Before sunrise, when shadows still clung to every stone and the earth held its breath, three women walked toward the tomb. They carried spices, not hope. They expected silence, not angels. Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James were not on a mission to witness a miracle but to anoint a corpse. That’s what grief does—it settles into grooves of expectation. Dead stays dead. Until suddenly, it doesn't.
The stone had been rolled away. Jesus’ body was gone. Then the two men in dazzling clothes said the unthinkable: “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!” (Luke 24:5–6). And if that’s true—if that sentence echoes across time—then everything changes.
Still, for many, it’s a stretch. Did Jesus really rise from the dead?
I don’t fault Thomas, that honest skeptic among the disciples, the one who gets saddled with “doubt” like it’s his middle name. After all, he wasn't in the room that Easter evening when Jesus suddenly appeared, breathed peace into locked-up fear, and showed them His hands and side. “Unless I see,” Thomas said, “I will not believe” (John 20:25). Maybe you’ve felt that too—when loss chokes out faith, or when pain makes you question everything you've said you believe.
But then came Jesus—again. Just for Thomas. Offering His wounded hands like an invitation. “Put your finger here… Stop doubting and believe” (John 20:27). And in that moment, all of Thomas’s questions shrank next to the risen Christ. His response wasn't academic. It was intimate: “My Lord and my God” (John 20:28).
Paul later wrote a letter to a church in Corinth that struggled with doubt, too. He reminded them—and us—what he had received as “of first importance”: “that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day…and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve. After that, he appeared to more than five hundred… most of whom are still living” (1 Corinthians 15:3–6).
Paul wasn’t spinning myth. He was pointing to evidence. Eyewitnesses. Names. Stories. Lives changed. Once-fearful disciples became bold martyrs not for a metaphor, but for a Man they touched, ate with, heard laugh again. You don’t die for a fable. You cling to it when a sword is at your neck—unless it’s true.
These weren’t gullible people. Some were fishermen, some were tax collectors, one was a religious zealot. They came from different corners of society. But one thing united them—they had seen Him. Not a ghost. Not a vision. The same Jesus who wept at Lazarus’s tomb and washed their dirty feet had walked through death and back again.
And that resurrection moved people. It moves me.
Because resurrection isn’t just something Jesus did—it’s who He is. The risen Christ steps into locked rooms, into locked hearts. He meets us in our fears and shows us His scars, not as proof of death, but as proof of life through it.
Maybe today you’re standing in front of your own kind of tomb. A marriage that feels buried. A diagnosis that whispers “the end.” A prayer you’ve prayed for so long it echoes back like silence. And in those places, it can be hard to believe.... really believe.
But here’s the truth: the stone is still rolled away.
The broken body that hung limp on a cross didn’t stay dead. He rose—and that changes how every story ends. Including yours.
You are not forgotten. You are not unloved. And death is not the final chapter—not for Jesus, and not for those found in Him.
And maybe that’s the line I need to underline—on days when hope feels thin:
He didn’t rise to prove a point. He rose to keep a promise.
Before sunrise, when shadows still clung to every stone and the earth held its breath, three women walked toward the tomb. They carried spices, not hope. They expected silence, not angels. Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James were not on a mission to witness a miracle but to anoint a corpse. That’s what grief does—it settles into grooves of expectation. Dead stays dead. Until suddenly, it doesn't.
The stone had been rolled away. Jesus’ body was gone. Then the two men in dazzling clothes said the unthinkable: “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!” (Luke 24:5–6). And if that’s true—if that sentence echoes across time—then everything changes.
Still, for many, it’s a stretch. Did Jesus really rise from the dead?
I don’t fault Thomas, that honest skeptic among the disciples, the one who gets saddled with “doubt” like it’s his middle name. After all, he wasn't in the room that Easter evening when Jesus suddenly appeared, breathed peace into locked-up fear, and showed them His hands and side. “Unless I see,” Thomas said, “I will not believe” (John 20:25). Maybe you’ve felt that too—when loss chokes out faith, or when pain makes you question everything you've said you believe.
But then came Jesus—again. Just for Thomas. Offering His wounded hands like an invitation. “Put your finger here… Stop doubting and believe” (John 20:27). And in that moment, all of Thomas’s questions shrank next to the risen Christ. His response wasn't academic. It was intimate: “My Lord and my God” (John 20:28).
Paul later wrote a letter to a church in Corinth that struggled with doubt, too. He reminded them—and us—what he had received as “of first importance”: “that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day…and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve. After that, he appeared to more than five hundred… most of whom are still living” (1 Corinthians 15:3–6).
Paul wasn’t spinning myth. He was pointing to evidence. Eyewitnesses. Names. Stories. Lives changed. Once-fearful disciples became bold martyrs not for a metaphor, but for a Man they touched, ate with, heard laugh again. You don’t die for a fable. You cling to it when a sword is at your neck—unless it’s true.
These weren’t gullible people. Some were fishermen, some were tax collectors, one was a religious zealot. They came from different corners of society. But one thing united them—they had seen Him. Not a ghost. Not a vision. The same Jesus who wept at Lazarus’s tomb and washed their dirty feet had walked through death and back again.
And that resurrection moved people. It moves me.
Because resurrection isn’t just something Jesus did—it’s who He is. The risen Christ steps into locked rooms, into locked hearts. He meets us in our fears and shows us His scars, not as proof of death, but as proof of life through it.
Maybe today you’re standing in front of your own kind of tomb. A marriage that feels buried. A diagnosis that whispers “the end.” A prayer you’ve prayed for so long it echoes back like silence. And in those places, it can be hard to believe.... really believe.
But here’s the truth: the stone is still rolled away.
The broken body that hung limp on a cross didn’t stay dead. He rose—and that changes how every story ends. Including yours.
You are not forgotten. You are not unloved. And death is not the final chapter—not for Jesus, and not for those found in Him.
And maybe that’s the line I need to underline—on days when hope feels thin:
He didn’t rise to prove a point. He rose to keep a promise.
