The wind rattled the old porch swing again that night—an empty sway, creaking softly in the darkness. Ellie paused in the kitchen, hand still on the light switch. She lived alone now. Had for five years. But sometimes, when the house groaned in the early hours, she wondered if her husband still lingered somehow. Not in memory, but in presence. Strange things happened—photos that tilted off the wall for no reason… a warm scent of his cologne drifting by when no one had been near. “Are you trying to tell me something?” she’d whisper into the silence.
People wonder about things like that. Ghosts. Spirits. Presences we can’t explain. Scripture doesn’t shy away from the strange and unexplainable—it meets it head-on. One of the most unsettling encounters is found in 1 Samuel 28, where Saul, desperate and terrified, seeks a medium at Endor. He tells the woman, “Bring up Samuel for me.” And something indeed rises from the ground—an old man in a robe, speaking hard truths. Saul pays dearly for crossing a line God had drawn.
Then fast-forward to another strange moment centuries later—Jesus has just risen from the dead. But when He appears to His disciples, Luke 24:37 tells us, “They were startled and frightened, thinking they saw a ghost.” Ghost. Spirit. Something disembodied. Jesus calms their panic gently, “Look at my hands and my feet... Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have.” It’s a comforting correction, but also revealing—He names their fear, and then lifts it. He is not a ghost. He is gloriously alive.
So what does the Bible really say about ghosts?
Well, it says we shouldn’t chase them. Saul's story is enough warning. Hebrews 9:27 puts it even clearer: “People are destined to die once, and after that to face judgment.” No lingering. No roaming the earth. No halfway houses for the dead. At death, we meet the eternal—no ghost in the hallway, just heaven or not.
Yet that longing we feel? Like Ellie with her porch swing… that ache for the unseen, for someone we miss terribly? That's real. Maybe you’ve felt that too. Not a haunting, but a hunger—to know they're okay, to feel less alone, to make peace with what’s been left unsaid. Our hearts reach for something beyond this place, and sometimes we mistake that ache for a presence slipping through the veil.
But God never leaves us guessing about the afterlife. He shows us through Jesus—flesh and bones, scarred hands, a voice that still speaks peace to scared hearts. It’s not the spirits of the dead trying to reach us—it’s the Spirit of the Living God, whispering comfort in the middle of our midnight thoughts.
And that changes how we face the creaks and cold breezes of grief. Because when you know Jesus, you don’t need ghost stories. You have the resurrection story.
I used to feel a flicker of fear when my own house went quiet. But now I pause, and I remember—this silence isn’t empty. It’s sacred. God isn’t playing tricks in the shadows. He’s present in the stillness. Not in a scent or a flickering light, but in the quiet consolation of a Savior who never leaves, even when grief tries to convince us otherwise.
Maybe that’s the real question. Not “Are there ghosts?” but “Is there hope?” And the answer, thank God, is yes.
Because He is still the God of the living. Still speaking. Still walking through walls and locked hearts. Still saying, “Peace be with you.”
Hold on to that.
It’s not a ghost story.
It’s a grace story.
The wind rattled the old porch swing again that night—an empty sway, creaking softly in the darkness. Ellie paused in the kitchen, hand still on the light switch. She lived alone now. Had for five years. But sometimes, when the house groaned in the early hours, she wondered if her husband still lingered somehow. Not in memory, but in presence. Strange things happened—photos that tilted off the wall for no reason… a warm scent of his cologne drifting by when no one had been near. “Are you trying to tell me something?” she’d whisper into the silence.
People wonder about things like that. Ghosts. Spirits. Presences we can’t explain. Scripture doesn’t shy away from the strange and unexplainable—it meets it head-on. One of the most unsettling encounters is found in 1 Samuel 28, where Saul, desperate and terrified, seeks a medium at Endor. He tells the woman, “Bring up Samuel for me.” And something indeed rises from the ground—an old man in a robe, speaking hard truths. Saul pays dearly for crossing a line God had drawn.
Then fast-forward to another strange moment centuries later—Jesus has just risen from the dead. But when He appears to His disciples, Luke 24:37 tells us, “They were startled and frightened, thinking they saw a ghost.” Ghost. Spirit. Something disembodied. Jesus calms their panic gently, “Look at my hands and my feet... Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have.” It’s a comforting correction, but also revealing—He names their fear, and then lifts it. He is not a ghost. He is gloriously alive.
So what does the Bible really say about ghosts?
Well, it says we shouldn’t chase them. Saul's story is enough warning. Hebrews 9:27 puts it even clearer: “People are destined to die once, and after that to face judgment.” No lingering. No roaming the earth. No halfway houses for the dead. At death, we meet the eternal—no ghost in the hallway, just heaven or not.
Yet that longing we feel? Like Ellie with her porch swing… that ache for the unseen, for someone we miss terribly? That's real. Maybe you’ve felt that too. Not a haunting, but a hunger—to know they're okay, to feel less alone, to make peace with what’s been left unsaid. Our hearts reach for something beyond this place, and sometimes we mistake that ache for a presence slipping through the veil.
But God never leaves us guessing about the afterlife. He shows us through Jesus—flesh and bones, scarred hands, a voice that still speaks peace to scared hearts. It’s not the spirits of the dead trying to reach us—it’s the Spirit of the Living God, whispering comfort in the middle of our midnight thoughts.
And that changes how we face the creaks and cold breezes of grief. Because when you know Jesus, you don’t need ghost stories. You have the resurrection story.
I used to feel a flicker of fear when my own house went quiet. But now I pause, and I remember—this silence isn’t empty. It’s sacred. God isn’t playing tricks in the shadows. He’s present in the stillness. Not in a scent or a flickering light, but in the quiet consolation of a Savior who never leaves, even when grief tries to convince us otherwise.
Maybe that’s the real question. Not “Are there ghosts?” but “Is there hope?” And the answer, thank God, is yes.
Because He is still the God of the living. Still speaking. Still walking through walls and locked hearts. Still saying, “Peace be with you.”
Hold on to that.
It’s not a ghost story.
It’s a grace story.
