Douglas Vandergraph

Some sunrises feel ordinary.
Some feel gentle.
Some simply begin a new day.

But the sunrise of John 20 did not just begin a day.
It began a new reality.

This is the morning when the earth remembered how to breathe again.
The morning when sorrow loosened its grip.
The morning when the grave lost its authority.
The morning when the heart of God broke through stone and darkness.

John 20 is not a chapter to skim.
It is a chapter to enter slowly — like stepping into holy ground.
Every detail carries the weight of heaven.
Every moment pulses with divine tenderness.

And at the center of it all is a heartbroken woman walking toward a tomb.

============================================================

Mary Magdalene moves through the early darkness long before dawn.
Her footsteps are careful, not because she fears danger, but because grief makes every movement heavy.

She is not expecting joy.
She is not expecting hope.
She is not expecting resurrection.

She is expecting to cry.

This is the woman who followed Jesus when the rest of the world wrote her off.
The woman who stood near the cross when others ran.
The woman who watched His body taken down and sealed inside stone.

She comes not because she believes a miracle is waiting —
she comes because love refuses to let her stay away.

But when she reaches the tomb, the world does not look the way she left it.

The stone has been moved.

Not cracked.
Not shifted.
Not tampered with.

Moved.

The darkness around her feels suddenly unstable.
Her breath catches.
Her heart begins to race.

This does not look like a miracle.
This looks like desecration.
Another wound on top of the ones she already carries.

She turns and runs.
She finds Peter and John, her voice shaking with panic:

“They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have put Him.”

In her grief, resurrection is not even an option.

Loss has shaped her expectations too deeply.

============================================================

Peter and John run together toward the tomb.
John reaches it first but pauses at the entrance, overwhelmed by what he sees.

The linen strips.
The emptiness.
The silence.

Peter arrives moments later, and he walks straight in — just as impulsive, just as bold, just as willing to face whatever truth waits in front of him.

He sees the linen lying in place.
He sees the cloth that covered Jesus’ head, folded separately, placed intentionally.

Nothing about this looks stolen.
Everything about this looks purposeful.

John enters the tomb after Peter.

And he believes.

He does not understand everything yet — but something in his spirit awakens.
Something whispers that this is not chaos, but victory.

Still, neither disciple meets Jesus in that moment.

So they leave.

But Mary stays.

The resurrection comes first to the one who refuses to walk away.

Her love keeps her rooted where her hope feels broken.

She stands outside, crying — grief shaking her shoulders, loss tightening her chest.

She bends down to look inside the tomb again.

And this time, she sees what the others did not.

Two angels.

One at the head.
One at the foot.

Like heavenly witnesses guarding the place where death was defeated.

They ask her:

“Woman, why are you crying?”

Her answer spills from a wounded heart:

“They have taken my Lord, and I don’t know where they have put Him.”

She turns around.

And Jesus is standing there.

But she does not see Him for who He is.

Grief can blur the presence of God.
Pain can distort recognition.
Tears can hide resurrection.

She thinks He is the gardener and pleads with Him:

“Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where you have put Him, and I will get Him.”

Mary is willing to carry what she cannot lift.
Willing to find what she cannot possibly retrieve.
Willing to do what her heart demands even if her strength cannot.

This is what love looks like when it refuses to abandon devotion.

And then — Jesus speaks.

He does not preach.
He does not explain.
He does not correct.

He speaks one word:

“Mary.”

Her name.
Her identity.
Her story.
Her heart.

And with that one word, the world inside her resurrects.

She turns and recognizes Him instantly.

“Rabboni!”
Teacher.
Master.
The One she thought she lost forever now stands alive before her.

She reaches for Him, but Jesus gently tells her:

“Do not hold on to Me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father.
Go instead to My brothers and tell them…”

And what He tells her to say changes everything:

“I am ascending to My Father and your Father, to My God and your God.”

Not just His Father.
Yours.
Not just His God.
Yours.

The resurrection does not only defeat death —
it draws humanity into the family of God.

Mary becomes the first messenger of the risen Christ.
A woman who once wept now becomes the one who carries the greatest proclamation ever spoken:

“I have seen the Lord.”

============================================================

Later that day, the disciples hide behind locked doors.
Not from danger alone — from fear.
Fear of being next.
Fear of the unknown.
Fear of a future they cannot imagine without Jesus.

And into that fear…

Jesus appears.

Without knocking.
Without entering through the door.
Without warning.

He stands among them.

And His first words are:

“Peace be with you.”

Not correction.
Not disappointment.
Not frustration.

Peace.

He shows them His hands and His side —
the marks of love still visible, still speaking, still proving that the cross was not a tragedy but a triumph.

The disciples rejoice.
Their fear dissolves into awe.

Jesus breathes on them and says:

“Receive the Holy Spirit.”

The same breath that animated Adam in the garden now animates the new creation standing before Him.

He commissions them with purpose.

But Thomas is not there.

And when they tell him what happened, he cannot accept it.

Thomas gets labeled for his doubt, but what he asks for is simple:

He wants to see what they saw.
Touch what they touched.
Experience what they experienced.

A week later, Jesus comes again.

The door is locked.
He appears anyway.

“Peace be with you.”

Then He turns directly to Thomas.

Not with anger.

With invitation.

“Put your finger here.
See My hands.
Reach out your hand and put it into My side.
Stop doubting and believe.”

Thomas breaks open:

“My Lord and my God!”

This is not the cry of a skeptic.
It is the cry of a man finally standing face-to-face with the truth he longed for.

Jesus replies:

“Because you have seen Me, you have believed.
Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.”

Blessed are you.
Blessed are all who trust Him now.
Blessed are the ones who cling to hope unseen.

John ends the chapter by telling us why he wrote these things:

“That you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in His name.”

Life.

The kind of life that breathes again.
The kind of life that rises again.
The kind of life that walks out of graves
and finds its Savior speaking names in the dawn.

============================================================

Your friend in Christ,
Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube

Support the ministry by buying Douglas a coffee

#faith #Jesus #GospelOfJohn #John20 #resurrection #hope #ChristianLiving #encouragement #inspiration