We Are Because He Is

 Psalm 100                   Isaiah 43:1-7             1 Corinthians 1:1–9                John 15:1-11

We Are Because He Is

There are some churches that look strong on the outside…but underneath, fractures are forming. There are some communities rich in spiritual gifts…but poor in unity. There are some believers who have every good gift God can give…yet are in danger of tearing one another apart. That was Corinth.

But before Paul corrects them…before he confronts their divisions…before he addresses their moral confusion…he begins with something far deeper.

He begins with their identity based on God’s amazing grace and faithfulness, because if they forget who they are, they will never become who God has called them to be. And so Paul begins his letter to the fractured church in Corinth not with rebuke, but with remembrance.

Now before we walk through these verses, we need to understand the situation in Corinth. The church there was not unlike many other First Century churches. It was racially, socially and economically mixed…wealthy patrons and struggling labourers, Jews and Gentiles, the educated elite rubbing shoulders with simple tradespeople. Some had plenty while others had almost nothing.

And at the time this letter was written, they were living through what Paul elsewhere calls a “present distress.” Many scholars today believe that this distress was connected to food shortages in the region. In Corinth itself, monuments, dated roughly between AD 49 and AD 58, have been found that honour a grain supplier named Dinippus, suggesting that access to food was a matter of civic concern and survival.

So imagine the tension in this church. Some believers having abundance while others have nothing…some feasting, others starving…some well educated, others less well educated…some growing strong, others growing weak a number even dying from malnutrition.

And into that socio-economic pressure came something even more destructive: division.

Some claimed loyalty to Paul. Others to Peter. Others to Apollos. Some even claimed to follow Christ in a way that separated them from everyone else…the super spiritual, sanctimonious, self-professed saints. The church was fragmenting into factions. And into that fractured, anxious, divided church, Paul writes these opening words: “Paul, called through the will of God to be an apostle of Jesus Christ…”

Now, that is not arrogance or self-promotion. No, this is authority grounded in divine calling. Paul did not appoint himself. He did not rise through influence. He did not build his own platform. God called him. And that matters because some in Corinth were already questioning his authority.

They seem to have preferred eloquent speakers and polished rhetoricians. Men whose speech impressed the cultured elite.

But in his opening line Paul reminds them that authority in the church does not come from skill, or ability, or applause. Authority in the church comes from divine calling.

Now, interestingly, in this opening line, Paul includes another name: “Paul, called through the will of God to be an apostle of Jesus Christ and Sosthenes our brother.”

This Sosthenes may be the same man that was mercilessly beaten before Gallio’s tribunal and if so, he had once been the synagogue leader in Corinth, yet now Paul calls him a brother in Christ. As such, he is a living testimony that the gospel does not merely teach…it transforms.

Now whether the inclusion of his name indicates that he served as co-writer or letter bearer, or both is not clear, but the use of his name here signals some kind of partnership. Which is what we have come to expect with Paul’s ministry. It is never solitary. It is always shared. Barnabas, John Mark, Silas, Timothy, Titus, Luke, Priscilla and Aquila, and so on…

But what Paul said next is of great importance. He writes: “To the church of God in Corinth…” Did you hear that? “To the church of God in Corinth…” This is not Paul’s church. This is not Apollos’ church. Nor is it Peter’s church. The church in Corinth is God’s church.

That phrase strikes at the root of division. The church does not belong to its leaders…the church does not belong to its strongest personalities…or its loudest voices. The church belongs to God.

And Paul uses a singular word here: the church. Not many churches. One church. One body. Even if meeting in many different homes. Even if divided in attitude. Even if fractured in spirit. The church…despite itself…will always be one people…God’s people.

And then he goes on to describe them: “Those sanctified in Christ Jesus… called to be saints.” They are sanctified. They are set apart and like Israel in the Old Testament, they are called to be holy because God is holy. 

So with his opening statement Paul shows that they did not create themselves nor did they sanctify themselves. No, they belong to God and therefore they are his workmanship. God made them. God called them. God set them apart. God is making them holy.

And holiness is not optional for the church. It is our identity. We belong to God and therefore we must mirror the image of God.

Then comes the greeting: “Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Paul’s greeting here reveals a significant order: grace always comes first. This sequence is intentional and meaningful. Grace is the foundation. God’s unmerited favour, bestowed freely upon us, not because we deserve it but purely out of His generosity and his love. It is out of this grace that every blessing begins. 

