Bedford Church of the Brethren

06/14/2026

Thank you for joining us for worship!

05/14/2026

Forty days had passed since the Resurrection. For forty extraordinary, world-altering days, Jesus had walked among His followers once again, not as a memory, not as a rumor, not as wishful thinking born from grief, but alive in the fullest and most literal sense. They had heard His voice, seen His scars, watched Him eat, listened as He patiently unfolded the Scriptures, and experienced the staggering reality that the One they had watched die was now undeniably living. Over those forty days, despair had been replaced by hope, confusion by understanding, and fear by a growing awareness that God’s redemptive plan was unfolding in ways far greater than they had ever imagined. Because they were human, perhaps there was even part of them that quietly hoped this season would simply continue as it was. Maybe now, after the horror of the crucifixion and the triumph of resurrection, Jesus would simply remain physically beside them. Maybe now things would finally make sense in ways that felt stable and predictable.

But God has never been limited by human expectations, and His plans have always been infinitely bigger than our comfort zones.

That morning on the Mount of Olives, the world likely looked much as it always had. Jerusalem stretched below, alive with the rhythms of ordinary life. Roman soldiers still patrolled the streets with practiced authority, carrying themselves as though earthly empires held lasting power. Merchants still called out in busy markets, arranging figs, fish, and bread beneath the rising sun. Priests still moved through temple rituals. Families still gathered water. Birds still moved through olive branches overhead, and the scent of warm earth, dry grass, olive trees, and morning fires filled the air. Dust clung to sandaled feet and sunlight spilled golden across stone paths and ancient walls. To an outside observer, it may have appeared to be just another day.

But for those standing with Jesus, nothing about this day was ordinary.
Standing before them was the risen Christ, still bearing the scars of crucifixion, yet those wounds no longer spoke of suffering or defeat. They had become visible declarations of victory. This was the same Jesus who had healed the sick, calmed storms, confronted demons, wept over Jerusalem, bled beneath Roman brutality, and shattered the grave itself. He stood before them in both tenderness and unimaginable authority, offering final instructions, final blessings, and final preparations for what was to come.

One can only imagine how desperately they must have tried to absorb every detail. The sound of His voice. The movement of His hands. The expression in His eyes. The way the morning breeze stirred His garments. There had to be a growing awareness, perhaps not fully understood but deeply felt, that this moment carried eternal significance.

Acts 1:9 records these breathtaking words: “And when he had said these things, as they were looking on, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight.”

Jesus began to ascend. Not symbolically. Not metaphorically. Not merely spiritually. Literally.

The same feet that had walked the dusty roads of Galilee began to rise from the earth. The same hands that had broken bread, touched the afflicted, and bore nails were lifted toward Heaven. Before their very eyes, Jesus physically ascended.

There are moments in Scripture that are so profound they almost defy imagination and surely this was one of them. One moment He was standing before them, and the next, He was rising higher, steadily and majestically, not in panic, not in retreat, and certainly not in defeat, but in divine authority and glory.

The stunned disciples gazed upward… every ounce of their humanity overwhelmed. Their Rabbi, their Savior, their Messiah, the One who had conquered death, was ascending before them.

Scripture captures this so beautifully in Acts 1:10, saying, “And while they were gazing into heaven as he went…”

And then, in one of the more unexpectedly humanizing moments in the biblical narrative, two angels appear and essentially ask, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking into heaven?”
One can almost appreciate the gentle divine humor there, because the answer feels fairly obvious: “Because we just watched Jesus ascend into the sky.”
But, the angels were not merely interrupting awe. They were anchoring hope.

“This Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.” (Acts 1:11, ESV)

And there it is.
The same Jesus.
Not a replacement.
Not a distant theological abstraction.
The same Jesus who ascended will return.

Ascension, then, was not abandonment. It was coronation. Jesus was not disappearing into absence; He was ascending to His rightful throne. The crucified and risen Lamb was now visibly taking His place at the right hand of the Father.

This moment was not about loss, but reign.
Not about departure, but kingship.
Not about ending, but launching.

