While the disciples of Jesus were hiding behind locked doors, one man walked straight into the office of the Roman governor and asked for a crucified body.

His name isn’t Peter or John or James.

It’s a man most Christians barely talk about.

Joseph of Arimathea.

For years, he kept his faith in Jesus quiet.

But in the darkest hour, when Jesus looked most defeated, Joseph stepped out of the shadows and did the most dangerous, costly, beautiful thing he would ever do.

We’re going to step into that moment.

See who Joseph really was, why his decision was so risky, and what it means for you.

Because Joseph’s question is our question.

What will you do with the body of Jesus when it’s no longer safe to be associated with him?

The sun is dropping.

 

The Passover crowds are thinning.

The shouts of “crucify him” have faded into uneasy silence.

Outside the city walls, three bodies hang on Roman crosses.

The middle one is already dead.

Jesus.

Most of his followers have scattered.

Only a few women stay nearby, watching and weeping.

And somewhere inside the city, a wealthy, respected man is pacing.

Joseph of Arimathea.

He’s from a Judean hilltown.

He’s climbed high in life, too.

A prominent member of the Sanhedrin, the very council that handed Jesus over to be killed.

But the gospels give us a surprising detail.

“Joseph was a good and righteous man who had not agreed to their decision and action.”

While his colleagues condemned Jesus, Joseph quietly refused.

By day, he’s the respected elder, the rich council member, the man everyone greets in the marketplace.

By night, he’s secretly listening to Jesus, waiting for the kingdom of God, believing that this rabbi from Nazareth is somehow the king he’s been longing for.

John’s Gospel says it bluntly: “Joseph was a disciple of Jesus, but secretly, because he feared the other Jewish leaders.”

He’s afraid of losing everything: status, respect, influence, his position on the council.

So he does what many of us do.

He believes in Jesus on the inside, but keeps it quiet on the outside.

Then Friday comes: the trial, the false witnesses, the sentence.

Joseph watches the council he belongs to condemn the one he believes is innocent.

Maybe he tells himself, “I’ll follow Jesus more openly later. I just need the right moment.”

Now Jesus is dead.

There will be no later.

And Joseph realizes if he stays silent now, his silence becomes agreement.

His secret faith will die on that cross with Jesus.

So he makes a decision that will mark him forever.

He takes courage.

That’s how Mark describes it: “Joseph went boldly to Pilate.”

Understand how costly this is.

Pilate is the Roman governor who just signed Jesus’ death warrant.

The mood in Jerusalem is volatile.

The religious leaders are on edge.

Anyone publicly aligning with Jesus now is putting a target on their back.

On top of that, handling a dead body so close to the Sabbath and Passover risks ritual uncleanness.

It’s messy, humiliating work, usually done by family, not rich council members in clean robes.

Joseph knows all of this, and he walks straight into Pilate’s presence anyway.

“Sir, may I have his body?”

Pilate is surprised that Jesus is already dead.

He double-checks with the centurion.

When the report comes back, he gives permission.

Think about that.

When the disciples don’t have access to the room where decisions are made, God sends in a man who does.

 

Joseph uses his privilege, his access, his influence, not to save himself, but to honor the crucified Christ.

From that moment on, there is no more secrecy.

Joseph goes to Golgotha.

He looks at the broken, bloodied body of Jesus.

And with his own hands, he helps take the body down from the cross.

Skin torn, back shredded, limbs heavy with death.

Joseph wraps Jesus in a clean linen cloth.

He moves him to a nearby garden, to a tomb that has never been used.

Not just any tomb: his tomb.

He had cut it into the rock for himself—a sign of wealth, a planned future, a legacy.

And now he gives it away, placing the dead Messiah where he had once expected to lie.

Centuries earlier, the prophet Isaiah wrote that the suffering servant would be “with a rich man in his death.”

Hundreds of years later, a rich man named Joseph steps forward and unknowingly fulfills that line.

The stone is rolled in front of the entrance.

The women watch where he is laid.

The sun goes down.

Sabbath begins.

