A family was once watching a film about the life of Jesus. Their little daughter was deeply moved. She watched the crucifixion with tears in her eyes. She saw Jesus taken down from the cross and laid in the tomb. She saw the stone rolled into place and the guards stationed outside, and everything seemed finished. Then suddenly she smiled, sat up, and said, “Now comes the good part.”
That is why we are here tonight.
We have walked through the darkness of Lent. We stood at Calvary. We kept silence at the tomb. And now, in this holy night, the Church leads us to the good part. Not because Good Friday was less important. It was essential. The cross was real. The suffering was real. Death was real. But death was not the end of the story.
Tonight the Gospel begins quietly: “After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary came to see the tomb.”
They come with heavy hearts, as people do after loss. They are not coming with confidence or resurrection faith. They are coming with grief, love, confusion, and emptiness. They know where Jesus was laid, and they go there because sometimes love does not know what else to do but return to the place of pain.
That is something deeply human. We do the same. We return to the place where something died: a relationship, a hope, a dream, a sense of stability, an old wound, an old disappointment, an old fear. We stand there and wonder whether anything new can happen.
That is why this Gospel is not just about two women long ago. It is also about us.
Many people come to church on Easter carrying a sealed tomb in the heart. From the outside they look fine, but inside there is grief, disappointment, regret, weariness, loneliness, or fear. Some are carrying sin they have not fully surrendered. Some are carrying prayers that seem unanswered. Some are carrying the memory of someone they love and miss terribly.
And into that darkness, God acts.
Matthew tells us, “And behold, there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven, approached, rolled back the stone, and sat upon it.”
That is a remarkable image. The angel does not simply move the stone. He sits on it. The stone that looked final is no longer a barrier. The stone that looked heavy and untouchable is now beneath the feet of heaven. What seemed closed is opened. What seemed immovable has been moved by the power of God.
That is Easter. God is stronger than what we call final, stronger than sin, shame, failure, and death itself.
There is also something important here: Jesus does not need the stone to be rolled away so He can get out. The stone is rolled away so that they can see in. The resurrection is not done for Jesus’ convenience, but revealed for our faith.
God opens the tomb not because Christ is trapped, but because we are. We are the ones trapped by fear, imprisoned by guilt, and drawn back again and again to places of death thinking nothing can change. Easter is God’s answer. The tomb is open. Look again. Death does not have the last word.
Then the angel speaks words that echo through all of salvation history: “Do not be afraid.”
Those words appear whenever God is doing something beyond human expectation. Here they carry particular force, because fear has been everywhere in the Passion. The disciples were afraid. Peter was afraid. The authorities were afraid of losing control. Even the guards at the tomb are so overwhelmed that Matthew says they became like dead men.
There is something almost ironic in that. The living men become like dead men, while the Crucified One is alive.
That is what fear does. It paralyzes. It narrows life. It closes the heart. It keeps a person from moving, trusting, loving, and hoping. Fear makes us live as though the tomb is still sealed.
But the angel says, “Do not be afraid. I know that you are seeking Jesus the crucified. He is not here, for he has been raised just as he said.”
That last phrase should not be missed: just as he said.
This is not an accident. It is not a rumor. It is not wishful thinking from brokenhearted followers. It is the fulfillment of the Lord’s own promise. Even when everyone else thought the story had collapsed, God was still faithful. Even when the disciples did not understand, Jesus had already spoken the truth.
How often that happens in our own lives. We panic because we only see Friday. We despair because we only see the sealed tomb. We think God has disappeared because we do not yet see Sunday. But the Lord remains faithful even when we are confused. He is still at work even when heaven feels silent. He has not forgotten what He promised.
Then the angel tells the women to do two things: come and see, then go and tell.
In many ways, that is the whole Christian life. First, come and see. Enter the mystery. Look into the empty tomb. Let your heart be changed by what God has done. Faith is not just repeating formulas. It is standing before the reality that Christ is alive.
Then, go and tell. Resurrection is never meant to stay private. The women are sent out as witnesses. They came in sorrow, and they leave with a mission.
Matthew says they departed quickly from the tomb, “fearful yet overjoyed.”
That is one of the most honest lines in the Gospel, because it describes so well how faith often feels. Not perfectly calm. Not fully composed. Not with every question answered. But changed, moving, hopeful. We do not always go from darkness to complete clarity in one moment. Sometimes we move forward still trembling, but now with joy. Still fragile, but no longer hopeless. Still carrying questions, but also carrying good news.
And then comes the beautiful turning point. As they go, Jesus himself meets them.
That too is worth noticing. When they obey, when they move, when they begin to carry the message, Jesus comes to meet them on the way.
And what does He say? In this Gospel, He says simply: “Hail.”
It is almost wonderfully ordinary. Gentle. Personal. The risen Lord does not come to overwhelm them with display. He comes to greet them. He lets them approach. They take hold of His feet and do Him homage. The One who was dead now stands before them alive.
This is not a memory, an idea, or a spiritual symbol. This is the living Christ.
And then He repeats the message: “Do not be afraid.”
Tonight the Church places those words before us again, because many people live as though Easter never happened. We believe in Christ, yet still let fear govern us. We live as though sin is stronger, as though the past cannot be redeemed, as though grace cannot break through, as though death still wins.
But tonight we hear the truth again: Do not be afraid. He is not here. He has been raised.
This holy night changes everything. It means your sins can be forgiven. It means your past does not define you forever. It means suffering is real, but not ultimate. It means death is no longer a wall, but a passage. It means hope is not naive, but deeply Christian. It means Christ is alive, and because He lives, your life can begin again.
So perhaps tonight the Lord is asking each of us: what tomb have you been visiting? What stone have you assumed can never move? What fear has been sitting in your heart for too long?
Bring it here. Bring it into the light of this night. Bring it to the risen Jesus. The same Lord who conquered the grave is able to break open what has been closed in you for a long time.
Let us go back to that child for a moment. Watching the story of Jesus, she said, “Now comes the good part.”
She was right.
Not because the cross was unimportant, but because the cross leads here: to this night, to this victory, to this light, to this Gospel, and to this truth that no darkness can overcome.
The tomb is empty. Christ is risen. And for all who belong to Him, the good part has begun.
Amen.