Easter | Can It Really Be True? (Luke 24)

The grave was sealed. The enemy thought he had won. But death could not hold Him. On the third day, the ransom was complete—not just in suffering, but in victory. Jesus had paid the price, and now He rose to break the chains of sin, death, and the devil forever. The empty tomb is not just proof of His power; it is the receipt of our freedom. We were captives—trapped in sin, bound for death—but Jesus shattered the prison doors. And now, because He lives, we do too. This is Easter. This is freedom. The Ransomed walk free.

Transcript

It was a cold December morning in rural Wisconsin. The frost stuck to the blades of grass in the cemetery, a cold lifelessness all around and my 5-year-old self stood by a headstone engraved with my grandmother’s name, my dear “Puddy.” It’s one of my earliest memories of contemplating death, in that simple but pure child-like way. No more going to Puddy’s house. No more getting Country Time Lemonade out of the pantry. No more of her hugs. Is this really the end? Looking around at the people gathered. The tears. The longing. The question death confronts us with: “Is this all there is?” But that little boy in the cemetery knew something so deeply true: It’s not all there is. The echo remains: “Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.” I remember gripping my mom’s hand, looking at the stone, answering my own question: “Is this the end?” No. Because Jesus is alive. But it’s such a human thing to ask in such moments: Could it really be true? That’s the question of Easter. And it’s not a sentimental one. It’s not a greeting card or an annual tradition. It’s the question—the one that haunts every graveyard, every hospital room, every broken heart: Is there life beyond this? Is there hope even when death seems to win? Can it be true? And Easter shouts into that void: Yes.

Yet that void…it surrounds us. Death hovers near us all the time. We pretend it’s far off, some distant inevitability, but then the phone rings. Or the diagnosis comes. Or the accident happens. And suddenly, it’s there. Final. Unyielding. Silent. Unless. Unless there’s something stronger than death. Unless there’s Someone who stared it down and walked through it—alive. This is why Luke 24 is such a thunderclap. The women came to the tomb expecting the silence of the grave. They came, like so many of us do, just to be near a person they once knew. They expected to find death. But the angels asked them the most disruptive question ever uttered: “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen!” 

It’s a stunning rebuke, and an invitation. It's not just a question for that moment in history. It's a question for every generation. Why are we still doing it? Why are we still looking for life in places of death? We search for purpose in fragile achievements. We look for joy in fading pleasures. We chase after legacy, hoping someone will remember us. It’s a question we’re scared to ask: “What if I’m not remembered?” Unless you’re one of the greatest, most influential human beings who have ever lived, and even then, what? You have a long Wikipedia article written about you? Maybe a few scholarly articles, maybe some historical textbooks. But in the grand sweep of time, most of us will be forgotten by the world. A name on a database, a long-forgotten record in the cemetery. The reality is death doesn’t care how rich you were, how many people followed you online, or how many buildings had your name etched on them. You could be a Nobel laureate or a TikTok star—it all ends the same way. A tombstone standing alone. A name slowly worn away by time. A life reduced to footnotes. Unless. Unless death isn’t the end. Unless Jesus really did rise. The resurrection isn’t just about defeating death in some abstract way. It’s about you. It’s about being remembered when the world forgets. It’s about being raised when your body has fallen apart. It’s about your name being written, not on fading stone, but on the heart of God. “See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands,” God says in Isaiah 49:16. Not penciled in. Engraved. The Lord has the final say.


This is what makes Easter radical: Death does not have the final say. The resurrection is not a metaphor. It’s not a myth or a spiritual ideal. It is a bodily, physical, historical event that changed the world. And if it's true—if Christ is risen—then everything else must change. And friends, it’s all true just as he told you! Think about the women at the tomb. They went to the tomb expecting to find Jesus, the dead Jesus—the one who had been so humiliatingly and shamefully nailed to the cross. They thought they'd find the tomb full of death—full of finality. But they didn’t. Consider the implications of this moment. No human had ever done this. To go into a grave after being nailed to a cross—the ultimate “you are a nobody” way to die. If anyone could be defined by death, it would have been Jesus. And for most of history, when people died like that, they didn’t get the dignity of a burial. They were thrown into a common grave on the roadside. But not Jesus. No, He was laid to rest in a tomb—a tomb that couldn’t contain Him. Jesus didn’t cheat death through AI, cryogenics, or a new form of transhumanism. He completely destroyed death!