The disciples were witnessing Heaven receive its victorious King while also being commissioned to carry His Gospel to the world through the coming power of the Holy Spirit.

And perhaps that is why Ascension matters so deeply for us as well. Jesus did not rise merely to offer temporary comfort before fading into history. He ascended to rule, to intercede, to prepare, and to reign until the day He returns.

The throne is occupied.
The King is not absent.
He is reigning.

And one day, just as those first followers watched Him rise, the skies will open once more.

Until then, we live as people who know that history is not random, that our Savior reigns, and that the same Jesus who ascended in glory will return in glory.

And had we been there that day, I strongly suspect we too would have been standing on that mountainside, staring upward in utter awe, likely for far longer than necessary, because some moments are simply too holy, too magnificent, and too overwhelming to rush past.

Written by and shared from a woman on Facebook who goes by the name "Farmer Girl". Please take some time to look at her site for other inspirational postings. https://www.facebook.com/erica.d.429

05/13/2026

Wednesday morning unfolds slowly over Jerusalem, the golden sunlight spilling over ancient limestone walls and winding streets as the city wakes beneath its familiar rhythms. The scent of fresh barley bread drifts from clay ovens, mingling with smoke from morning fires, the musk of livestock, olive oil, dust, and humanity pressed close within crowded markets. Merchants call out prices as they arrange baskets of dates, figs, and fish, while sandaled feet scuff over worn stone roads polished by countless generations. Roman soldiers move through the streets with the steady metallic clink of armor, their stern expressions and sharpened spears a constant reminder that earthly empires still believe themselves powerful. Children dart between alleyways, women carry water jars, and life appears to continue as it always has, predictable and ordinary beneath the spring sky.

But for you, nothing feels ordinary anymore, because thirty nine days ago, history itself was torn open.

Thirty nine days ago, you watched the sky darken in unnatural grief as the One you believed was the Messiah hung battered and bloodied upon Roman wood. You remember the metallic scent of blood in the air, the sound of weeping, the sickening crack of cruelty, and the crushing despair that settled over every shattered hope. You remember the suffocating silence of Saturday, when grief sat heavy and immovable, and it seemed as though hell itself had won. And then came Sunday, when everything changed so completely that even now your mind still struggles to fully comprehend it.

The tomb is empty.
Not disturbed. Not misidentified. Empty because Jesus Christ rose from the dead.

And now here you are, on this Wednesday of Ascension week, living in the breathtaking and holy tension between resurrection and what is still to come.

As you move beyond the busier parts of the city, leaving behind the marketplace noise for the quieter paths that lead toward olive groves and gathering places, the air shifts. The breeze brushes against your skin, carrying the earthy fragrance of sun-warmed soil, wild grasses, and olive leaves rustling softly overhead. Dust clings to your sandals with each step. Birds call from trees, and somewhere in the distance, Jerusalem continues its restless hum, but your heart pounds with anticipation for an entirely different reason.

Because He is here.

Jesus is alive, and for nearly forty days now, He has been appearing, teaching, revealing, and preparing.

You see Him standing beneath the open sky, and even now, the sight is enough to catch in your throat. The scars remain visible in His hands, His feet, His side, but they are no longer marks of defeat. They are eternal declarations of victory. He bears the evidence of crucifixion, but now every wound radiates triumph. Death touched Him and lost.

You settle among the others, perhaps on rough stones or dry grass warmed by the strengthening sun. Around you sit the disciples and other men and women whose lives have also been split into before and after. Peter, once broken by denial, now watches with fierce devotion. John listens with the quiet intensity of one who understands love in deeper ways than he ever imagined. Thomas, no longer defined by doubt, sits with the grounded certainty of a man who has physically touched resurrection. Mary and the others carry their own sacred mixture of awe, joy, and reverence.

The breeze stirs gently as Jesus speaks, His voice carrying with unmistakable authority, yet also the tenderness of a Shepherd preparing His flock.

He teaches about the Kingdom of God.

Not merely political liberation. Not overthrowing Rome by military force. Not temporary restoration.

Kingdom.

