The day after my grandmother passed, I stood in her room, surrounded by silence. Her chair was empty. The Bible on her side table was open to 1 Corinthians 15—it had been her favorite chapter. I remember brushing my fingers over the page, eyes landing on verse 44: “It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.” I didn’t fully understand what Paul meant, but I hoped it was true. My grandmother’s body had failed her, but something in me yearned to believe that wasn’t the end of her story.
Maybe you’ve felt that, too—that ache for more. We talk about resurrection so often in church that the word can blur into something abstract or soft, but to the early Christians, it wasn’t vague. It was a bold promise. And not just spiritual—physical. That’s what startled them. That’s what split history.
Paul, in his letter to the Corinthians, was adamant: “So will it be with the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable” (1 Corinthians 15:42). He wasn’t speaking metaphorically. He was anchoring their hope—and ours—in a transformed, yet tangible future. This wasn’t about becoming ghosts in the sky. It was about God redeeming the creation He once called “very good,” including our bodies.
Jesus didn’t rise as a spirit or a memory. He walked out of the grave with scars you could touch and a voice you could recognize. He ate fish by the sea. He wasn’t less—He was more. That’s the kind of resurrection God promises to those who are in Christ.
Daniel foresaw it centuries earlier: “Multitudes who sleep in the dust of the earth will awake: some to everlasting life, others to shame and everlasting contempt” (Daniel 12:2). And Jesus Himself echoed this in John 5:28–29, saying the hour was coming when “all who are in their graves will hear His voice and come out.”
All. Not just a few. Not just spiritually. All.
And yet, even knowing that, we grieve when we stand by a coffin or scatter ashes on a hillside. The resurrection doesn’t erase death’s sting today—but it reminds us that death doesn’t get the final word. The buried body is a seed, and one day, God will call it to rise, just as He did with Lazarus. Just as He did with His Son.
Sometimes, late at night, I think about the newness He promises us. Not just a healed ankle or unclouded eyes, but a soul and body fully restored, fully known and forever alive. No cancer. No pain. No fear of goodbyes.
There's a line I wrote in the margin of my Bible years ago that I still return to: “God doesn’t discard what He loves—He resurrects it.” That’s what the doctrine of bodily resurrection really means. That our future isn’t floating in the clouds but walking in a redeemed creation. Laughing without pain. Singing without being silenced by disease or breathlessness. Embracing without the shadow of parting.
Sometimes we wonder how God will manage to put us back together again. Especially those whose bodies were ravaged by illness… those lost too young… those burned, broken, scattered by time or trauma. But if He crafted Adam from dust, if He raised Jesus from a sealed tomb, He is more than able to restore what was lost.
That’s the heart of this hope—it’s not about escaping Earth, but about Earth being renewed. The same body that dies will be raised anew. Not identical, but glorified. Like a seed that becomes a tree. The same essence, but transformed.
We don’t need to fear the grave. It’s not our end—it’s the garden from which eternal life will spring. The resurrection of the dead means that your future has weight, shape, and color. Not just spirit—but body. Not just memory—but presence.
The room where my grandmother used to sit feels quieter now, but it’s not empty of hope. One day, her laugh will ring through eternity again. One day, I’ll see her eyes—clear and joyful—and she’ll walk without pain. On a redeemed Earth. In a body that no longer fades.
That's the promise.
And He who promised is faithful.
The day after my grandmother passed, I stood in her room, surrounded by silence. Her chair was empty. The Bible on her side table was open to 1 Corinthians 15—it had been her favorite chapter. I remember brushing my fingers over the page, eyes landing on verse 44: “It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.” I didn’t fully understand what Paul meant, but I hoped it was true. My grandmother’s body had failed her, but something in me yearned to believe that wasn’t the end of her story.
Maybe you’ve felt that, too—that ache for more. We talk about resurrection so often in church that the word can blur into something abstract or soft, but to the early Christians, it wasn’t vague. It was a bold promise. And not just spiritual—physical. That’s what startled them. That’s what split history.
Paul, in his letter to the Corinthians, was adamant: “So will it be with the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable” (1 Corinthians 15:42). He wasn’t speaking metaphorically. He was anchoring their hope—and ours—in a transformed, yet tangible future. This wasn’t about becoming ghosts in the sky. It was about God redeeming the creation He once called “very good,” including our bodies.
Jesus didn’t rise as a spirit or a memory. He walked out of the grave with scars you could touch and a voice you could recognize. He ate fish by the sea. He wasn’t less—He was more. That’s the kind of resurrection God promises to those who are in Christ.
Daniel foresaw it centuries earlier: “Multitudes who sleep in the dust of the earth will awake: some to everlasting life, others to shame and everlasting contempt” (Daniel 12:2). And Jesus Himself echoed this in John 5:28–29, saying the hour was coming when “all who are in their graves will hear His voice and come out.”
All. Not just a few. Not just spiritually. All.
And yet, even knowing that, we grieve when we stand by a coffin or scatter ashes on a hillside. The resurrection doesn’t erase death’s sting today—but it reminds us that death doesn’t get the final word. The buried body is a seed, and one day, God will call it to rise, just as He did with Lazarus. Just as He did with His Son.
Sometimes, late at night, I think about the newness He promises us. Not just a healed ankle or unclouded eyes, but a soul and body fully restored, fully known and forever alive. No cancer. No pain. No fear of goodbyes.
There's a line I wrote in the margin of my Bible years ago that I still return to: “God doesn’t discard what He loves—He resurrects it.” That’s what the doctrine of bodily resurrection really means. That our future isn’t floating in the clouds but walking in a redeemed creation. Laughing without pain. Singing without being silenced by disease or breathlessness. Embracing without the shadow of parting.
Sometimes we wonder how God will manage to put us back together again. Especially those whose bodies were ravaged by illness… those lost too young… those burned, broken, scattered by time or trauma. But if He crafted Adam from dust, if He raised Jesus from a sealed tomb, He is more than able to restore what was lost.
That’s the heart of this hope—it’s not about escaping Earth, but about Earth being renewed. The same body that dies will be raised anew. Not identical, but glorified. Like a seed that becomes a tree. The same essence, but transformed.
We don’t need to fear the grave. It’s not our end—it’s the garden from which eternal life will spring. The resurrection of the dead means that your future has weight, shape, and color. Not just spirit—but body. Not just memory—but presence.
The room where my grandmother used to sit feels quieter now, but it’s not empty of hope. One day, her laugh will ring through eternity again. One day, I’ll see her eyes—clear and joyful—and she’ll walk without pain. On a redeemed Earth. In a body that no longer fades.
That's the promise.
And He who promised is faithful.
