We say it every year. We hear it sung in churches, printed on cards, and whispered in reverent tones: He is risen!
But maybe today, as the world spins with chaos and quiet personal battles, you wonder: Why does that matter now?
It mattered then because a crucified man walked out of a grave. It matters now because the One who defeated death hasn’t changed—and neither has His power.
If Jesus conquered death, then nothing in your life is beyond redemption. Not your past. Not your pain. Not even that silent ache you carry when no one’s looking.
But if you’re honest, maybe you still don’t feel it. Maybe that resurrection power doesn’t seem to show up in your life. Not when you’re exhausted. Not when you’re lonely. Not when the week has been long and the prayers seem unanswered.
We often hear the verse:
“The same power that raised Jesus from the dead lives in you.” (Romans 8:11)
And we whisper, “Wow. That’s amazing.” But quietly, we add, “It doesn’t feel like it’s true for me.”
Here’s the twist we often miss: In the original language, that verse doesn’t say “you” singular—it says “y’all” plural. Not “you, the individual.” But you all. Us – together.
That resurrection power lives in the body of Christ—not just in me, not just in you, but in us… “y’all”
It’s not always thunder or miracles. Sometimes it’s a meal delivered in a time of need. A word of comfort at the perfect moment. A hug that says, “You’re not alone.” A teaching, a prayer, a shared tear, or a laugh that reminds someone: There is life here.
When the women came to the tomb, they were prepared for closure—ready to anoint a corpse. Instead, they were given a mission. “Go. Tell the others. He’s alive.”
That same resurrection life now pulses through a community of believers who:
Love without conditions
Carry one another’s burdens
Teach with grace
Heal with compassion
Forgive what seems unforgivable
Shine light in the darkness
And draw one another to the feet of Jesus
This is Easter power. Not a moment, but a movement. Not a monument, but a body—alive.
So maybe you don’t feel powerful today. But you are part of something that is.
He is risen. And the same power that raised Him from the dead dwells in us.
Scripture to Remember
“If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you (plural), he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you.” —Romans 8:11 (ESV, emphasis added)
“Now you are the body of Christ, and individually members of it.” —1 Corinthians 12:27
“Carry one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” —Galatians 6:2
A Challenge to Live It Out
This Easter, don’t just celebrate an empty tomb. Be a living testimony to resurrection power.
Ask yourself:
Who in my life needs to see resurrection love today?
How can I be part of the power God placed in us?
What small act of care, compassion, or courage can I offer this week?
Remember—the same power that raised Jesus lives in the body of Christ. Let that body move through you.
The Weight You Didn’t Choose: Strength in Unseen Sacrifice
Real strength doesn’t always look heroic. It’s not always loud or praised or even noticed. Sometimes, it’s a quiet man, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time—who ends up doing the right thing.
You don’t get to choose the fires that forge you. Sometimes they find you. You’re walking your path, living your life—and then the burden lands squarely on your back.
The question is never why you were chosen. It’s what you’ll do when you are.
There was once a man like that.
He wasn’t a warrior. He wasn’t a preacher. He wasn’t even a volunteer. He was just a traveler—maybe a father, maybe a man bringing a lamb for sacrifice—caught in the wrong crowd on the wrong day. Soldiers grabbed him—no choice, no warning—and forced him to carry the bloody cross of a condemned man.
That man was Jesus. And the man forced to carry His cross was Simon of Cyrene.
I imagine Simon felt a surge of fear—confusion, even anger. Maybe a Roman sword was pressed between his shoulder blades. He didn’t know Jesus. Probably assumed the man was guilty. He wasn’t a part of any of it. His only concern may have been getting through the day, protecting his sons, rejoining his wife, or offering his lamb at the temple.
But despite what he felt… he stood. And he carried an insurmountable burden for the Son of God.
He didn’t know he was stepping into history. He didn’t know his act of obedience would echo for thousands of years. But in that moment—awkward, painful, and undesired—Simon revealed the kind of strength few ever show: the strength to carry someone else’s bloody cross.
That’s the kind of fire that forges men.
“A certain man from Cyrene, Simon, the father of Alexander and Rufus, was passing by on his way in from the country, and they forced him to carry the cross.” — Mark 15:21 (NIV)
Challenge: What burden are you being asked to carry right now? You didn’t choose it. You may not want it. But if you lift it with quiet strength, you’ll be walking in the footsteps of a man who helped carry the cross of Christ.
I too would be an atheist—if it weren’t for all the evidence for God.
I’m bothered by the suffering in our world. When pain, frustration, and death are on every side, and we cry out to God but He seems silent, it can cause me to question my faith.
And then I lay on the ground and stare at the sky on a clear night. I gaze and I muse at the universe.
Every explanation for the beauty of our universe falls flat compared to the creation of an awesome God.
I’ve witnessed the birth of my children, and the birth of countless animals—and I’m amazed beyond words at the intricacy and wonder of that child. No “scientific” explanation can even begin to satisfy my soul.
So I have concluded, to the satisfaction of both my heart and my mind, that there must be a Creator God. And if, in fact, there is a Creator God—then who am I?
I have no choice but to fall on my face and worship Him who chose to make me a part of this awesome creation.
And if I’m a part of this world, then I’m a part of the beauty and the pain; I’m a part of the life and the death; I’m a part of the love and the hate.