His words seem to pull the veil back further with every sentence, causing Scriptures once heard in fragments to suddenly blaze with clarity. Moses was speaking of this. David was pointing here. Isaiah saw this coming. The Passover lamb, the covenant promises, the suffering servant, the sacrifices, all of it was never random ritual or disconnected history. It was always one breathtaking thread leading to Him.

And as understanding deepens, perhaps tears burn unexpectedly in your eyes, because how many times had humanity stared directly at God’s redemptive plan while missing its fullness entirely? How often had people, yourself included, wandered like sheep without a shepherd, fumbling through prophecy, ritual, and longing, while the fulfillment of every promise stood right before them? Yet here, in His presence, the veil is finally lifting, and what once seemed scattered is being drawn together into breathtaking clarity.

The resurrection was not simply a miraculous ending.
It was the beginning of Christ’s enthronement.

And by this Wednesday, something deeper is settling into your spirit. Joy still burns brightly, but there is also a growing awareness that these days are profoundly precious because they are transitional. Jesus is physically present, but His words increasingly feel like preparation. Every teaching carries both revelation and commissioning. There is an unmistakable sense that something monumental is approaching.

Perhaps you do not yet fully understand Ascension. Perhaps you cannot yet imagine Pentecost. But you feel the tide shifting.

The risen Christ is preparing His followers not for abandonment, but for expansion. Soon, His physical presence will ascend, but His Kingdom will erupt outward through the power of the Holy Spirit. Soon, these frightened, uncertain followers will become bold proclaimers of truth who carry the Gospel into nations they cannot yet fathom.

But for now, on this Wednesday, you simply sit in the dust and sunlight, breathing in the sacredness of the moment.

You memorize His voice. The cadence of each word. The look in His eyes. The way sunlight catches scarred hands that once bled for you. The scent of earth and olive trees. The sound of wind through branches.

Because some part of you knows these moments are irreplaceable.

As the day stretches on and evening begins to paint Jerusalem in amber and gold, the city below continues as though unaware. Fires are lit. Bread is broken. Families gather. Rome still patrols. The Temple still stands. To many, it is just another day.

But not to you.

Because you are living in the sacred space between resurrection and ascension. Between the empty tomb and heavenly coronation. Between fulfilled prophecy and Spirit-empowered mission.

And as you stand beneath the evening sky, dust still clinging to your feet, the scent of smoke and earth rising around you, one overwhelming truth settles into your soul:

The world may appear unchanged.

But the King is alive.

The throne is near.

And history will never be ordinary again.

Written by and shared from a woman on Facebook who goes by the name "Farmer Girl". Please take some time to look at her site for other inspirational postings. https://www.facebook.com/erica.d.429

05/01/2026

04/12/2026

I was the Apostle Thomas
Thomas’s character is outlined in the Gospel According to John. When Jesus planned to return to Judaea despite rising animosity against him there (John 11:5–16), Thomas voiced his support, stating, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” At the Last Supper (John 14:1–7), Thomas could not comprehend what Jesus meant when he said, “I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.” Thomas’s question “How can we know the way?” caused Jesus to answer, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”
Perhaps the best-known event in Thomas’s life is the one from which the phrase “doubting Thomas” developed. In John 20:19–29 he was not among those disciples to whom the risen Christ first appeared, and, when they told the incredulous Thomas whom they had seen, he requested physical proof of the Resurrection. This evidence was provided when Christ reappeared and specifically asked Thomas to touch his wounds. Thomas’s sudden realization of the truth (“My Lord and my God!”) made him the first person to explicitly acknowledge Jesus’ divinity.

