Douglas Vandergraph Faith Ministry from YouTube

There are passages in Scripture that feel like gentle invitations, drawing you quietly into reflection. And then there are passages like Matthew 28—chapters that do not whisper, but thunder; chapters that do not simply inform, but transform; chapters that lift the entire weight of the human story and flip it from despair into unstoppable hope. Matthew closes his Gospel with a sunrise that has never stopped rising. It is the chapter where grief collapses into joy, where fear becomes commissioning, where finite human beings are called into an infinite mission, and where Jesus declares authority not as a possibility but as an unshakable reality. When you sit with Matthew 28 long enough, you begin to see that this chapter was never meant to be read—it was meant to be lived. And for every believer who has ever struggled, questioned, hoped, or reached for God in the middle of life’s storms, Matthew 28 stands like a mountain that refuses to move. It doesn’t tell you what you’re missing. It tells you what you’ve already been given.

Early in the chapter, the women come to the tomb not because they expect a resurrection, but because they expect to honor a body. They come carrying grief, not anticipation. They come to close a chapter, not to open a new one. And that is exactly where the story turns in a way that continues to echo across every century that followed. We are reminded that God often meets us not in our confidence, but in our confusion; not in the moments when we feel strong, but in the moments when we are simply moving forward with what little strength we have left. The women did not come with a plan. They came with love. And love became the doorway to revelation.

They reach the tomb at dawn—a detail that feels almost incidental until you read deeper. The first day of the week is not just a timestamp; it’s a spiritual reset. Dawn has always represented beginnings in Scripture, but here, dawn isn’t just beginning a day. It is beginning a world. The earthquake, the angel, the rolled-away stone—nothing in this moment is quiet, controlled, or predictable. Heaven breaks into earth with a kind of holy disruption. Everything that seemed final suddenly becomes temporary. Everything that looked sealed suddenly becomes open. Everything that felt like defeat suddenly becomes victory. The angel doesn’t politely knock. He descends. He moves the stone. He sits on it. And by sitting on the stone that sealed Jesus’ tomb, he makes a declaration without using a single word: What humans meant to close, God has chosen to open.

And that truth will follow every believer to the end of time. God is not intimidated by the stones the world places in front of you. He is not threatened by what looks impossible. He is not limited by the barriers that people assume are permanent. In Matthew 28, heaven makes it clear: no stone is stronger than God’s intention. No obstacle is bigger than His purpose. No ending is final when He has written resurrection into the storyline.

The women see the angel and are understandably afraid. The Roman guards collapse in terror, but the angel speaks only to the women. It is a subtle detail, but a powerful one. Grace does not speak to the ones who represent empire, intimidation, or force. Grace speaks to the ones who came to honor a Savior they believed they had lost. He tells them, “Do not be afraid,” and then offers the single most transformative sentence ever spoken on earth: “He is not here; He has risen.” Those words stand at the center of Christian faith. Everything else hangs on them. Without them, the Gospel is a story without power, a promise without fulfillment. With them, everything broken can be restored. Everything lost can be found. Everything dead can live again.

What is remarkable is that the angel does not simply tell them Jesus has risen—he invites them to see where He lay. Revelation is not meant to be believed blindly; it is meant to be witnessed. God lets His people see the empty places that once held their fears, their grief, their hopelessness. And once they see the emptiness, they can never unsee the truth. The angel then commissions them: “Go quickly and tell His disciples.” Before the Great Commission is ever spoken to the eleven, it is lived by the women. The first evangelists of the resurrection were not apostles, not scholars, not officials—they were two women who refused to let grief keep them home. God entrusted world-shifting news to those the world often overlooked. And that tells you something about the heart of God. He never chooses based on human categories. He chooses based on readiness to move when He speaks.

As they run to deliver the news, Jesus Himself meets them. Not in a temple, not in a crowd, not in a moment of ritual or ceremony—but on the path of obedience. And when He greets them, they fall at His feet and worship Him. There is something profoundly intimate about this moment. Before He gives them instruction, He gives them Himself. Before He sends them on mission, He allows them to encounter His presence. And the same is true in our walk with Him. We are not sent out in our strength. We are sent out from a place of worship. Mission always flows from encounter.

Jesus’ instructions echo the angel’s: “Do not be afraid.” It is not a coincidence that both heaven and Jesus repeat the same phrase. The resurrection does not remove fear by eliminating uncertainty. It removes fear by redefining it. You no longer stand in a world where death has the final say. You no longer live in a reality where darkness wins. Fear may still whisper, but it no longer rules. And when Jesus sends them to tell the disciples, their message is not merely informational—it is transformational. It is the declaration that everything Jesus ever taught has now been validated by an empty tomb.