So I cry out to God—and He speaks to my heart.
Even without the Bible, even without the knowledge of Jesus, I would worship an awesome and holy God.
Now, if my soul cries out in worship, then it becomes prudent for me to know what He wants of me.
Since the beginning of time—since the day of creation—mankind has searched for God. And God has lived among us.
Others have written about it. Others have witnessed His glory. Others have seen His face.
And from those words, I hold in my hand the Bible.
Those stories, those words, those truths, those relationships—they have inspired me to worship Jesus.
There’s a kind of strength that doesn’t shout. It doesn’t march into battle with a sword or a speech. It endures quietly, faithfully, day after day, under pressure most of us will never understand. This is the strength of endurance—the godly courage to stand firm in the face of fear, suffering, and injustice, and to keep holding on when everything in you wants to give up.
Endurance is a character trait we don’t celebrate enough. In a world that praises loud victories and instant success, we sometimes forget the quiet heroes who simply refuse to bend. But God sees them. And He calls us to be like them.
I remember meeting Richard Wurmbrand many years ago. He wasn’t a large man, and he didn’t need to be. His presence carried a gravity that didn’t come from physical size—it came from the fire he had walked through and the faith that had come out shining.
Richard was a pastor in Communist Romania, arrested and imprisoned for simply preaching the Gospel. He spent fourteen years in prison, much of it in solitary confinement, enduring beatings, starvation, and torture. He was offered freedom many times—if only he would betray his fellow believers or deny Christ. He never did.
He told stories of singing in the darkness. Of being beaten and then praying for his captors. Of sharing communion in a prison cell using crusts of bread and drops of water. His body bore the marks of that suffering, but his spirit radiated joy and peace.
That’s the kind of manhood we need to talk about. That’s godly courage—not the kind that gets headlines, but the kind that moves heaven.
And as we come into Easter week, we remember the One who endured it all for us. Jesus didn’t just die for us—He endured for us. He walked willingly toward the cross, knowing the pain, betrayal, humiliation, and death that waited for Him. And He did it out of love.
Richard Wurmbrand followed in that same spirit. He didn’t try to be a hero. He just held on to Jesus. He stayed faithful when it hurt. And that’s the call on all of us—to stay faithful, to endure, to trust that God is with us in the fire.
Scripture: “Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.” —James 1:12
Challenge: When pressure comes, when people mock you, when life gets hard—do you quit, or do you stand? Can you endure, not just once, but again and again, because your eyes are fixed on Jesus? Real courage isn’t flashy. It’s faithful. And it shines brightest in the dark. This Easter, don’t just remember Christ’s victory—remember His endurance. And ask yourself: will I have the courage to do the same?
Hours before Jesus went to the cross, He sat at a table with His disciples. Bread was broken. Wine was shared. And Judas… ate too.
That line hits me every time I hear it.
Judas ate too.
But before we go any further, let’s talk about who Judas was.
Judas Iscariot was one of the twelve disciples—part of Jesus’ inner circle. He walked with Jesus. Ate with Him. Saw miracles firsthand. He was trusted enough to carry the group’s money. But despite all that, Judas chose to betray Jesus.
For thirty silver coins—the price of a slave—he sold Jesus out. He led soldiers to Jesus in the dark of night, identified Him with a kiss, and handed Him over to be arrested. That betrayal set the wheels in motion that would lead to Jesus’ torture and death on a Roman cross.
And Jesus knew it. He knew what Judas was about to do. And still… Judas ate too.
Jesus didn’t exclude him. Jesus didn’t skip over him. Jesus didn’t expose him in front of everyone. No, Jesus fed Judas. Jesus washed Judas’ feet. Jesus loved Judas.
And I just can’t get over that.
What kind of love is this?
A love that kneels before betrayal. A love that feeds the mouth that will speak poison. A love that touches the feet that will walk away into darkness. A love that forgives even before the knife goes in.
I try to imagine that moment. Jesus, fully aware of what Judas is about to do, still chooses love. No bitterness. No resistance. Just love.
And then it hits me.
I’m Judas too.
I’ve betrayed trust. I’ve chosen selfishness. I’ve turned my back, gone my own way, and let my pride win far too often. And yet, Jesus still invites me to the table. Still feeds me. Still loves me.
That realization undoes me.
I think about the people in my life who are hard to love. The ones who’ve betrayed me. The ones who’ve lied, gossiped, hurt, or disappointed me. And I think: what if following Jesus means learning to love them too?
It’s easy to love Jesus. It’s easy to love the grateful, the kind, the ones who love us back. But Jesus calls us to more.
He calls us to love Judas.
To love when it’s undeserved. To serve when it’s uncomfortable. To forgive when it feels impossible.
That’s the heart of the Gospel. Not just receiving grace, but extending it. Not just worshiping Jesus, but walking like Him.
So today, when you sit at your own table—whether in your home, your job, your church, or your heart—look around.
Who’s your Judas?
Maybe it’s someone you’ve tried to forget. Maybe it’s someone you’ve kept at arm’s length. Maybe, like me, sometimes it’s you.
But here’s the good news: Jesus still invites you to the table. And He invites them too.
Let’s be the kind of people who don’t just love the lovable—but love like Jesus.