Peace, then, follows as the natural consequence of receiving grace. The peace Paul refers to here is not merely the absence of conflict, but the deep, abiding sense of wholeness and reconciliation with God that flows from his undeserved gift. In other words, peace is the outcome, the fruit, of being touched by God’s grace.

So by placing grace before peace, Paul underscores the truth that our spiritual wellbeing and harmony with God are rooted in his initiative, not our own merit. Thus, every believer’s experience of peace is anchored in the gracious gift that comes first.

And then notice the source of both grace and peace. God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Side by side. Equal in authority. Equal in blessing. Equal in divine identity. 

Now we read something rather surprising. Despite being fully aware…remember there had been some correspondence between Paul and this church before…despite being full aware of all the challenges facing the church of God at Corinth…their divisions, their shortcomings, and their failures… despite being full aware of all the challenges facing the church of God at Corinth, Paul chooses to give thanks for them. His gratitude is not rooted in their perfection, but rather in something far more profound.

Paul declares, “I always give thanks to my God concerning you…” This thankfulness is not because the believers have reached a standard of flawlessness, but because of “the grace of God given to you in Christ Jesus.” The foundation of his gratitude is clear: it is God’s grace, not human achievement, that matters most.

Paul continues by adding, “that in everything you were enriched in him…” The enrichment he speaks of here is not material, but spiritual, particularly in the areas of speech and knowledge.

The city of Corinth prized eloquence, philosophy, wisdom, and the art of public speaking. Yet Paul gently reminds them that every ability they possess is a gift, not a reward for their cultivated efforts or long years of study. The very grammar of his statement here emphasises that these gifts originate from God rather than human exertion. This truth is humbling, for if all is received from God, then there is no ground for pride; what God gives, no one can boast about.

But then comes another remarkable statement: “You are not lacking in any gift…” Now, think about that. This church, with all its problems, was richly gifted. It wasn’t deficient. It wasn’t spiritually impoverished. No, it was overflowing with spiritual gifts. And yet…those same gifts had become a source of pride, competition, and division.

But as we shall see later in this letter, Paul is not against the gifts. He is against the misuse of the gifts. Spiritual gifts are given not to elevate individuals but to strengthen the body. And so he reminds them they are living in the time between Christ’s first coming and his return.

They are “awaiting the revelation of our Lord Jesus Christ.” That expectation shapes everything. We live between two Advents. And gifts are given so the church in between these times can live faithfully until we see him face to face.

But one of the most reassuring promises found in Paul’s words here is this: “He will also confirm you to the end…” The emphasis here is striking. Paul does not suggest that believers are responsible for confirming themselves; no, rather, it is God who undertakes this task. God is the Author and Finisher of our faith; God initiates a good work in us and faithfully brings it to completion. It is God who establishes, it is God who sustains, it is God who keeps us from falling…and ultimately, it is God who preserves us, safeguarding our journey of faith from beginning to end.

The purpose of this divine confirmation is remarkable: “He will also confirm you to the end so that you will be blameless in the day of our Lord Jesus Christ.” This promise points towards a future goal…the day of final judgment. Paul’s language echoes the themes found in Old Testament prophecy, reminding us that this day will be one of reckoning, exposure, and revelation, when every heart is laid bare.

But on that day, Paul assures the church in Corinth that God himself will cause his people to stand unimpeachable. This blamelessness is not the result of human flawlessness but stems from the fact that believers belong to God. Their security and their standing before God are based on their relationship with him, not on their achievements or skills or giftedness.

In other words, grace is the thread that runs through every stage of your faith journey: grace saves, grace sustains, and grace completes. It is grace that underpins the believer’s life from start to finish, providing deliverance from the past, assurance for the present, and hope for the future.

And then we have the climax of what Paul has said so far. “God is faithful.” That is the anchor of this entire passage. Despite their fractured fellowship…despite their pitiful pride…despite their selfish self-centredness…despite their imbecilic individuality…God is faithful. Faithful to call. Faithful to sustain. Faithful to finish.

And so Paul emphasises that it is through the faithfulness of God that believers are invited into fellowship with his Son. But this fellowship…this koinonia….is not merely a personal relationship with Jesus, but also a communion with all who are in Jesus…it is a communion with all his people. It is a shared life and a shared sense of belonging, rooted in the community's union with Christ.