According to legend, Thomas was a skilled architect and Apostle, whom was called upon by the Lord to travel to India. The king of India, was seeking an architect to build him a Roman styled palace. Although Thomas was hesitant to go, the Lord promised to guide him safely and insisted it was Saint Thomas who would become a missionary for the "heathens" Along with the promise of safety, God promised for Thomas to join him in heaven through martyrdom.
Thomas soon went to Parthia and India and was entrusted with funds to build the king a palace while he was away on a journey. Instead, Thomas distributed the money among the people and begun his mission. The king's brother, wanting a palace as well, summoned Thomas to work for him. When Thomas refused, instead offering the kingdom of God, the king's brother sent for him to be found and tortured. Thomas challenged the king's brother, announcing he would worship a pagan god, only if God did not destroy the idol in the same moment. If God were to destroy it, the men sent to kill Thomas would have to convert to Christianity. When Thomas began to bend down to worship the idol, it melted like wax. Instead of converting, the attacked Thomas in the name of their idol, killing him with a spear.
Thomas is credited with establishing Christian communities, particularly in southern India, which are known as the "Saint Thomas Christians."

Written by and shared from a woman on Facebook who goes by the name "Farmer Girl". Please take some time to look at her site for other inspirational postings. https://www.facebook.com/erica.d.429

04/12/2026

My name is Doubt, and I was here long before the cross.
Not loud, not obvious, not the kind of presence that makes people stop and turn around. I do not need that. I sit in the quiet spaces, in the questions people are already halfway asking but have not quite formed into words yet. I live in that moment where something does not fully make sense and instead of leaning in, people hesitate. That is where I settle in and make myself comfortable. I had plenty to work with.
Jesus had said, clearly, directly, and more than once, that He would be back in three days. Not hidden in a parable. Not buried in symbolism. He said it. Again, and again. The kind of thing that, if we are being honest, probably should have made someone pause and think, maybe we should keep an eye on that tomb situation and check on it in a few days.
You would think at least one person would have written it down. But that is where I come in. I do not need to erase truth. I just need to soften it, blur it, make it feel a little less certain. So, after the cross, when everything felt heavy and broken and final, I settled right into their grief and started asking the same questions I have always asked. Did He really say that? Maybe you misunderstood what He meant. Maybe it was never supposed to happen the way you thought.
And the thing is, grief makes my job easy. When your world has just shattered, even the clearest promises can feel distant. Even truth that was spoken plainly can start to sound like wishful thinking. So, what had been said out loud, clearly, confidently, slowly slipped into the background.
Three days turned into something that sounded nice, but not something anyone was actually expecting. And I was comfortable there, because this is how it always goes. Hope fades. Certainty cracks. The story settles into what feels real and permanent. The tomb stays closed, and people learn to live with disappointment. Except this time, the story refused to behave.
Morning came and it did not arrive with a clear explanation. It came with confusion. An empty tomb. A missing body. Words that did not quite fit into what anyone understood yet. It was messy, uncertain, and full of questions, which is exactly where I thrive. So, I leaned in closer. This does not make sense. People do not rise. Dead is dead. Stay here, in what you know. Stay here, where things are predictable and explainable and safe.
Even when they ran to the tomb. Even when they saw it for themselves. Even when something inside them started to shift, I stayed right there beside them, reminding them that seeing is not always believing and believing is not always easy.
I found Thomas, and I settled in right next to him. Honest, straightforward, not interested in pretending something is true just because everyone else is getting swept up in it. He wanted proof. He wanted something real, something he could see and touch and know without a doubt. That is where I like to live. And for a moment, it looked like I still had a place there.
Until Jesus walked in. Alive. Not a memory. Not a story people told to make themselves feel better. Not something symbolic or softened into something safer. Alive. And suddenly every question I had been asking had to stand in the same room as an answer.
It turns out you can hear truth repeated over and over again and still struggle to believe it when everything around you says otherwise. It turns out people can be told exactly what is going to happen and still find themselves surprised when it does.
It turns out I do not get the final word. I did not disappear that day. I never do. I still show up in quiet moments, in hard seasons, in places where things do not make sense. I still ask the same questions I have always asked. Did God really say that? Is He really good? Can you really trust Him?
But I learned something that morning that I cannot undo. I am not the end of the story.
No matter how reasonable I sound, no matter how convincing I feel, no matter how many times I whisper that this does not add up, there is still a Savior who said exactly what He meant, meant exactly what He said, and then proved it by walking out of a grave three days later!
If I am being honest, the part that unsettles me the most is not that He rose. It is that He knew I would be there, whispering, questioning, circling, and He came back anyway.
I am doubt. And I am still talking. The only difference now is this: you know I am lying.

