Last Sunday’s message centered on the resurrection of Jesus—truly the core of our faith. One passage that deeply moved me was John 20, where Mary Magdalene discovers the empty tomb. She’s devastated. The Scripture says that she stood outside the tomb and wept, overwhelmed and trying to make sense of what had happened (John 20:11).
That scene struck a chord with me. It brought back memories from my own childhood—Sundays spent at the Jewish cemetery in my hometown. My mother had a deep, almost ritualistic connection to those visits. Every other Sunday, we would wake up early, dress nicely, and walk to the bus stop. It took us an hour to get to the cemetery—a Jewish cemetery, because in 1970s Argentina, Jewish families weren’t buried in municipal cemeteries.
I still remember that long, solemn hour. And then, once we arrived, we followed a familiar pattern: pick up fresh flowers, a watering can and then begin our rounds. First, my great-grandfather Gregorio, then my grandfather Enrique, followed by my beloved aunt Esther, and finally, my maternal grandmother Catalina. I can still see my mother’s tears as we stood by the graves of her sister and mother. If there was a burial happening while we were there, everything would pause. It was a space filled with sorrow, reverence, and expectation—expectation of what grief would look like that day.
Mary Magdalene carried her own expectations to the tomb that morning. She came prepared to anoint her teacher’s dead body with oils and spices, as was Jewish custom. She was prepared for grief, for mourning, for the permanence of death. But what she found defied all expectations: the body was gone.
In most situations, absence signals loss. No money. No answers. No hope.
But here, the absence meant something entirely different. The missing body wasn’t a sign of despair—it was a sign of hope. The tomb was empty because Jesus had risen. And soon, Mary would see Him with her own eyes.
That moment, that hope, sparked a revolution. It turned a frightened group of disciples into bold messengers of the Gospel, carrying the good news across the earth. It transformed my life forty five years ago. And it continues to transform the lives of all who follow Jesus.
That’s what we remembered and celebrated last weekend. We rejoiced in the absence of the body—not as a symbol of loss, but as proof of life, of hope fulfilled. And even today, having seen that tomb myself, I can tell you—it is still empty.
Let’s carry that truth with us: the absence of something doesn’t always mean something is missing. In this case, it meant something incredible had happened.
Add Your Comment