As a result, this fellowship with Jesus naturally leads to familial fellowship among believers. The logic is simple: if we belong to Jesus, we also belong to each other. Our unity is grounded in our relationship with him, establishing a community built upon mutual belonging and shared purpose.

So, in this brief introductory passage, Paul reveals that the divisions within the Corinthian church stand in stark contrast to their true identity as followers of Christ…and this raises a pertinent question: what significance does this have for us living in the 21st century?  

As we have observed, Paul’s opening words are far more than a simple greeting. They serve as a powerful theological declaration against vanity and self-serving division. Paul recognises that when identity is lost, unity inevitably falters. When grace is neglected, pride begins to flourish. When God’s faithfulness is forgotten, fear takes hold. Thus, the foundation of unity, humility, and courage within the church is firmly rooted in remembering who we are, remembering the grace that sustains us, and remembering the unwavering faithfulness of God who has delivered us to conform us to the image of his Son, Jesus. 

Like the believers in Corinth, we find ourselves navigating an era marked by uncertainty. Religious pluralism, economic instability, social tension, and divisions in the church over leadership, denominational preferences, and ecclesiastical methodology are all too familiar. There is competition for recognition, disparities in resources, and differences in gifts. 

But despite these challenges, the core message remains unchanged: we, dearest beloved brethren, we are called, we are sanctified, we are gifted, and we are kept…not due to our own skills or talents, or merit, but solely because of who God is and who we are because of who he is. Everything within this passage converges upon a single, profound truth: God is faithful. He is not sometimes faithful, nor is his faithfulness conditional. No, he is always faithful.

God remains faithful in our struggles, during times of division, when we forget who we really are, and even when we fail. His unwavering faithfulness transcends our circumstances. And because God is faithful, there is hope for broken churches, hope for divided communities, hope for anxious believers, and hope for imperfect people. The church of God does not rely on human strength or ingenuity but stands securely upon the foundation of divine faithfulness.

Before addressing the issues within the Corinthian church…before any correction, confrontation of conflicts, or rebuke of behaviour…Paul deliberately begins by reminding the believers of their true identity. He emphasises that they are the church of God, sanctified in Christ Jesus and called to be his holy people. This foundational truth is crucial: they are recipients of grace and peace, and it is God himself who keeps them firm, ensuring they will be blameless on the final day.

It is worth considering that we, too, may need such a reminder. In the midst of uncertainty, challenges, or division, recalling who we are in Christ offers reassurance and perspective.

We belong to God. We are not only set apart by him, but we are also set apart for him. God has generously gifted us, and as we await the return of Jesus, we are being protected and purified. And this ongoing process is grounded in the unwavering faithfulness of God.

Our God is faithful…and because he is faithful, fractured individuals can be transformed into a unified body. Anxious believers can experience peace, and struggling churches can stand firm. The assurance lies in the truth that the One who has called us will also keep us, safeguarding us until the day of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Shall we pray?

© Johannes W H van der Bijl 2026

I Heard His Voice To Come On Home

I heard his call to come on home

I came in quiet, cold and damp, my doubts still tighter than my jeans,

Through doors that sighed in solemnness, with whispered mercy in between.

The ceilings climbed, the shadows soared, like hands that were entwined to pray,

Where silence spoke as in a dream, and seemed to beckon me to stay. 

The light fell fractured through the glass in blue and crimson, broken gold,

with words long written without words for minds unready still to hold.

I felt their colours on my face like speech that touches hearts unseen

As if my faith was never frail just waiting for a way back in.

Chorus:

In this cathedral made of stone

I heard his call to come on home

not by a shout, command or creed

but by his beauty claiming me.

I walked the graves of crowned decay, where kings and queens in marble sleep,

where every reign’s reduced to rust, where tears have long since ceased to weep.

Though time had worn their lives away, and left no power, left no claim,

there in that hush of humbled rock I heard his heart beat unashamed.

Chorus:

In this cathedral made of stone

I heard his call to come on home,

not by a shout, command or creed,

but by his beauty claiming me.

Break

No lightning split the vaulted dark, no voice declared me clean or sure,

just beauty standing where it stood, unbribed, unbroken, unobscured. 

