed at it as gossip; others preferred the term “Gospel.” And the latter, whenever they recounted the story, spoke with impassioned eyes and a mingled expression, half of languishing sorrow and half daring hope.
But at that dusky hour upon that day ere Sabbath morn, the only news I had heard from the city was that there was a bit more upheaval than usual during the annual memorial. That, and the governor was at a loss with what to do regarding one man, a Rabbi who seemed to be the central figure of a new dissenting group among the descendants of Abraham.
All this I paid little heed to. For the cares of my heart were elsewhere; they were given to my work, my memories of a love fervent and fond, and—in a word—myself. My attention dwelled long and heavily upon my loss. For nigh a year’s passing, my spouse of tender beauty was lost, both to the world and her lover.
There were moments in the time since my half-death, the loss of the life most dear to me, where I walked the green fields with my sheep and the wind blew through my hair. More than once, it felt as though Junia herself were running her slender fingers through the unkempt and wild pastures of my scalp. But alas, it was nothing more than a wishful imagining.
It grew peculiarly dark earlier that afternoon. The flocks attended to their grazing and I to my gazing—a sightless musing by which I fell into the pit of my mind. I cared not for the executions but sat engulfed in the misery of my own musing, conjuring up images of the living who were not. Junia’s absence: it penetrated and left a hole in its realization.
The sky belied an atmosphere akin to my mood. I sat shrouded in gloom.
Suddenly, I was penetrated by something outside myself. A voice—at once in anguish and affectionate. And the voice called out, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani!?”
“Hold your tongue!” was my initial thought, but then I faltered. And I wept—for myself, for my heartlessness, and for that man crying to his Maker. How I longed to cry in like manner! Verily, I shouted it not once but three times over the hills, resounding in many a vale and mead.
Then I was shaken from my selfishness once more, as though God Himself upbraided me. Behold! The ground shook underfoot, and striving to rise, my legs were uncertain and my knees knocked together. Fissures split and opened in the lowlands. And a sound as of many stones and boulders shifting from their place and crumbling reached my ears. The rains halted. The clouds dissipated. But a darkness still hung over the countryside. The sky’s grey morphed to a sickly, near-yellow hue. Time escaped me the rest of that night, and the Sabbath was spent in stillness and an eerie quietude.
The first of the week, I was back to my regular routine in the fields. When that day came to a close, I meandered back home. A lingering chicken darted across my path. Soon I drew near. The abode was the same Junia and I had shared. Only now, when I came home, it was empty and lifeless.
As I approached the entryway, there in the shadows stood the form of a stranger. His countenance I could not distinguish clearly. So I called to him, “Who goes there?” But all I heard was belabored breathing. The figure came out from the shadows, and light struck the face. Gasping, I slunk back. For before me I saw my late wife—alive and well with a look of awe and joy in her eyes, and this was unlike any dream.
She advanced. Still I stood, terrified. Was this some phantasmal encounter? My legs unmoving, my heart pounding ferociously, Junia reached out to touch me, and the darkness fled. My fears were immediately quelled, and I knew it was she. What is more, she seemed to me more beautiful than before death had taken her.
We lived happily thereafter in appreciation of what we were gifted. In speaking with others, those who preached the Gospel of Life, we heard tell of similar such occurrences. When the man called Jesus the Christ, whose voice I heard beckoning even to the innermost part of my being, yielded his spirit on that afternoon amid a darkling world, the ground trembled.
Then, after the Sabbath, the tombs of many faithful departed were opened anew even as the womb is opened in delivering the newborn. Those who were once counted among the dead were raised, and they ventured in exodus from the nether regions coming even unto the light. And they walked among the living again. At the same time, Christ’s tomb was discovered empty, and he appeared luminous and filled with life before his mother, friends, and disciples. For he is the Son of the Most High and came to offer us new life. Junia, virtuous in life before death, was among the blessed first raised unto life once more in the anticipation of the life yet to come.
Some might deem Junia’s return unnatural. But I consider death itself more so unnatural, just as its origin is one and the same with sin, the death of the soul. Yet, I have reason to rejoice, for sin and death are conquered by Jesus Christ. Death does not deal the final blow. Nor can it be called bitter anymore, but bittersweet and filled with hope. Life has triumphed over death, even death made hideous and brutal on a Cross.
Note: The above story is inspired by a few short lines found in the Gospel of Matthew in which some among the dead were raised following the death of Jesus and coinciding with His Resurrection. The actual account of this can be read in Matthew 27:52-53.
John Tuttle is a Catholic journalist, writer, and amateur photographer. He has been published by Catholic World Report, Tablet Magazine, An Unexpected Journal, and others.