Written by and shared from a woman on Facebook who goes by the name "Farmer Girl". Please take some time to look at her site for other inspirational postings. https://www.facebook.com/erica.d.429

04/12/2026

Doubtful Thomas
Imagine you had left your job, your home, your plans, and followed a man you believed was sent by God. You watched Him heal people who were supposed to stay sick. You saw Him feed crowds with food that should not have been enough. You heard Him speak with authority that made even the religious leaders nervous. You started to believe that maybe, just maybe, He was the One who was going to fix everything.
And then you watched Him die. Not peacefully. Not quietly. You watched nails driven into His hands. You saw Him struggle to breathe. You heard the crowd shouting. You stood there while the sky went dark in the middle of the day, and when it was all over, there was no question about it. The man you had followed, the one you had put your hope in, was dead.
Now imagine, a few days later, you come back into the room where the others are hiding. They all look at you with wide eyes and say, “We have seen the Lord.” Not, “We think maybe something strange happened.” And not “The tomb was empty.” No. “We have seen Him.” Alive.
You would probably not just nod and say, “Oh, great. Good to know.” You would probably have a few questions. Maybe even a few strong opinions. Because you already grieved. You already let your heart accept that He was gone. And now they were telling you to reopen that wound and just believe the most unbelievable thing you had ever heard
That is where I was. I was not in the room the first time He appeared. That is the part people always forget. They like to skip straight to my response, because it makes for a better nickname. “Doubting Thomas” is a lot catchier than “Thomas Who Was Not Even There at the Time.” But the truth is, I missed it. I do not know if I was out getting food, or walking the streets trying to make sense of everything, or just sitting somewhere in a fog of grief, but I was not there when He came the first time. So, when the others told me they had seen Him, I said the only honest thing I could say. “Unless I see in His hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into His side, I will never believe.”
People read that now like I was being dramatic. But imagine being told your best friend, your teacher, the man you watched die a brutal death, is suddenly alive again. You would probably want a little more evidence than, “Trust me”, and if that makes me “Doubtful”, well then, so be it!
For eight more days we stayed together. Eight long days of the others talking about how they had seen Him, how He spoke to them, how real it was. Eight days of me wondering if grief had finally gotten to them. Eight days of trying not to hope, because hope had already been nailed to a cross once.
Then, one evening, we were all in the room again. The doors were locked, because we were still afraid. And suddenly, He was just…there. No footsteps. No knock. No warning. One moment the room was quiet and tense, and the next moment Jesus was standing right in the middle of it.
“Peace be with you.” And then He looked straight at me. Not at Peter. Not at John. At me, the one who had said I would not believe. “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe.”
He repeated my own words back to me. The ones I had spoken when He was not even in the room. And in that moment, I realized something. He had heard me anyway. He knew exactly what I had said, exactly what I was struggling with, exactly what I needed.
I did not end up touching the wounds. I did not have to. The moment I saw Him, alive and standing there, the breath left my lungs and the only words I could manage were, “My Lord and my God.” Not just teacher. Not just miracle worker. My Lord. My God.
People like to remember me as the doubter. That is the label that stuck. But they forget the rest. They forget that when Jesus said He was going back to Judea, where people wanted Him dead, I was the one who said, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” I was not afraid to follow Him into danger. I just needed to know He was really there.
What amazes me now is not that I doubted. It is that He came back for me anyway. He did not scold me. He did not lecture me about my lack of faith. He did not say, “You should have believed the others.” He just walked into the locked room, looked me in the eyes, and showed me His hands.

So if you ever feel bad because you have questions, or because your faith is not as neat and tidy as everyone else’s seems to be, remember this. The risen Jesus did not avoid the doubter. He walked straight into the locked room, stood right in front of him, and said, “Here. Look for yourself.”
And that was the moment everything changed…no doubt!