And deep within without a word, the silence sang, the sky stood still,

and something softer than belief then taught my restless heart to kneel.

Chorus:

In this cathedral made of stone

I heard his call to come on home

not by a shout, command or creed

but by his beauty claiming me.

So though I’ve wandered half my life mistaking thought for what is free,

this beauty leads the long way round to finally circle back on me.

In this cathedral made of stone I heard his call to come on home.

©️ Johannes W H van der Bijl 2026

Music by Chris Merry

Vocals: Chris and Antonella

https://youtu.be/CHQejWb62OM?si=10zRkSadsfWaS5Bb 

The God Who Sees Differently

1 Samuel 16:1–13                           John 9:1–41

The God Who Sees Differently

There is a particular kind of grief that settles in when something believed to have been given by God seems to go wrong. It is not merely disappointment, nor is it nostalgia. It is the sorrow of watching hope unravel…of seeing a life, a ministry, a leader, a prayer prayed fervently and expectantly, or even a season that once seemed full of God’s favour slowly hollowed out by circumstance, by disobedience, fear, or pride. That kind of grief lingers. It does not pass quickly, because it is bound up with love for God’s work and concern for his people.

Most of us can point to at least one moment in our lives when something we were convinced was right simply did not happen. A door closed. Not dramatically, not cruelly…just firmly. It may have been a job we were qualified for, a path that seemed sensible, a hope that felt almost inevitable. We had prayed about it. We had thought it through. Even others expected it to happen too. And then it didn’t.

At the time, that kind of disappointment rarely feels spiritual, does it? It feels confusing, bewildering, frustrating, sometimes even unfair. Only later…often much later, if ever…do we begin to see that the closed door was not the end of God’s involvement, but the beginning of a different kind of leading. A path we would never have chosen for ourselves. A future we could not yet imagine.

1 Samuel 16 speaks to people who live with that kind of disappointment.

Samuel had been certain about Saul. Everyone had. Saul looked right. He fit the role. He seemed, at least initially, to be God’s answer to Israel’s predicament. But now Samuel was left grieving…not only for the failure of a king, but the collapse of a hope. What was meant to be God’s provision had become a spiritual disaster.

And it is into that grief…into that sense of ‘this should have worked’…that God spoke. Not with an explanation, but with a command: “Fill your horn with oil and go.” In other words, trust me again, even though your last confidence ended in disappointment.

That is the space this text inhabits: the space between a door that has closed and a future God has not yet revealed.

That is precisely where we find Samuel at the opening of 1 Samuel 16. Saul had not simply failed as a king; he had failed as a servant of the Lord. What began with such promise ended in rejection. And Samuel was mourning. He grieved over a spiritual disaster…over the collapse of a man once anointed by God, over the danger now facing Israel, over what might have been had Saul just obeyed rather than hesitated and fluctuated.

And if we are honest, we may recognize ourselves in Samuel’s grief. We live surrounded by spiritual ruin that ought to trouble us more than it does. Leaders fall. Churches fracture and churches fold. Faith erodes quietly under pressure and compromise. Yet we often choose to move on without really mourning…we choose to distract ourselves rather than sit with sorrow over the condition of God’s people.

But Samuel mourned, and God let him mourn…but not forever. Because grief, however real, is not the final word in God’s economy.

“How long will you mourn for Saul, since I have rejected him as king over Israel?” The question was not harsh. It was not impatient. It was a summons forward. Note that God did not tell Samuel that his sorrow was misplaced; he told him that it was no longer sufficient. Mourning had to give way to obedience.

“Fill your horn with oil and go; I am sending you to Jesse of Bethlehem.”

That sentence is hope wrapped in command. God was not stuck with Saul. His purposes had not been derailed. You see, even in the aftermath of failure…especially in the aftermath of failure…God was already preparing a new beginning. What Samuel could not yet see, God had already chosen.

That matters deeply for us. The collapse of a leader, the disappointment of a season, or the exposure of sin does not leave God scrambling for alternatives. He is never reduced to damage control. The Lord who judges also provides, and his provision often arrives while we are still grieving.

Yet when God begins anew, he rarely does so in ways that confirm our limited vision.

