by Annette Lyon

I stood inside a huge cathedral in Jerusalem that, by most Christians, is revered to be built upon the burial place of the Savior of the world. The wing I stood in felt like a vast, empty cavern. It was built of gray stone. The light was dim, and the room felt cool, making goose bumps stand up on my arms.

Before me was what looked like a small, elaborate building, covered gilded decorations. A small arch marked the opening, where a line of people waited for their turn to go inside and see the stone slab where so many believed the body of Jesus Christ was placed after his death. A somber priest with a tall, black hat and both a robe and black beard to match, manned the traffic going into the shrine.

When my turn came, I quietly ducked under the low arch and entered the tiny room. In front of me, an elderly woman, fingers gnarled with age, knelt beside the stone. She wept as she prayed to the hunk of limestone, above which were hung icons of the Savior of the World. She kissed her fingertips and touched them to the tomb.

And I stood there, feeling . . . nothing.

I could not fault the woman for her obviously genuine devotion, but I couldn’t feel the same thing. The light, the peace and warmth, I knew from the Spirit and from the temple weren’t here.

I left the small enclosure feeling heavy and dark, wanting to warm up in the bright summer sun waiting outside the doors.

It wasn’t until my visit a few days later to a different place dubbed, “The Garden Tomb,” that I realized why I had felt so heavy and empty before. We walked along the meandering path that led to the tomb. Sunlight filtered through tree branches, casting dancing shadows across the landscaped grounds.

When we reached the carved-out cave, we were allowed to step inside. It had similar slabs for the dead as the other, gaudy, tomb had. This time, no one knelt or kissed the stone. But I still didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of peace or confirmation that this was, in fact, the correct burial place of the Redeemer.

The tour guide pointed to a sign hanging on the door of the Garden Tomb: “He is not here: for he is risen” (Matthew 28:6)

And suddenly, I understood.

The strange sensation of heaviness had come before because the woman was praying to a place where her god was no longer.

He is not here: for he is risen.

Whether either of the tombs I visited is the “real” one doesn’t matter. The entire point of Christ’s life, death, and Resurrection is that wherever His tomb resides, it’s empty now.

This is the glorious message of Easter, of the Resurrection. This is the joy and the triumph.
He is not here: for he is risen.

There is no purpose in dwelling on the few hours Christ was separated from his mortal body. Instead, we are to glory in the knowledge that the being laid in a tomb soon after broke the bands of death and emerged from the cavern victorious.

I left Jerusalem pondering deeper on the messages of the Lord’s ministry, but I didn’t go with a mental picture of Christ lying in either of the tombs I had seen. Instead, I had a warmth in my heart greater than any cathedral, stronger than any stone, testifying that He wasn’t at any of them.

For He is risen.