Written by and shared from a woman on Facebook who goes by the name "Farmer Girl". Please take some time to look at her site for other inspirational postings. https://www.facebook.com/erica.d.429

04/11/2026

I am Satan the Accuser and for ages I have built my kingdom on the certainty that guilt always wins.
I have watched humanity from the beginning. I have studied their weaknesses and refined my strategies across generations. I know how to exploit pride, how to nurture envy, and how to turn fear into violence. I have undone kings with whispers and dismantled families with suggestions.
I watched Him in the wilderness when hunger pressed against His ribs and I offered Him kingdoms without a cross. I presented shortcuts dressed as power and glory. I have ended many destinies through impatience alone. He refused every offer without hesitation.
When Judas leaned into disappointment and the religious leaders leaned into jealousy, I saw momentum forming. I know how to take a small crack in a heart and widen it into betrayal. I know how to take righteous concern and twist it into murderous certainty. By the time they arrested Jesus Christ, it looked as if events were unfolding exactly as I intended.
His followers scattered in fear. One denied Him publicly. Another sold Him privately. The governor chose political stability over truth. The priests demanded blood with religious language. I have orchestrated enough collapses to recognize a system falling apart.
When they raised Him on the cross, it appeared to be victory. Public humiliation dismantles movements. Pain silences voices. Death ends revolutions. I have relied on that pattern for centuries. Remove the leader and the followers will drift. Destroy the hope and despair settles in permanently.
He hung there exposed and bleeding, and I believed the ancient promise spoken in Eden had finally been neutralized. For generations I had heard whispers of a coming offspring who would crush my head. I have been intercepting prophecies and disrupting expectations ever since. Standing at Golgotha, it seemed as though the threat had been eliminated.
But there was something I did not anticipate. He did not curse His ex*****oners. He did not call down legions of angels. He did not step down to prove His authority. Instead, He spoke forgiveness. “Father, forgive them.” Forgiveness weakens accusation, and accusation has always been my most reliable weapon. Shame is my territory. Guilt is my leverage.
When darkness covered the land at midday, I sensed the shift before the crowd did. Creation was responding, and creation does not respond to ordinary ex*****ons. The air grew heavy. The earth trembled. The temple veil tore from top to bottom. Separation has always been my strategy. When that veil split, I understood that something irreversible had occurred.
I had mistaken suffering for weakness. I had mistaken silence for defeat. The cross was not collapse. It was payment. For centuries I have held humanity captive through accusation. They fail and I remind them. They sin and I amplify the consequences. Justice without mercy serves my purposes perfectly. They deserve separation and I am eager to enforce it.
But what happens when the debt is satisfied completely? What happens when the Lamb offers Himself willingly?
The cross was meant to be an ex*****on, instead, the cross was the place where Christ redeemed men from my power. It became an altar. Blood was not spilled accidentally. It was offered deliberately. I watched Him die believing death was my domain. I did not realize death itself was being dismantled from within. I held men captive because of sin; but on the cross Jesus paid for your sins. He ended all of my rights over you.
When they sealed the tomb with a stone, it appeared final. Darkness has always been familiar ground for me. Graves usually remain closed. Silence usually signals my success.
Then the stone moved. It was not chaos. It was authority. When He walked out of that tomb, He did not evade death. He conquered it. The accusation I had wielded since Eden began to lose its power. A paid debt cannot be demanded again.
I believed the cross was my triumph. It was the instrument of my defeat.
From my perspective, what looked like the end was the beginning of the unraveling of everything I had built.

Written by and shared from a woman on Facebook who goes by the name "Farmer Girl". Please take some time to look at her site for other inspirational postings. https://www.facebook.com/erica.d.429

04/08/2026

The Disciples in Hiding
Imagine you have just lived through the worst weekend of your life.

