The Empty Tomb That Changed Everything

The resurrection of Jesus isn’t just a theological event—it’s an invitation. It calls us into a radically different way of seeing the world, one that challenges where we place our hope, our trust, and even our energy. It’s as if, in that moment, time split open and eternity seeped into the present, asking us the same question the angel asked the women at the tomb: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” (Luke 24:5)

This question, though ancient, feels hauntingly modern. We scroll through feeds, refresh timelines, chase validation, success, and even perfect religious performance. And yet, we end up empty, exhausted, and numb. Why? Because those are tombs—not places where life lives. They promise significance but leave us with nothing that nourishes us.

In the Gospel of Luke, the resurrection story begins not with a grand entrance or a blinding light but with faithful women going to care for a lifeless body. They go expecting death. Instead, they find an empty tomb. And they hear something that shakes the foundation of their reality: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” The angel invited them—and us—into a deeper question.

Peter, a central figure in Luke’s Gospel, becomes the next character drawn into this mystery. When the women tell him the body is gone, he doesn’t sit in disbelief—he runs. And when he reaches the tomb, he stoops in, sees the burial cloths lying there, and walks away amazed at what happened. (Luke 24)

Peter hasn’t seen Jesus yet. There’s no physical appearance. No voice calling his name. Just emptiness. But it’s enough to stir something in him. He’s stunned, not just by what he didn’t find, but by what it all could mean. The resurrection reframes everything he thought he understood.

In that moment, perhaps Peter begins to replay the last three years: the teachings, the healings, the meals, the questions. Suddenly, it all begins to fit. The empty tomb doesn’t erase the pain of the cross, but it redefines it. What looked like the end is just the beginning of something far more powerful. Death hasn’t won. Life has.

Chapter 20 of John’s Gospel adds another layer to this story. It zooms in on Mary Magdalene, who runs to tell Simon Peter and “the other disciple”—a reference from John about himself. They both run to the tomb, but John includes a curious detail: he outruns Peter. Not once, but twice, he notes that he arrived first. There’s a bit of playful competitiveness here, but it also paints a vivid image: eagerness mixed with confusion, all racing toward something none of them can fully comprehend yet.

When they arrive, they both see the same thing: cloths lying empty. But John writes that he saw and believed. What exactly did he believe? He hadn’t seen Jesus alive. He hadn’t touched Him or heard His voice. But something about that space—hollow as it was—spoke life. Belief doesn’t always come with full clarity. Sometimes it comes in fragments. Sometimes in stillness.

Believing isn’t just about evidence. It’s about awakening. Sometimes, we start to believe because the absence of what we thought we needed creates space for something deeper to take root. That’s what John captures in this moment. A shift from knowing in the head to trusting in the heart. A physical, emotional, and spiritual seeing and believing. Not every belief is born in certainty.

Even as we see and believe, God sees us. God meets us where we are and respects our agency.

Weeks ago in a community conversation, our friend Duane shared a thought that’s stuck with us: “Without God, I can’t. Without me, He won’t.” That single phrase captures the tension between divine mystery and human response. God invites. God initiates. But He doesn’t override. He waits for us to respond, to lean in, to participate.

Faith, especially post-resurrection faith, isn’t passive. It’s a collaboration. We may not be able to explain everything, but we can take steps. We can say yes. We can run toward the tomb. We can walk away from what’s lifeless and move into something new—even when we don’t have it all figured out.

The resurrection invites us into a new kind of life. One that starts with acknowledging Jesus’ presence and hospitality in our lives but doesn’t end there. We are invited to let Jesus’ resurrection change our hearts and lives- how we organize our calendars, how we spend our money, how we view others. Resurrection shifts how we pray, how we forgive, how we persevere.

Following Jesus is not about having the right answers. It’s about living into the story of hope and wholeness- the resurrection story.

And that story teaches us this: the grave is not the destination. Life doesn’t end there. The resurrection gives us permission to stop trying to find meaning in what’s already decayed. To let go of the need to prove ourselves through performance or perfection. To replace coping mechanisms that no longer serve us or others well. The resurrection gives us something stronger—identity, purpose, belonging—not as achievements but as gifts.

It’s a lifelong journey. One that calls us to participate in resurrection, not just celebrate it. It means learning how to pray again when words run dry. Learning to forgive again when bitterness lingers. Sitting at new tables with people we might never have chosen on our own. Letting Jesus reshape old stories and replace them with something better.

The invitation is still open. Will you keep looking in tombs? Or will you walk with the One who left them behind?