The Dawn Of Indestructible Joy: Easter Sunday

An Exposition of John 20

There are moments in life when it feels like the darkness will never lift.

When the silence of unanswered prayers is deafening. When grief clings to your soul like heavy garments. When hope seems like a distant memory instead of a present reality.

That’s where the disciples were as Sunday morning broke over Jerusalem.

They had seen the sky go dark at midday on Friday. They had heard their Master’s final cry. They had watched the stone seal the tomb, and with it, their dreams. And now they sat behind locked doors, haunted by regret and paralyzed by fear.

But something was stirring in the shadows. A promise was about to be fulfilled. Three days earlier, Jesus had told them in John 16:

“You will weep and lament… you will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will turn into joy… and no one will take your joy from you.” (John 16:20, 22)

This was not wishful thinking. Not sentimental optimism. But a guaranteed sunrise on the other side of the darkest night.

John 20 is the fulfillment of that promise. It is the dawn of indestructible joy.

Not a fragile happiness that shatters with the next tragedy. Not a fleeting feeling that disappears with changing circumstances. But a joy rooted in an unshakable reality: the tomb is empty. Christ is risen. Death has lost.

And that changes everything.

Today, we’re going to walk through John 20, moment by moment, not just as observers of a story, but as participants in a resurrection.

Because the Risen Christ didn’t just come to Mary. Or to Peter. Or to Thomas. He comes to you.

He comes not to condemn your sorrow or silence your doubt, but to speak your name, breathe peace into your fear, and awaken you to a joy that can never be taken away.

A Stunning Reality and a Surprising Response (John 20:1–10)

The chapter begins with a quiet, broken morning. Mary Magdalene, still wrapped in the grief of Friday’s horror, walks to the tomb while it is still dark.

It is not just the sun that hasn’t risen yet, their hearts are still eclipsed by despair. She comes not expecting life, but to honor death. What she finds, however, is an interruption of every expectation:

The stone is rolled away. The tomb is open. The body of Jesus is gone.

She runs to tell Peter and John. They, too, race to the tomb—breathless, hearts pounding.

John makes sure to let us know that he reaches it first. He stoops. He peers in. Peter, ever impulsive, rushes past him into the darkness of the tomb. And there they see the linen cloths folded, the face cloth set apart.

The details are deliberate. This is not the scene of a stolen body. This is the aftermath of victory. A King has folded His garments and walked out.

John sees it and believes, though even now, it is only a flicker of faith, still not full understanding (v. 9).

But then comes the line that astonishes us:

“Then the disciples went back to their homes.” (v. 10)

After all that… they simply go home. They do not break into praise. They do not run into the streets.

They see the signs, but return to routine. Isn’t that often the temptation with the resurrection? To peer into the mystery, to be amazed for a moment, to feel the stirring of something sacred and then…to go back the way we came.

I hope the same will not be true for you today.

To return to our schedules, our screens, our striving and surviving, totally unchanged. Because the empty tomb is not a monument to admire, it is a doorway to walk through.

It does not ask for polite acknowledgment, but total surrender. It is not a story to be peered into, but a reality to be entered and inhabited.

We don’t need another peek into the tomb. We need to be seized by the resurrection. We need to be undone by the implications: that death has lost, that sin has been paid for, that Christ is alive!

You cannot encounter the empty tomb and go home the same. If Christ is risen, then everything must be re-evaluated. Every fear, every grief, every purpose in your life must now bow to this: He lives.

And joy—real joy—begins not when we glimpse the evidence, but when we encounter the Person who walked out of that tomb and calls us by name.

And that’s exactly what happens next.

Comforted and Called by Name (John 20:11–18)

If Peter and John left the tomb puzzled and pondering, Mary stays. She does not rush back. She lingers.

Grief has a way of slowing time, of making you sit in places of pain longer than you ever wanted to. But even here, especially here, Jesus draws near.

Mary weeps outside the tomb. She stoops and looks in again. Two angels are now present. Notice: even angels, radiant beings of heaven, do not stop her weeping.

Heaven’s messengers are not what her heart longs for.

“Why are you weeping?” they ask.

“They have taken away my Lord,” she replies, “and I do not know where they have laid him.”

And then she turns. A man is standing there. But in her grief, she does not recognize Him. Or maybe, like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, it’s because resurrection is not something we are prepared to see until grace opens our eyes.

She assumes he is the gardener.

What a detail.

Not a coincidence, not a throwaway misidentification.