The man you believed was the Messiah, the one you had followed for years, the one you had watched heal the blind, feed thousands, and talk about the kingdom of God like He had just come from there, had just been executed like a criminal. You saw the nails. You heard the crowd. You watched Him struggle to breathe. And when it was over, they laid His body in a tomb and rolled a stone in front of it like they were sealing a door that was never meant to open again.
And then it was the third day.
You were sitting in a locked room with the others. The doors were shut tight because, quite frankly, you did not want to be next. It is one thing to follow a Messiah when He is healing people and feeding crowds. It is another thing entirely when the authorities just nailed Him to a cross in front of everyone. Suddenly the idea of being associated with Him felt less like a spiritual calling and more like a fast track to your own ex*****on.
No one was really talking. Even the fishermen, who normally could talk about nets and weather and fish sizes for hours, were quiet. Every sound outside made your shoulders tense. Every set of footsteps in the street made you wonder if soldiers were coming for you.
Then suddenly, the door burst open. Mary stood there, breathless, eyes wide, words tumbling over each other.
“I have seen the Lord.” Not, “The tomb was open.” Not, “Something strange happened.” No. “I have seen Him.” Alive. Now, if you were me, you would probably just stare at her for a moment, because that is a lot to process before breakfast. Just a few days ago we were trying to figure out where to eat the Passover meal, and now we were hiding in a locked room while someone told us our executed teacher was apparently up and walking around again.
Part of me wanted to believe her. Another part of me was thinking grief had finally gotten to all of us. It had been a rough few days. Lack of sleep. Emotional trauma. No proper meals. It would not have been shocking if we all started seeing things. But before we could even argue about it, before Peter could launch into one of his speeches or someone else could suggest a group prayer or maybe a nap, something happened.
He was there. No sound of a door opening. No footsteps. No dramatic entrance. One moment we were in a locked room, and the next moment Jesus was standing right in the middle of us like He had always been there and we were the ones who had just appeared.
If I am being honest, my first reaction was not deep spiritual reflection. My first reaction was that my heart was about to stop working entirely. Because dead men are not supposed to just appear in locked rooms. That is not normal. That is not even slightly normal. That is the kind of thing that makes you question your sanity, your eyesight, and possibly the last thing you ate. But then He spoke. “Peace be with you.” (John 20:19)
And suddenly, it was His voice. The same voice that had called us from our ordinary lives. The same voice that had calmed storms and silenced demons. The same voice that had told us to follow Him, and somehow convinced fishermen, tax collectors, zealots, and quiet men like me to leave everything behind.
He showed us His hands. He showed us His side. The wounds were still there. The cross had been real. The suffering had been real. But so was He. Alive. Standing right in front of us.
The fear in the room started to melt into something else. Something lighter. Something warmer. Something that felt a lot like joy, but bigger. Like joy mixed with relief and awe and the strange sensation that maybe, just maybe, we had all underestimated Him in a very big way.
Then He said it again. “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, even so I am sending you.” (John 20:21)
Sending us. Not replacing us. Not saying, “Well, that was a disaster, you all ran away at the worst possible moment, so I have decided to start over with a more reliable group.” He was still sending us. The same men who had scattered. The same men who were now hiding in a locked room like a bunch of frightened chickens. Even the quiet ones.
Then He breathed on us and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” (John 20:22) It was not dramatic. No thunder. No fire from heaven. No crowds cheering. Just the risen Jesus in a locked room with a handful of very confused disciples, breathing new life into us.
A few days earlier, we had watched Him breathe His last. Now He was breathing life into us. And if that does not rearrange your understanding of reality a little bit, I do not know what will. In that moment, something shifted. The fear did not disappear all at once, but it loosened its grip. Because if death could not hold Him, what exactly were we so afraid of anymore? The worst thing the world could do had already been done to Him, and He just walked back into the room like it was a minor inconvenience.
We were still the same men. Same personalities. Same weaknesses. Same tendency to misunderstand things and ask the wrong questions at the wrong time. Some of us loud. Some of us quiet. Some of us remembered in every sermon. Some of us barely mentioned at all.
But every single one of us had now seen Him alive.
And once you have seen a dead man walk into a locked room and calmly say, “Peace be with you,” it becomes very hard to go back to living like death gets the final say. Because at that point, death does not look nearly as intimidating as it used to. It starts to look more like an obstacle He already stepped over on His way back to us

Written by and shared from a woman on Facebook who goes by the name "Farmer Girl". Please take some time to look at her site for other inspirational postings. https://www.facebook.com/erica.d.429