It Must Be True: Preparing Our Hearts for the Resurrection
Today’s Gospel (Luke 4:16–21) gives us a glimpse of Jesus standing in the synagogue, declaring that Isaiah’s prophecy has been fulfilled in their hearing. It’s a moment of triumph. A proclamation of liberation, healing, and victory—before Gethsemane, before the cross, before the tomb.
Most people can sympathize with Jesus at this point. He speaks with authority, courage, and hope. And who doesn’t love a hopeful message? But the Gospel doesn’t stop there—it takes us deeper. It takes us into suffering, death, and finally, into life everlasting.
As Easter Sunday approaches, I find myself reflecting not just on the Resurrection, but on the reason for it. Why did our King choose this path? Why suffer so selflessly, so sacrificially, to redeem the world?
The answer begins with God’s nature. His nature is fatherly. Protective. Nurturing. Sacrificial. Loving. The kind of love that says, I will suffer in your place. I will absorb the worst this world has to offer so you can be free. This is not the cold, distant god of the philosophers. This is the God who bleeds for us.
When I was younger, I didn’t understand my own suffering. Like many, I feared death. I didn’t want to look at it too closely. But Jesus—who was Himself a young man—faced His mission with wisdom far beyond His years. He didn’t avoid suffering. He embraced it.
And now, I can say that I’m thankful for my own suffering. It has become a way for me to participate, however faintly, in the eternal struggle to overcome death. It has revealed to me that I am more than this body. That life is more than comfort. That there is a loving God on whom I can rely—even in weakness, even in pain.
What kind of King offers Himself as a ransom for those who rebelled against Him? What kind of love is that?
One that doesn't make sense by human standards. And yet, one that explains everything.
Even now, our world is desperate for hope—real hope, not the kind that fades under pressure. And if Christ is not risen, then there is no hope. But if He is risen—then we have everything. The Resurrection is not just a doctrine. It’s a new creation. A tearing open of death’s prison. A second Genesis.
And there’s one more thing that strikes me this year: the Shroud of Turin. While not a required article of faith, it’s a fascinating artifact. A linen cloth with the image of a man who was crucified, scourged, crowned with thorns. The image is subtle—nearly invisible until it was discovered through photographic negatives in the 19th century. And it bears properties still unexplained by modern science. Bloodstains consistent with a Roman crucifixion. Anatomical accuracy. A mysterious image formed by what some believe to be a burst of radiant energy. No paint. No brushstrokes. Just... presence.
Reasonable doubt still exists. But so does a reasonable wonder: What if? What if that cloth wrapped the body of the risen Lord? What if even our doubts are part of the journey toward belief?
This Easter, I believe because I must believe. Because the alternative leaves the world dark and cold. Because the Resurrection fits with what I know deep down to be true—that death does not get the final word.
So prepare with me this week—not just with tradition, but with trust. Prepare with faith, even if it’s worn and weathered. With hope, even if it trembles. And with love, which never fails.
He is risen. And so shall we be.
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