Ever wonder what Monday was like, the day after the resurrection?
Maybe Jesus called a group meeting to debrief the weekend. “I’ve got to tell you guys, overall, I’m not impressed. Ladies, I appreciate the sentiment with the burial spices. Peter, I need to see you in my office this afternoon to discuss a few things.”
That might be a stretch, but here’s what we do know: There were no sunrise services, no egg hunts, no matching pastel-colored dresses.
What was there? Confusion. Fear. A city still humming with political tension. And a group of followers trying to wrap their heads around what just happened and what it meant for them now. Some didn’t believe. Some were still hiding. Everyone was thinking, Okay… so what do we do now?
That question is everything.
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We understand “Mondays”. As a pastor, Easter is kind of a big deal in my world. Crowds. Music. Tears. Joy. The stone rolled away, the earth shook, death lost. Hope won.
And now it’s Monday. The confetti has settled. The flowers are starting to wilt. For most of us, real life is calling again. Emails. Laundry. Kids. Deadlines. Decisions.
It’s almost jarring how quickly sacred can give way to ordinary.
But here’s the thing we can’t miss, the truth that (aside from the fact that the tomb is empty) is the most important Easter reality:
Jesus didn’t rise from the dead just to be celebrated once a year. He rose to walk with you into Monday.
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On the first Monday after Jesus rose from the dead, most people didn’t even know it had happened. The women had told the story, but the world hadn’t caught up yet. Jesus had appeared, but He hadn’t yet exploded onto the scene. Monday after the resurrection wasn’t flashy.
It was quiet.
It was in-between.
It was full of tension and hope—and that’s exactly where we live, too.
We live in the space between “It is finished” and “I am making all things new.” Between ups and downs, joys and heartbreaks, pain and loss and sadness, and trying to lean on hope and faith one day at a time. The real world.
And Jesus meets us there.
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In Luke 24 we read about two disciples walking to Emmaus. They were doing what we all do after something traumatic or hard or confusing. They were trying to make sense of it all. Processing. Debriefing. Wondering what now.
Jesus shows up and walks with them. Not with lightning. Not with fanfare.
He meets them in the middle of their confusion and starts opening the Scriptures to them—reminding them that everything God had promised was being fulfilled, right under their feet. He broke bread with them. And when He did, they finally saw Him for who He was.
Then He disappeared. Classic Jesus move. But the point is, their hearts had been set on fire.
Resurrection isn’t just about empty tombs. It’s about burning hearts that know Jesus is walking beside them into every ordinary moment.
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So what do we do with Monday?
We show up. We walk. We pray. We go to work. We wrestle with the tension. We remind ourselves over and over again: He’s still here.
The same power that raised Jesus from the dead is alive in you. (Romans 8:11) The same Jesus who conquered death is now walking into your ordinary week—unchanging, unshakable, and unbelievably patient.
Jesus didn’t rise so we could throw a party once a year. He rose so we could rise, too—every single day.
The resurrection was a declaration: The worst thing is never the last thing. Failure doesn’t get the final word. Darkness can’t hold back the light forever.
So on Monday, you do the next right thing. You show up to your life with resurrection power at your back. You forgive. You love people who don’t deserve it. You take a risk. You pray again. You stop letting fear play quarterback in your mind. You get back up. Because He got back up.
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Jesus didn’t just rise to change your eternity—He rose to invade your Monday.
To walk with you into the boring, the painful, the frustrating. The stuff that doesn’t feel very “resurrected.”
He’s not looking for infallibility, He’s looking for availability, for obedience, for someone who will say, “I’m not much, but I’m all in.”
So go ahead—get your coffee. Answer the emails. Do the dishes. But do it with your head up and your heart anchored in hope.
Because the tomb is still empty. And that means you’re not stuck. You’re not done. You’re not disqualified.
You’re just getting started, and the best is yet to come.
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