Meanwhile, Matthew includes the section about the guards and the bribed officials. It would be easy to overlook this part or rush past it, but Matthew doesn’t include irrelevant details. He wants us to understand something crucial: whenever God moves in power, there will always be counter-narratives. There will always be forces trying to suppress, distort, or rewrite the truth. The religious leaders feared the resurrection because they feared the loss of control. And control has always been the enemy of surrender. Their response is a warning to every generation: miracles will never satisfy those committed to maintaining their own authority. Truth will never comfort those who prefer the illusion of control. The resurrection didn’t fail to convince them; it threatened to unseat them. And instead of letting God rewrite their story, they tried to rewrite His.

But Matthew doesn’t end with their resistance. He ends with a mountain in Galilee—a place of gathering, worship, doubt, purpose, and empowerment. The disciples see Jesus, and some worship while others doubt. And Jesus does not rebuke the doubters. He doesn’t dismiss them. He doesn’t replace them. He draws near and gives every one of them the same commission. This is one of the most liberating truths in Scripture: doubt does not disqualify you from being used by God. Jesus does not wait for them to reach perfect certainty. He invites them into mission while they’re still wrestling. Faith is not the absence of questions. Faith is the willingness to move even when you’re carrying questions with you.

Then Jesus speaks the words that have anchored the church for two thousand years: “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.” This is not a hopeful claim. It is a definitive proclamation. He is not asking for authority. He is announcing that He already possesses it. And because He holds all authority, He then sends His followers to make disciples of all nations. Not make converts. Not build institutions. Not create spectators. Make disciples—people whose entire lives grow in the direction of Christ. People who learn to obey, to trust, to walk with Him in every season of life.

Baptizing them symbolizes identity. Teaching them symbolizes formation. And both are rooted in the authority of Jesus. The Great Commission is not a burden placed on believers—it is a privilege given to them. It is not something accomplished by human effort. It is something made possible because the risen Christ stands behind every step, every word, every moment of ministry.

But Jesus doesn’t end with command. He ends with presence. “I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” He does not promise ease. He does not promise immediate results. He does not promise that every moment will be understood. He promises Himself. And that promise shifts everything. The disciples were not sent out alone. Neither are you. When you step into your calling, you do not step out of His presence. When you walk into uncertainty, you do not walk away from His strength. When you face resistance, you do not face it without His authority.

The entire chapter bends toward one truth: resurrection is not just an event. It is a new reality. It is the foundation of every act of courage, every moment of obedience, every step of faith. It is the assurance that nothing you face has the final word. In Matthew 28, God rewrites the script of the world. And when you let this chapter rewrite your own story, everything begins to change. You start to realize that the stones you fear can be moved. The endings you dread can become beginnings. The doubts you carry can coexist with worship. And the mission God has given you is not dependent on your perfection—only on your willingness.

Matthew 28 is not meant to be admired from a distance. It is meant to be entered. Lived. Embodied. Because the same Jesus who met the women in their grief, who strengthened the disciples in their doubt, and who declared His authority over all creation is the same Jesus who walks with you right now. And if He has risen, then nothing in your life has to stay buried. The chapter ends with commissioning, but that was never the end. It was the doorway into a world where God’s presence follows you into every day, every calling, every chapter you have left to live.

When you trace the emotional arc of Matthew 28, you begin to realize that it mirrors the journey so many believers quietly walk through today. You start in places that feel dark, with questions that feel heavy, and with circumstances that look sealed shut. The women at the tomb did not come expecting victory. They came expecting closure. They came expecting to honor what they believed they had lost forever. And yet, the moment they arrived, they discovered a truth that still shakes the foundations of every human assumption: God does His greatest work in the places we have already given up on. He does not need your situation to look promising. He does not need the ground to look fertile. He does not need the future to look possible. He only needs a moment to speak—and everything that once seemed dead becomes alive again.

The resurrection is not just God proving He has power over death. It is God rewriting the rules of existence. Nothing follows the old logic anymore. The impossible becomes logical. The irreversible becomes undone. The final becomes temporary. And just like the women who ran to tell the disciples, your life becomes a story shaped by revelation rather than resignation. When they run, they are still shaking. They are still processing. They are still overwhelmed. But they are running in the right direction. Sometimes faith looks like that—movement before full comprehension. Motion before clarity. Obedience before explanation.