When Samuel arrived in Bethlehem and saw Eliab, everything in him resonated with familiarity. Here was height. Presence. Strength. Here was Saul all over again, or so it seemed. Samuel assumed the pattern would repeat, because human logic almost always does.

But the Lord interrupted him: “Do not consider his appearance or his height… The Lord does not see as humans see.”

But this moment was far larger than Eliab or even Saul. True, it reached backward to Saul, whose outward impressiveness concealed a fearful and self-protective heart. But it also reached forward to Absalom…flawless in appearance yet corrosive in ambition…and to Adonijah, confident and charismatic, but never chosen by God. And it reaches into every generation where God’s people are tempted to confuse visible qualities with faithfulness and where they confuse ability with obedience.

You see, the Lord looks on the heart…not because the heart is sentimental or vague, but because it is the seat of trust, humility, and teachability before him. This truth confronts us, because it exposes how easily we misread what God is doing. Yet it also comforts us, because it means that God mercifully overrules our most confident mistakes. If the future of God’s people rested on our assessments alone, it would be disastrous. But God sees more deeply…and more truly…than we ever could.

So, one by one, Jesse’s sons passed before Samuel. And one by one, God said no. The moment became almost uncomfortable. Finally Samuel asked the unthinkable question: “Are these all the sons you have?” And Jesse responded with a sentence that explains everything: “Well, there is still the youngest…but he is tending the sheep.”

David was not merely overlooked; he was assumed irrelevant. He was not even considered worth summoning until every other option had failed. And yet when he arrived, the Lord said, “Rise and anoint him; this is the one.”

God’s choice overturns every human expectation. The shepherd becomes king. The unnoticed becomes central. The one least likely by human standards becomes the bearer of God’s promise. And when the oil was poured, the Spirit of the Lord rushed upon David…not for ease, mind you, but for calling.

What do I mean? Well, at this point the story might tempt us to think that divine choosing leads immediately to divine success. But Scripture refuses to indulge that illusion.

No sooner did the Spirit come upon David than his life became profoundly more difficult. He was drawn into conflict, hunted by Saul, driven into exile, betrayed by those he helped, and pressed to the edge again and again. The gift of the Spirit, although infinitely gracious, was at the same time quite severe. God equipped David not for comfort, but for conflict.

And the same pattern marked David’s greater Son.

At Jesus’ baptism, the Spirit descended and the Father spoke: “You are my beloved Son.” And yet, immediately afterward, the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness…to hunger, temptation, and confrontation with evil. From that moment on, Jesus’ ministry was marked by misunderstanding, hostility, and eventual rejection. The Messiah was not crowned, humanly speaking…he was crucified. The cornerstone was not admired; it was rejected.

Which brings us naturally to John 9.

The man born blind received his sight…oh happy day…but then everything fell apart. Instead of celebration, there was interrogation. Instead of praise and thanksgiving, there was suspicion. His parents were bullied. He was mocked, tried, labelled a sinner, and finally expelled from the community. Suffering was not removed following his healing…in fact, it accompanied it.

And this is where Scripture presses on us most firmly.

The trouble that follows obedience is not evidence of God’s displeasure. It is often the mark of belonging to him. Likewise, suffering is not necessarily a sign of sin…it may be…but more often than not, suffering is the tool of formation. The wilderness is not proof of abandonment, but of presence. God’s children are not spared discipline; they are shaped by it.

The man born blind ended up seeing more clearly than anyone else…not just physically, but spiritually. He knew Jesus because he walked the path that God’s chosen ones always walk…the path of humble and obedient submission despite anything and everything contrary to our hopes and dreams.

Very few of us recognise God’s best work while it is happening. We recognise it later…looking back, often with some astonishment, sometimes with quiet gratitude. We realise then that the thing we once mourned was not the thing we needed most. The door that closed did not ruin us as we may have thought at the time…rather it redirected us.

Samuel never saw the full shape of what God was doing when he poured the oil on David’s head. All he knew was that God had chosen differently this time. David himself would not understand it for years…through caves, betrayals, fear, and exile. Even the man born blind did not fully understand his own story until he was standing outside the synagogue, rejected and yet truly seeing for the first time. And remember, the disciples did not understand the crucifixion until they saw Jesus resurrected. 

But in each case, the disappointment was not wasted. The closed door was not arbitrary. The unlikely choice was not accidental. God was seeing what they could not yet see…and what we can not yet see.