John is whispering something deep here. It was in a garden that death first entered the world when Adam failed to obey. And now, in this new garden, the Second Adam rises not with thorns, but with life.

The Gardener of the new creation is here. He is cultivating something death could never bury: redemption. And then it happens.

“Jesus said to her, Mary.”

Not a sermon. Not a theological lecture. A name. Her name. That’s all it took.

Because the miracle of resurrection is not just about the reality of Christ’s power, it’s about reality of His presence.

The One who conquered death is not distant. He is here, and He is personal.

Mary’s sobs turn to gasps of joy. She grabs hold of Him, clings to Him, as if to never let go again.

But Jesus gently redirects her: “Do not cling to me…” Not because He is leaving her, but because He is sending her. “Go to my brothers…” Those who abandoned him and fled, He rises and restores as brothers.

The Risen Lord sends her as the first messenger of the resurrection. From tears to testimony. From grief to glory. From weeping to witnessing.

This is what happens when the Risen Christ calls your name. He doesn’t just mend what’s broken, He reorients your whole existence.

He doesn’t just lift your face, He gives you a mission. And the resurrection is not fully experienced until it sends us running, not away from the tomb, but into the world, saying:

“I have seen the Lord!”

Restored and Commissioned in Peace (John 20:19–23)

The scene now shifts. It is evening. The tomb is empty, but the disciples’ hearts are still full of fear.

They have heard Mary’s testimony. The stone has been rolled away. The linens lie folded. And yet, they are still hiding.

Locked doors.

Shuttered hearts.

Shame, regret, confusion, and dread.

They had abandoned Him.

They had denied Him.

And now, if the rumors are true, if He really is alive, what would He say to them? But the Risen Christ does not wait for their hearts to be ready. He does not knock politely and wait for permission to enter.

“Jesus came and stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’” (v. 19)

Just like that. Through locked doors. Through fear and shame. Through walls both wooden and spiritual.

Jesus comes, yes, even without a personal invite.

And the first word out of His mouth is not “Why did you run?” Not “I told you so.” Not “Where were you when I needed you?”

It is this: Peace.

Peace be with you.

Not just as a greeting but as a divine pronouncement.

This is not the shallow peace of the world that avoids conflict. This is the blood-bought peace of a Savior who bore the conflict in His body so we could be made whole.

And then He shows them His hands and His side. Not to guilt them, but to heal them. To show that their peace has a price, and that it has been paid in full.

Then, something remarkable:

“As the Father has sent me, even so I am sending you.” (v. 21)

The disciples who had locked themselves in, are now being sent out. Because resurrection is never just something you keep to yourself. It is something that redefines your purpose.

The Risen Christ gives them peace and then He gives them a mission.

And then, “He breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” (v. 22)

Do you hear the echo?

All the way back to Genesis 2, when God formed man from the dust and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life.

Now, the Resurrected Lord is breathing new life into the dust of discouraged disciples. He is making them truly human again.

This is resurrection life.

And with that breath, they are not just forgiven. They are commissioned. They are not just recipients of peace. They are ambassadors of reconciliation.

This is the church’s beginning, born not in a temple or a palace, but in a room of fearful failures, restored by the breath of God and sent with the peace (and very soon the power) of Christ.

The resurrection meets us not at our best, but in our hiding. And it doesn’t just comfort us. It calls us.

It doesn’t just bring us back to life. It sends us into the world. Because the joy of Easter morning is not complete until it is carried to the ends of the earth.

Transformed Doubters Make the Best Confessors (John 20:24–29)

Thomas wasn’t there the first time.

We’re not told where he was on that resurrection evening, only that he missed the moment when the risen Christ stepped into the locked room and spoke peace to the rest.

And when they tell him—“We have seen the Lord!”— Thomas doesn’t share their joy.

He cannot. He will not believe secondhand.

“Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark… and place my hand into his side, I will never believe.” (v. 25)

Some hear these words and call him “Doubting Thomas,” but the Bible doesn’t use that label. I’ve always believed that Thomas’ doubt wasn’t stubborn rebellion, it was wounded realism.

He had given his heart to Jesus. He had hoped. He had followed. He had loved. And all of that ended—so it seemed—on a Roman cross.

We must not be too quick to scorn Thomas, for many of us know his voice. The voice that says:

“I’ve been let down before.”

“I want to believe, but I need something real.”

“Show me the scars because I have some of my own.”

And what does Jesus do? Does He rebuke him from afar? Does He scold him for his slowness to believe? No.