And then Jesus meets them. Right there in the tension. Right there in the transition. Right there in the moment when they are between the tomb and the testimony. That is the miracle we often overlook. Jesus could have met them at the tomb. He could have waited at Galilee. But instead, He meets them in the middle—the place where faith is raw, breathless, and honest. He doesn’t wait for you to have everything figured out. He doesn’t wait for your emotions to calm. He meets you on the road between what was and what will be. And when He meets you, everything that once felt uncertain suddenly becomes steady.

Jesus’ words—“Do not be afraid”—are not empty comfort. They are authoritative. They are anchored in resurrection. He doesn’t say “Try not to be afraid.” He says, “Do not be afraid,” because fear no longer sits on the throne. He does. When fear meets resurrection, fear loses jurisdiction. It may shout, but it no longer rules. It may linger, but it cannot defeat you. The women receive this truth while still trembling—and so do we. Faith does not erase human emotion. It transforms the direction you move despite those emotions.

Then we watch the disciples on the mountain. Some worship, some doubt, and Jesus receives both. He does not shame the doubters or elevate the confident. He calls them all. And in that moment, He reveals a truth every believer must hold onto: your doubt is not a barrier to being used by God. You are not disqualified by uncertainty. You are not dismissed because you have questions. You belong in the story even when you are still wrestling. If Jesus only used the ones who never doubted, there would be no disciples left to send. But instead, He proves that worship and doubt can stand side by side—because His authority does not depend on your emotional state. His authority stands whether you are confident, confused, or somewhere in between.

And then it happens—the Great Commission. A command spoken not to perfect people but to honest ones. Not to the bold but to the willing. Not to the elite but to the everyday. “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to Me.” This is the anchor of everything that follows. Jesus does not send them out to fight for victory. He sends them out from victory. He does not send them out to earn authority. He sends them out under authority. And that truth changes how you walk into every assignment God gives you. You are not walking in your own strength, your own wisdom, or your own power. You are walking in His. And His authority is not partial. It is total.

“Go and make disciples of all nations” is not a suggestion—it is a mission that reshapes the world. Jesus does not say, “Go and get people to agree with you.” He does not say, “Go and build large crowds.” He says, “Make disciples.” Discipleship is not entertainment. It is transformation. It is slow, deep, relational, and intentional. It is teaching people not just what Jesus said, but how to live what He said. It is baptism into a new identity—not just a ritual, but a declaration that the old has ended and the new has begun. And it is teaching people to obey—not forcing, not coercing, but guiding them into a life shaped by Christ’s words.

Jesus ends with a promise that has outlived empires, withstood persecution, and strengthened billions through their darkest seasons: “I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” No leader can offer you that. No institution can offer you that. No movement can offer you that. Only Jesus. And He does not say, “I will be with you when you feel strong.” He does not say, “I will be with you when you understand everything.” He says, “I am with you—always.” His presence is not conditional. It is covenant. His companionship is not fragile. It is eternal. And when He says “always,” He means there is not a sunrise, not a valley, not a heartbreak, not a victory, not a question, not a mission, not a moment where He is absent.

The chapter closes without the disciples fully understanding the scale of what they’ve been given. They walk down that mountain with hearts beating fast, with minds racing, with questions swirling—but with purpose burning inside them. And that is the beauty of Matthew 28. You don’t have to understand everything to step into your calling. You don’t have to be fearless to move forward. You don’t have to have perfect clarity to walk into the mission Jesus places in your hands. You simply have to trust that the One who conquered death will not fail you in life.

Matthew 28 is a chapter that refuses to stay in the first century. It reaches into your present. It speaks into your fear. It strengthens your calling. It reminds you that the resurrection is not a story you admire—it is a reality you live in. The risen Christ walks with you into every assignment, every conversation, every moment where you feel inadequate or overwhelmed. And with His authority, your words carry weight. Your obedience carries impact. Your story carries resurrection power.

The women went to the tomb expecting to meet death, and instead they encountered life. The disciples went to the mountain carrying doubt, and instead they received purpose. And you—wherever you are, whatever you’re facing—you are standing in the same resurrection story. The stone that once intimidated you is already rolled away. The fear that once dictated your decisions no longer has the final say. The doubt that once made you question your place in God’s plan has already been overshadowed by His promise. Jesus has risen, and because He has risen, your story is not finished. It is being written by the One who holds all authority in heaven and on earth.

The chapter ends, but the mission does not. The tomb is empty, but your calling is full. The women run, the disciples go, and now—so do you. The world still needs to hear what the angel said. The world still needs to see what the women witnessed. The world still needs to feel the truth that shook the earth at dawn. He is not here. He has risen. And because of that, you can rise too.

Your friend,
Douglas Vandergraph

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