Resurrection of Our Lord C 2025

Text: “5 And as they were frightened and bowed their faces to the ground, the men said to them, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? 6 He is not here, but has risen.” (Luke 24:5–6a).

What do you expect to find in a cemetery?

Stillness? Mourning? The ache of memory? Perhaps peace, if the loss is long past.

No one walks into a cemetery expecting reunion. No one goes to a grave hoping to find someone alive. The very place testifies to finality. That’s how we’ve learned to think. That’s how death teaches us to see the world.

And that’s what makes the angel’s question so jarring.

“Why do you seek the living among the dead?” (Luke 24:5)

It’s not just a question for Mary and the other women. It’s a question for you. A question for a world whose vision has been so warped by death that we look for life in all the wrong places.

Because that’s what death does. It doesn’t just stop breath. It reshapes expectation. It trains you to think that life must be seized, earned, forged, remembered—anything but received.

So when the women came to the tomb, they were doing what made sense. They were showing devotion. They were honoring the dead. But what they were not doing was hoping.

And that’s where the question cuts deepest:

“Why do you seek the living among the dead?”

What else have you come to expect from this life?

Death has warped the human heart. And not just in the pain it brings—but in the lies it teaches.

For some, death drives you to hedonism—to try to squeeze every drop from this life before the curtain falls. “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die” (1 Cor. 15:32). You chase pleasure, not because it satisfies, but because it distracts. You treat today like your only chance, and so every appetite becomes a kind of sacrament.

You scroll endlessly. You plan your weekends like they are lifeboats. You overwork all week so you can escape on Friday. You spend too much, drink too much, say “you deserve this” too often—because anything is better than sitting still and facing the silence. Your whole life becomes a strategy to keep death off your calendar.

For others, death drives you to self-made immortality. You pour yourself into your work, your family, your reputation—not just out of love, but out of fear. Something in you refuses to disappear. You want to matter. You want to be remembered. You want your name on a plaque, your story in someone’s mind, your impact on the world. And so you tell yourself that if you try hard enough, build wisely enough, love fiercely enough—maybe part of you will not die.

And you might not call it this, but what you are really trying to do is write your own resurrection.

Still others sink into resignation or despair. If everything ends, then nothing matters. If all turns to dust, why bother? So you lower your expectations. You stop investing in beauty. You stop fighting for joy. You harden yourself against sorrow so you cannot be disappointed again. You stop praying for what you actually want and start asking only for what seems reasonable—because hope hurts too much.

Or—and this one wears the mask of virtue—you try to out-holy death. You comfort yourself with comparison. You look around and say, “At least I’m not like them.” You use your spiritual performance as insulation. You start to think you are ready for death because you’ve been “good enough.” You’ve read your Bible more, or cussed less, or been more patient than you used to be. And so you tuck yourself in with the lie that you’ve made your peace.

But every one of these paths—every distraction, every monument, every compromise, every comparison—they all end at the same place: a tomb. You are still seeking the living among the dead. You are trying to find meaning where only dust remains.

So now what? If Christ is risen, if death has been defeated—what does that mean for today?

It means you stop going back to the tomb. You stop living like death still has the final word. You stop acting as though everything depends on you.

You live like those who have already died and been raised.

“You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.” (Col. 3:3)

Your Baptism is not a metaphor. It’s a burial and a resurrection. It’s the end of your self-made story and the beginning of a new one—written in Christ’s blood, sealed by His Spirit.

So rejoice—not because you’re strong, but because Christ is alive. And He calls you by name.

Forgive—not because others deserve it, but because you’ve been forgiven beyond all deserving.

Love—not because life is long, but because eternity has already begun.

And when death tries to speak again—when it tries to press in and steal your joy—point to the tomb and say: He is not there. He is risen.

And because He is risen, your sin is forgiven. Your death is undone. Your name is known.

“He is not here. He is risen.” (Luke 24:6)

The tomb is empty not because of theft, but because of triumph. Jesus Christ, true God and true man, has passed through death and undone it. Not escaped it—undone it.

And He did it for you.

For you who have numbed yourself with entertainment and distraction, chasing the thrill of the next weekend or the comfort of the next indulgence—Christ was crucified. He bore the weight of your fear and your restlessness. He descended into your midnight scrolling, your empty laughter, your quiet panic. And He rose to give you peace.

For you who have poured yourself into legacy—who try to build a name that will outlive you, who fear being forgotten more than being wrong—Christ wrote your name in the Book of Life with His own blood. You do not need to carve your identity into stone. Your identity is spoken from heaven: child of God, baptized into Christ, co-heir with the risen King.

For you who have settled into resignation or grown weary in hope—who tell yourself it is easier not to care than to care and be disappointed—Christ meets you, not with rebuke, but with renewal. He has walked into the heart of death and returned with resurrection. And He promises that not a single tear you have shed will be wasted. He will raise even your sorrow.

And for you who have used your goodness as a shield, who have measured yourself by comparison and comforted yourself with your own improvement—Christ calls you to let go of your resume and cling to His cross. His righteousness is not a supplement to yours. It is your only hope. And it is enough.

He is not among the dead. He is not one more noble teacher buried beneath the sands of time. He is not a legacy. He is not a memory. He is alive—and He is yours.

And now He meets you not in your striving, but in His Word. Not in your accomplishments, but in His gifts. Not in your name, but in His name—placed on you in Baptism, spoken over you in Absolution, fed into you at the altar.

You do not have to build your own name. He gives you His. You do not have to craft your immortality. He gives you His resurrection.

So rejoice—not because you’re strong, but because Christ is alive. And He calls you by name.

Forgive—not because others deserve it, but because you’ve been forgiven beyond all deserving.

Love—not because life is long, but because eternity has already begun.

And when death tries to speak again—when it tries to press in and steal your joy—point to the tomb and say: He is not there. He is risen.

And because He is risen, your sin is forgiven. Your death is undone. Your name is known. Your life is eternal.

Alleluia. Amen.