He is risen!

He is risen indeed. But — Would you believe me if I told you the tomb was empty? I mean really. Would you? Not in the Sunday school answer kind of way. Not because it’s Easter morning and we’ve got lilies and bright colors and eggs filled with confetti.

I mean in your bones.

In your choices.

In how you show up in the world.

So I ask again: Would you believe me if I told you the tomb was empty? Because sometimes — if I’m being honest — I live like it’s still closed. I live like the stone is still there, heavy, sealed, guarded.

Like death still wins.

Like despair gets the final word.

Like empire still holds all the cards.

And if I live like that, then my life starts to reflect that closed tomb. My prayers get smaller. My hope gets quieter. I shrink back. I protect myself. I tell myself this is just the way things are. How many of us are walking around, trying to follow Jesus, but deep down — we’re not sure the tomb is actually empty? Because let’s be real. Empty tombs don’t make sense. Dead people don’t rise. Broken systems don’t change. The powers of empire and oppression seem way too strong. People die too young. The poor stay poor. The earth keeps warming. And joy, sometimes, feels so fragile.

So I get it. I really do. But still I ask you — Would you believe me if I told you the tomb was empty? Would you believe me if I told you death didn’t win?

That the story doesn’t end in silence.

That the story doesn’t end in grief.

That the story doesn’t end in fear?

That the women who showed up early in the morning found nothing but folded grave clothes and a messenger saying, “He isn’t here. He’s risen.”

Would you believe me? Because here’s the thing: When we live like the tomb is still closed, we play small. We believe our freedom is limited. We let oppression have the final say. We stay trapped in shame. We hoard instead of share. We fight to climb ladders instead of flipping tables.

We let the systems of this world — systems of domination, racism, classism, patriarchy, fear — convince us that this is all there is.

But if the tomb really is empty?

That changes everything. Because empty tombs mean liberation. Empty tombs mean Jesus broke the system.

Jesus didn’t just die for us — he rose with us. He shattered the chains. He pulled the powerful from their thrones. He lifted up the lowly. He declared that love wins. That life wins. That we — yes, we — are free.

So, let me ask you again: Would you believe me if I told you the tomb was empty? Not just a little empty. Not kind-of empty.

But fully.

Completely.

Gloriously empty.

And that Jesus didn’t rise in private — he rose in public defiance. He rose to liberate. He rose to call us out of the grave too.

I think of the stories we tell when we don’t believe the tomb is empty.

“I’ll never be good enough.”

“No one really cares.”

“Nothing’s ever going to change.”

“I’m just trying to survive.”

I think of communities abandoned, forgotten by systems that claim to serve them. I think of incarcerated people who carry the image of God and yet are treated like less than human. I think of folks who sleep under bridges while luxury apartments stand empty. I think of those who are told their queerness or their disability or their background disqualifies them from love.

That is what it looks like to live like the tomb is still closed.

But the good news of Easter is that it’s not. The stone has been rolled away. And love walked out. Liberation theology tells us that God always shows up on the side of the oppressed.

That Jesus is found not in the palaces but in the prisons, not in the mansions but in the margins. That resurrection is not just about going to heaven when we die — it’s about bringing heaven a little closer here, right now, in the middle of our mess. It means that the work of liberation — real, gritty, on-the-ground freedom work — is resurrection work.

When we march for justice — that’s resurrection. When we build community across division — that’s resurrection.

When we believe survivors, feed the hungry, house the unhoused — that’s resurrection.

So again I ask — Would you believe me if I told you the tomb was empty? Would you believe me if I told you that you are not defined by your worst day? That your grief is not the end of the story? That God’s power is made perfect in our weakness, not our polish? That mercy is stronger than judgment? That grace is not fair, and thank God for that?

Would you believe me if I told you that nothing — not death, not violence, not shame, not addiction, not injustice — can separate you from the love of God in Christ Jesus?

It’s deeply personal. Because if I really believe the tomb is empty, I stop hiding. I stop pretending. I live freer. I love bigger. I say the hard truth. I take the risk. I show up for my neighbor. I stop waiting for the perfect moment and start trusting that resurrection is already here, already happening.

If I believe the tomb is empty, I’m no longer waiting for power from the top down — I’m joining the grassroots movement of Jesus from the bottom up. The risen Christ didn’t go back to the temple. He didn’t go to Rome. He went to Galilee. To the margins. To the lakeshore. To the dinner table. He went to his friends. His doubters. His deniers. His beloveds. And he said, “Peace. Don’t be afraid. I’ve got work for you to do.”

So, Church — what if we lived like the tomb was empty? What if we stopped settling for small hopes and started believing in big freedom? What if we trusted that God was still doing impossible things through imperfect people? What if we stopped waiting for heaven and started living like resurrection is possible right here? What if we threw open the doors and said — come in. Come all the way in. With your baggage. With your doubts. With your pain.

Because the tomb is empty, and we don’t have time for gatekeeping. Beloveds, you don’t have to be sure. You don’t have to be certain. You don’t have to feel Easter joy in every part of your heart today. Because even the disciples weren’t sure. The women were afraid.

And still — he came.

Still — he rose.

Still — the tomb was empty.

So maybe the most honest question we can sit with today isn’t “Do you believe?” but: Would you believe me if I told you the tomb was empty? And if you’d even dare to say maybe — then it’s time to live and love like it.

Amen.

The Rev. Emily Harkins is lead pastor and developer of The Dwelling, a North Carolina-based church. She is a graduate of Wartburg and the granddaughter of the late John and Beverly (Juhl) Ostlund of Webster City.