And that may be where some of us are today…still mourning something that did not turn out as we hoped, still puzzled by a decision God made that felt strange, even wrong, at the time. Scripture does not rush us past that grief. But it does invite us to trust the God who looks on the heart…the God whose choices are wiser than ours, whose paths are deeper than our plans, and whose purposes often come disguised as interruptions.

The story of Samuel, of David, of Jesus, and of the man born blind reminds us that God’s most faithful work often begins where our certainty ends. But one day…perhaps not soon, perhaps only on the other side of eternity…but one day we will look back and say: That door had to close, so that this one could open.

And only then will we see clearly.

Now this sermon began with Samuel mourning what had gone wrong, but it has ended with a man who could truly say, “I once was blind, but now I see.” 

In between stand David, Jesus, and all who follow the same pattern of divine choosing followed by costly faithfulness…like our beloved persecuted brethren who have cried out for much of their lives: How long O Lord? 

God sees differently. God chooses differently. God forms his people through suffering, not despite it.

And if we can learn to trust…if we can believe that the God who looks on the heart is present with us even in the wilderness…then our grief will not have the final word. 

True sight will.

Shall we pray?

© Johannes W H van der Bijl 2026

From Locked Doors to Living Hope

 Psalm 22:1-11; 23-24                   2 Corinthians 5:14-21                     John 20:19-22

From Locked Doors to Living Hope

There is something deeply human about fear. It creeps in quietly at first…an unease, a tightening of the chest…until it grows into something heavier: anxiety, confusion, even despair and a sense of hopelessness. It robs us of clarity. It drains our courage. It leaves us feeling small, exposed, trapped, and uncertain about what comes next.

This is not a 21st Century phenomena. In fact, when we turn to the Scriptures, we do not find many people standing tall in confident faith, do we?

We find fear. We find anguish. We find people overwhelmed.

The same is true about the Easter story.

On the same night on which he was betrayed, Jesus, who had throughout his earthly life spoken with authority, who had calmed storms, healed the sick, and raised the dead, now falls to the ground in the Garden of Gethsemane. And what we see there is deeply moving. We do not see strength as we might expect, but anguish.

Jesus is honest about his distress. He is overwhelmed. And so he prays, “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.”

This is not cold composure. This is real human dread. The weight of what lies ahead presses down upon him…the suffering, the abandonment, the bearing of sin that was not his.

And yet, in that same prayer, we hear surrender: “Yet not my will, but yours be done.”

Here is courage based, not upon his feelings or his emotions, but upon his faith in his Father…a faith manifested in the very midst of fear.

But what of His followers? Well, as we see at the moment of his arrest, they scatter.

The disciples…those who had walked with him, eaten with him, pledged their loyalty to him…they all flee into the darkness. One runs so desperately that he leaves his cloak behind and escapes naked into the night. It is almost a painful image of sheer panic.

And then Peter…Peter, who had once said, “Even if all fall away, I never will,” now stands in a courtyard, surrounded by strangers, and fear takes hold.

A servant girl asks a simple question…and Peter denies his Lord.

Again. And again.

Three times he says, “I do not know him. I am not his disciple.”

And then the rooster crows and the overconfident fisherman sinks into the depths of despair. He weeps bitterly. The weight of his failure crashes down upon him. The man who thought himself strong now knows his weakness.

And then comes the cross.

For the disciples, the crucifixion is not just the death of Jesus…it is the death of hope…it is the death of a dream…it is the death of faith.

The disciples do not stand bravely at a distance. No, they disappear. They hide. Only one remains near the cross, along with the women…no doubt because he knew the High Priest’s family.

The rest? They are behind locked doors. Huddled. Afraid. Immobilised through fear.

The world they thought they understood has collapsed. The one they believed would redeem Israel is gone. Their purpose, their calling, their future…all of it seems buried in that tomb.

Imagine, if you will, the silence in that room. No bold speeches. No confident prayers. No arguments as to who is the greatest. Only whispered questions: “What now? Was it all in vain?”

Fear. Loss. Confusion. Hopelessness.

And then…Easter morning.

The message of Easter does not come with a triumphal entry, mind you…not with public spectacle…but with something almost fragile.

Women…those whose witness meant nothing in a strict patriarchal society…women go to the tomb.