From the outside, it looks like the story is over.

Jesus is dead, sealed in a borrowed tomb.

But heaven sees something different.

Heaven sees a secret disciple finally stepping into the light.

Heaven sees a wealthy, powerful man laying his reputation in the dust to honor a crucified king.

And we’re meant to ask: How did Joseph go from fearful secret believer to bold public disciple in a single afternoon?

What changed?

First, the cross exposed the cost of staying silent.

Joseph had watched Jesus stand alone before the very council he sat on.

He had watched injustice win the day.

He had watched the Messiah he believed in mocked, beaten, and nailed to wood.

At some point, you can’t stand in the shadows anymore.

The cross forces a choice.

Either you step away from Jesus, or you step out with him.

Second, the cross revealed that his status couldn’t save him.

Joseph is rich.

He is respected.

He has a seat at the table of power.

But at the foot of the cross, none of that matters.

His money can’t buy Jesus’ life back.

His position can’t vote the crucifixion away.

All he can do is decide what he will do with the dead body of the one he calls Lord.

So he gives what he can: his courage, his resources, his tomb, his public allegiance.

And here’s the twist.

Joseph steps up at the exact moment when following Jesus seems least strategic.

Jesus is not multiplying loaves anymore.

He’s not calming storms.

There are no more crowds to impress.

All that’s left is a broken body and a stone-cold silence.

That’s when Joseph says, “I’m in. Everyone can know it now.”

Real discipleship isn’t just singing when miracles are happening.

It’s identifying with Jesus when it looks like he has lost.

Now, what does this mean for you and me?

Maybe you understand Joseph more than you’d like to admit.

You love Jesus, but at work you go quiet.

You read your Bible, but you edit Jesus out of your conversations.

You belong to places of influence: a boardroom, a staff meeting, a friend group, and you constantly feel that tension.

If they know I follow Jesus, what will it cost me?

You’re waiting for the perfect moment to be open about your faith.

You think, “I’ll speak up when it’s safer. I’ll go public when I’m more established. I’ll really follow him later.”

Joseph reminds us: “Later isn’t promised.”

Some of you have access to rooms other believers will never enter.

Offices, group chats, decision tables, relationships.

You sit at those tables like Joseph sat in the council.

The question is, will you use that access only to protect yourself?

Or will you use it when the moment comes to honor Jesus, even if it costs you?

For Joseph, courage looked like walking into Pilate’s hall and asking for a crucified body.

For you, courage might look like bringing Jesus into a conversation no one expects to be spiritual, standing up for someone being torn down, or gently but clearly sharing why you live the way you do when someone finally asks.

And for some of you, courage might look like ending the double life.

Moving from “I secretly believe” to “I openly belong to Jesus.”

Not obnoxiously, not arrogantly, but clearly.

The story of Joseph of Arimathea ends quietly.

After the burial, the gospels move on.

They don’t tell us how Joseph’s colleagues reacted.

They don’t record his conversations when word got back to the council that one of their own had handled the Nazarene’s corpse.

Later, Christian traditions spun legends about him—that he carried the message of Jesus far beyond Jerusalem.

But scripture doesn’t follow those trails.

What scripture does show us is enough.

A rich man, a respected elder, a secret disciple who, when it mattered most, identified himself with a crucified king.

If fear has kept your faith underground, Joseph’s story is an invitation.

You don’t have to stay stuck in secrecy.

You don’t have to wait for the perfect moment.

You don’t have to have all the answers.

You just have to decide—like Joseph did on that dark Friday—I am more afraid of denying my Lord than I am of losing my reputation.

Jesus once said, “Whoever acknowledges me before others, I will also acknowledge before my Father in heaven.”

Joseph of Arimathea finally did that—not with a speech, not on a stage, but by quietly giving away his tomb.

What will it look like for you to step out of the shadows and honor Jesus publicly, even when it costs you?

The day is coming when every hidden thing will be revealed.

And on that day, you will never regret one act of courage you took for the one who died, was buried, and rose again for you.