Easter is not about cheating death. It’s about confronting it. And this is exactly what Jesus did. He didn’t sidestep death. He didn’t enact some elaborate ruse. No, He faced it head-on, died on the cross, and then crushed death with a power that comes from God alone so that you would never have to wonder “Will God remember me?” The angels’ words hanging in the air: “Remember how he told you?” In His very body, the scars of the nails and spear remain, as if to say, “I will never forget you. I chose to be permanently scarred for you.” This is what Jesus has won for you. Not a wishful hope or a thin, fragile comfort. Not a comforting metaphor to distract us from the grave. But resurrection. The undoing of death itself. The reversal of everything that sin ever broke. It’s as real as the stone that rolled away. As real as the linen cloths left behind. As real as the Son of God sitting beside a stunned Mary, speaking her name like only He could. “Mary.” He still says your name like that too. Not as a rebuke. Not as a formality. But as the one who stepped into death and out again—for you. This is the great irony of Easter: Jesus conquered death not by avoiding it, but by submitting to it—willingly, intentionally, sacrificially as the ransom for the captives. The immortal Son of God made Himself mortal so that you, mortal one, might be made immortal through Him. Who else would do that? Who else could do that?

We’re so used to a world that hides death behind curtains and sterile walls, that we sometimes forget how ugly and wrong it is. But God never forgot. Death is the curse He never intended for His children to know. So on that first Good Friday, Jesus took that curse into His body. He let the full weight of it fall on Him, and He did not flinch. And when He rose—triumphant, scarred, radiant—it was as if all of heaven shouted, “Enough! Enough death. Enough tears. Enough despair. The Author of Life has written the final word.” And that word is not goodbye.

See, we often try to cope with loss by minimizing it. We call death “natural,” when deep down, it never feels that way. We stand at gravesides and whisper to ourselves, “They’re in a better place,” and while that may be true through faith in Christ, it still aches. Because we weren’t meant for separation. We weren’t meant for funerals. We were meant for the Garden of God’s presence. And now, because Jesus stepped out of that tomb, that garden will bloom again. On Easter, Jesus doesn’t just promise resurrection. He is the resurrection. Not a pathway to it, not a symbol of it, but the thing itself. And because you are united to Him, you don’t just look forward to life after death. You already carry resurrection life in you, dear Christian. Eternal life has already begun.

And one day—one glorious day—it will reach its fullness. The trumpet will sound. The dead will be raised. And you will rise. Yes, you. Not as a spirit floating on clouds, but you—with a body made whole, with tears wiped away by the hand that once bore nails. You will open your eyes and see Him, and He will not forget your name. He will smile like He always has. And He’ll say, “See? I told you I’d remember.” No more wondering. No more goodbyes. Just the forever-kind-of-love we’ve longed for in every earthly goodbye we’ve ever hated. The kind that stays. The kind that holds you. The kind that outlives caskets and cancer and broken hearts and late-night cries into pillows. The kind that wraps its arms around you and says, “Welcome home.”

This is what Easter means. This is what Jesus has done. Not just conquered death, but transformed it—into a doorway. A passage into the place where all is well, and all will be well. So we do not romanticize or fear death.  Because Jesus walked into it, walked out of it, and now walks beside us—until the day He calls us to do the same. And when that day comes, it will not be the end. It will be the beginning. The garden blooming once more. This brings to my mind a quote from my dear friend Mark Paustian: “You will awaken in that heavenly country, that new Jerusalem descending from above, glowing as brides do. No death. No mourning. No crying. No pain. This is the furthest outpost of godly desire, that we shall fully be ourselves and have at last - wonderful to say it - love without goodbyes.”

This is how Easter has changed everything for you, not just for the future, but right now! Too often, even as Christians, we live like the resurrection is just a doctrine for the afterlife. But it’s for today. Now. It means you don’t have to be enslaved by fear. It means you can face suffering with hope. It means you can live generously, sacrificially, joyfully—because your future is already secure. Easter rewrites your story. Even if your body breaks down, your mind fades, and your name is forgotten in this world—you are remembered by the One whose memory is eternity. The world may forget you. But Jesus will never forget you. And when He returns, He will raise you. And when you stand before Him, you will not be a stranger. He will know your name. He will call you His own. And you will rise. Can it really be true? Yes. A thousand times yes, because our Jesus lives. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed. Alleluia! Amen.