Not expecting resurrection but bringing spices to properly bury a dead body.

There is no hope-filled excitement as they walk in the semi-darkness…only grief.

And then they find the stone rolled away.

There is no body in the tomb…only two angelic beings who give them a message: “He is not here. He has risen.”

It is so unbelievable that even when they tell the others, it sounds like nonsense.

But then comes Mary Magdalene.

She sees him. She hears him call her name. “Mary!”

For her everything changes, but the disciples are still afraid.

Even with these reports, even with the rumours of resurrection, they remain behind locked doors.

And then Jesus comes…suddenly standing among them.

“Peace be with you,” he says.

He does not rebuke their fear. He does not shame their failure.

He comes into their anxiety and speaks peace.

And in that moment, everything begins to turn.

Because the real news of Easter is not only that it happened…though it did, gloriously and historically…no, the real news of Easter is that it matters.

It matters more than any event outside of the life of Jesus.

Why? Well, firstly because it deals with our past.

Just as something broken that has been expertly mended and now functions as it should is evidence of a successful repair, so the resurrection stands as the definitive demonstration that the cross accomplished all that God intended. The resurrection is not merely an event; it is the confirmation that Christ’s sacrifice was wholly sufficient, meeting every purpose set forth by God. The cross was not a defeat, but a triumph that the resurrection validates. In this way, the empty tomb is the proof that the work of redemption is complete and trustworthy.

Jesus did not merely die…he paid a penalty that was ours…and we know that this transaction, if you will, was successful because of the resurrection. He is no longer dead. He is alive.

As Paul tells us, “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”

The resurrection is God’s declaration: “The price has been paid.”

Every wrong thought. Every careless word. Every hidden failure.

Covered. Forgiven.

And not only forgiven…in Jesus we are counted as righteous…as right before God.

Easter matters because it speaks into our past…not with condemnation, but with mercy.

Secondly, Easter matters because it transforms our present.

The resurrection is not just about what was…it is about what is. The same powerful Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead is now at work in us.

Think of that.

The Holy Spirit that breathed life into the tomb now breathes life into people like you and me…people who are dead in trespasses and sins.

Paul says that this powerful Holy Spirit is active, shaping us, strengthening us, helping us to pray when we cannot find words, guiding us when we feel lost, forming us more and more into the likeness of Christ.

And it is now the Holy Spirit who meets us in our fear. He steadies us in our anxiety.

He gives us courage to live and to love God and others…even our enemies…those who hate us, spitefully use us, hurt us, or persecute us.

Easter means that we are not left alone behind locked doors. The risen Christ comes to us and he says, “Peace be with you.”

Thirdly, Easter matters because it secures our future.

Easter lifts our eyes beyond the present because death is no longer the end.

Paul says that death has lost its sting. What once held absolute power has now been defeated and our future is no longer uncertain darkness but promised restoration.

A new heaven. A new earth. A place where sorrow and suffering are no more. Where what was broken is made whole. Where we are with him forever.

Easter matters because it gives us a future filled with hope…not wishful thinking but certain, anchored, unshakeable hope.

But for a moment, let us return to that locked room. To the fearful disciples. The shattered expectations. The uncertain hearts. The debilitating anxiety. The shame of denial. 

And here, in that locked room, we realise something: these disciples are not so different from us.

We know fear. We know broken dreams. We know failure. We know shame. We know loss. We know uncertainty. We know anxiety. We know what it is to feel overwhelmed, to lose direction, to wonder what comes next. 

We know that locked room, don’t we?

But Easter bursts into the reality of our locked rooms.

It tells us that fear does not have the final word. Failure does not define us. And despair is not the end of the story.

Because Christ is risen…and he still comes to people like us.

He comes into our locked rooms. Into our anxious thoughts. Into our uncertain situations. And he speaks the same words: “Peace be with you.”

Human history is full of incredible events. Moments that have shaped nations, changed cultures, altered the course of time.

But what else, apart from the resurrection of Jesus, can absolve my past, transform my present, and secure my eternal future?

Nothing else comes close, does it?

And so today, we stand not in the shadow of fear but in the light of resurrection.

Not in despair but in hope. Not in silence but in proclamation: He is risen.

He is risen indeed.

Hallelujah.

Shall we pray?

© Johannes W H van der Bijl 2026