History remembers many tales about Christopher Columbus’s voyage to the New World. Some are embroidered with drama, but one stands out in its striking faith. After months adrift without sight of land, his crew, despairing and restless, resolved to restrain Columbus, cast him into the sea, and steer back.
Calmly, clutching a crucifix to his chest, Columbus told them, “Sail three more days. If there’s still no land, then throw me overboard.” On the third morning, as he awoke still embracing the cross, he beheld the American coastline—a vision that turned his despair into elation. To him, every night of anguish was transformed into morning joy by the crucified Christ.
This same Christ—crucified, buried, and thought defeated—rose in glorious victory. The resurrection shattered both the wood of the cross and the stone of the tomb. Upon this miracle, the Church is built—its foundation not in theory, but in the living truth of the risen Lord. St. Paul makes it plain: if Christ is not raised, then all faith crumbles to dust (1 Cor. 15:14). The resurrection isn’t merely one of many miracles—it is the miracle, the ultimate sign by which all other wonders are understood.
All four Gospels unveil the resurrection by first revealing an absence: the empty tomb. The linen wrappings lay there, but Christ’s body did not. Mary Magdalene and her companions, consumed by grief, worried about the massive stone sealing the tomb. In Palestine, tombs are entered by descending into a small chamber with burial niches carved from the rock.
Jewish leaders had ensured the tomb was sealed, seeking to stop any hint of resurrection. Yet, the real barrier was not the stone—it was hardened unbelief. The resurrection is not merely the removal of a rock, but the breaking of spiritual blindness. Easter is the night the angel rolls away the stone of doubt.
Angels do not just roll away physical stones—they arrive in our moments of crisis, when despair is deepest and all hope seems buried. But often, we only recognize them through the very stones that block our way, because unbelief clouds our vision.
To the women at the tomb, the angel’s words were simple yet profound: “Do not be afraid.” “Do not weep.” These are the twin messages of Easter. Human weeping is born from fear, and Christ’s resurrection is God’s eternal response to our deepest anxieties. In the light of resurrection, sorrow is transfigured. The women who came in mourning left in awe and joy. Such is the power of the resurrection—it reverses despair.
Faith is born in the conviction that Christ lives. On the road to Emmaus, the disciples came to know Him not through sight alone, but in the breaking of bread. Today, He remains with us—in sacrament, in mystery, and in the heart of the Church.
The first question the Risen One asked was: “Why are you crying?” (John 20:15). God sees our tears. Christ is alive to meet us in our pain. His question echoes still: Why are you hopeless? Why is your spirit crushed?
Let us rise from our sorrow, and greet the dawn of resurrection with joy. Evil may seem to triumph on the Good Fridays of our lives, but Easter reminds us that Sunday always follows. Between suffering and glory, between cross and resurrection, there are only hours—not eternities.
To understand resurrection, love for Christ is essential. Mary and the disciples saw because they loved. And just as Jesus was raised bodily, so shall we be. “I believe in the resurrection of the body,” we affirm in our Creed. Christ’s glorified wounds are an eternal witness to our own destiny in Him.
Therefore, we must live with reverence for the body—a temple not just of flesh, but of resurrection. Sins that degrade the body—addiction, lust, impurity—threaten our inheritance. In a world that glorifies what defiles, we must cling to the truth: our bodies are not meant for decay but for glory.
The Risen Christ lives—not only in Scripture or tradition—but in every life that dares to believe, to hope, and to love.