The Stone

The stone was not rolled away so that Christ could leave the tomb, but so that the apostles—and we—could enter and see.

The Risen Lord was never imprisoned by rock or sealed by human effort. The One who would later appear in the midst of His disciples despite locked doors did not depend on the movement of a stone to accomplish His victory. Death itself could not hold Him; how much less a slab of earth. The Resurrection is not an escape from confinement—it is the definitive triumph over sin and death.

So the stone is not moved for Christ.

It is moved for us.

It is moved so that Peter and John can run, breathless and confused, into the tomb. It is moved so that Mary Magdalene, weeping in the early morning light, can bend down and look inside. It is moved so that the place of burial becomes a place of revelation.

God does not act out of necessity—He acts out of mercy. He opens what we cannot open. He reveals what we cannot yet see. And yet, He does so in a way that still requires our response.  Because the open tomb does not force belief—it invites it.

Inside, there is no immediate vision of the risen Christ. There is no overwhelming display of glory. There is, instead, a silence filled with signs: the linen cloths lying there, the burial cloth folded in a separate place. It is a scene that must be pondered. It requires the apostles to remember, to reflect, to begin to understand.

The empty tomb is not proof in the way the world demands proof. It is a doorway into mystery.  And that is where faith begins—not in having every answer, but in being willing to step inside.

To enter the tomb is an act of courage. It means approaching the place where hope seemed to die. It means confronting confusion, disappointment, and fear. The apostles had watched Jesus suffer and be crucified; they had seen the apparent end of everything they believed. And yet now, they are drawn back to that very place—not to relive despair, but to encounter the first signs that despair does not have the final word.  This is how God often works in our own lives.

He does not always remove the cross immediately. He does not always prevent the tomb. But He does roll away the stone. He creates an opening where we expected only closure. He invites us to return to the very places we thought were finished—our losses, our failures, our grief—and to look again, this time with the possibility of hope.

How often do we stand outside?

How often do we keep our distance from the places where God might be at work, because entering them feels too uncertain, too painful, or too demanding?

The Resurrection calls us closer.

It asks us not merely to observe from afar, but to draw near. To step into mystery. To trust that even when we do not yet see Christ clearly, He is already alive and at work.  The stone is rolled away, not so that Christ can come out, but so that we can go in—and be changed.

Because no one who truly enters the mystery of the empty tomb remains the same. The apostles who stepped inside would go on to proclaim the Gospel to the ends of the earth. Their fear would be transformed into boldness, their confusion into conviction, their sorrow into joy.

And the same invitation is extended to us.

The tomb is open. The signs are there. The victory has already been won.  But faith still requires a step forward.

Will we enter?

Will we allow God to lead us into the mystery, even when we do not fully understand it?

Will we trust that the places in our lives that seem empty or lifeless may, in fact, be the very places where resurrection is beginning?

The stone has been rolled away.

Christ is risen.

Come and see—and having entered, learn to believe, and having believed, learn to live as witnesses to the life that no stone can ever contain.

Nicky Verna, Copyright 2026

Need inspiration?  Listen to Lauren Daigle, Still Rolling Stones