He waits eight days. Eight days of silence, eight days of delay, not to shame Thomas, but to prepare him for a personal encounter.

And then, Jesus comes again. Same place. Same locked doors. But this time for Thomas.

“Peace be with you.”

“Put your finger here… see my hands… put out your hand… do not disbelieve, but believe.” (vv. 26–27)

Christ meets him exactly where he is. He does not mock his need. He meets it.

Jesus offers Thomas the very thing he asked for. Not because Jesus had to, but because grace always goes further than we deserve.

And then, from the one who doubted, comes the greatest confession in the entire Gospel of John:

“My Lord and my God!” (v. 28)

Not just teacher. Not just prophet. Lord. God. Risen King.

The deepest faith often grows in the soil of honest wrestling. The strongest confessions are often born from the most painful questions. And those who have walked through the dark night of doubt can often sing the loudest when joy comes in the morning.

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” (v. 29)

That’s us.

Jesus includes you and me in that benediction. Because even though we didn’t stand in the garden with Mary, or in the locked room with the disciples, or touch the wounds like Thomas, we believe.

And in believing, we share in the same joy, the same peace, the same resurrection life.

The Risen Christ still meets His people in their questions, still shows His wounds to the brokenhearted, and still turns doubters into worshipers.

Why the Resurrection Is So Central (John 20:30–31)

John, the beloved disciple, now draws the curtain on this breathtaking chapter. But before he closes the scene, he speaks directly to you.

“Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of the disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.” (vv. 30–31)

In other words: This is not just history. It is invitation.

John doesn’t say,

“I wrote this so you could simply admire Jesus.”

“I wrote this so you could feel better once a year on Easter.”

“I wrote this so you could debate religious ideas.”

No.

He says: I wrote this so you would believe. So you would stake your life on the Risen One. Because everything hinges on this:

Is Jesus alive or not?

If He is not, then all we’ve said is sentiment. A hopeful tale, a sweet story, a symbolic fable to soothe aching hearts, but only to be the most pitiable people of all (1 Cor. 15:19).

But if He is—if Christ is truly risen—then nothing can remain the same.

The resurrection is not the epilogue to the Gospel story, it is its explosive center. It is the loud declaration of heaven that:

• Sin is paid for.

• Death is defeated.

• The curse is broken.

• The door to eternal life has been flung wide open.

And John’s Gospel leaves no ambiguity.

The tomb is empty, the wounds are real, the encounters are personal, and the Savior is alive. But there is one more thing.

John doesn’t end the chapter with a command. He ends it with a promise.

“…and that by believing you may have life in His name.”

Life. Not mere existence. Not a better version of your current self. Not behavior modification. But resurrection life.

A life that begins now and stretches beyond death. A life that is full of joy that no grave can steal, no sorrow can silence, no doubt can erase.

This is what’s at stake in the resurrection: nothing less than life itself.

The question still stands: Will you believe?

The Risen Christ Comes to You

All throughout John 20, the Risen Christ is on the move.

He comes to the brokenhearted—Mary in her weeping.

He comes to the fearful—disciples hiding behind locked doors.

He comes to the doubter—Thomas, needing to see and touch.

And in each case, He doesn’t wait for them to get it all together. He doesn’t demand that they come find Him. He comes to them.

That is resurrection grace.

The living Jesus is not a distant figure from an ancient book. He is the pursuing Savior, the One who steps into sorrow, enters locked places, and even stands before our question hearts bearing wounds that speak of mercy, not condemnation.

And now, He comes to you. Not just to be studied… Not just to be admired on Easter Sunday… But to be received, believed, worshiped, and followed.

Because here’s the truth: The empty tomb isn’t something you visit once a year and then go home.

It’s a door into a whole new world. A world where death is not the end. Where peace is possible. Where joy is indestructible.

“You will be sorrowful,” Jesus had said, “but your sorrow will turn into joy… and no one will take your joy from you.” (John 16:20, 22)

No one.

Not the grave.

Not the devil.

Not your past.

Not your doubts.

Not your fear.

Because Christ lives, indestructible joy has dawned. And now the Risen Jesus stands before you, not with clenched fists, but with scarred hands offering you peace, calling your name, breathing His Spirit into your soul.

He is alive. He is here. And He is calling.

So don’t just peek into the tomb and go home. Come to the Savior who walked out of it. And find in Him the life, the joy, the hope that no one and nothing can ever take away.

Amen