He Is Risen: When Life Is “Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be”

Easter Sunday is always full.

Full of music, full of color, full of familiar words and faces. Full of visitors who said “yes” to an invitation and are now wondering quietly if it was a good idea. Full of long-time believers who know the rhythms of this day by heart.

But underneath all of that, it’s full of something else too.

Questions.

You can feel it in the room—especially on a day like Easter—this quiet, honest wondering that lives underneath our schedules, our smiles, and even our songs:

Does any of this actually matter?
Is there anything more than this—this life I’m living right now?
Is there any help here? Any healing here—for me?
As a pastor, I carry my own version of those questions too. I’ve had more than one season where the quiet title for my life could have been something like, “This Is Not How It Was Supposed to Go.” From the heavy things—losing loved ones, walking through my mom’s strokes—to the “ordinary” disappointments and frustrations that stack up over time, I know that sense of:

“This isn’t how I thought it would be by now.” “This is not the way it was supposed to be.”

If you’ve ever thought that, you are not alone—and you’re not wrong.

When We Feel the Weight of “Not Supposed to Be”
What’s surprising is how the big things and the small things often sit in the same place inside us. The medical diagnosis and the unending to-do list. The grief that lingers and the habit we thought we’d outgrow by now. The broken relationship and the quiet anxiety that won’t turn off.

They all leave us with that same ache: something is off; something is unfinished.

Then Easter comes.

We get dressed, we show up, we sing the songs, maybe we take communion, maybe our kids hunt for eggs. And for many people—maybe for you—the question remains on the car ride home:

“Does anything actually change because of this? Or is this just a meaningful moment in an otherwise unchanged life?”

If all Easter is, is a yearly tradition, then eventually we just walk back into the same unresolved stories we brought in with us. That’s true whether you’re new to church or you’ve been around church your whole life.

But that’s not the whole story.

Jesus Felt It Too
You are not crazy for feeling like the world is not the way it’s supposed to be.

Jesus felt that too.

There’s a moment in the Gospels where Jesus looks over Jerusalem and He weeps. He sees the brokenness, the lostness, the confusion, the pain. And He feels it deeply. It’s as if He’s saying, “This is not the way it was meant to be.”

But He did more than feel it.

He entered into it. He carried it. He allowed it to crush Him on the cross.

And then—He walked out of the grave.

When Jesus rose from the dead, it proved something decisive:

Physical death does not have the final word.
Emotional death does not have the final word.
The death of hope does not have the final word.
The death of expectations—of the way we thought life would go—does not have the final word.
If death does not have the final word, then neither does brokenness. Neither does the diagnosis. Neither does the failed marriage, the anxiety, the addiction, the grief or the long, quiet ache you can’t quite name.

That’s not wishful thinking. That’s resurrection reality.

But it doesn’t always feel that way, does it?

And that’s where Mary Magdalene’s story becomes so important.

Mary at the Tomb: Standing in the “In-Between”
John 20 gives us a front-row seat to the first Easter morning.

Mary comes to the tomb early, “while it was still dark.” That’s not just a time-stamp; it’s a description of where her heart is. She loved Jesus deeply. He had set her free. Her life had been completely changed by Him.

And now, as far as she knows, the story is over.

Jesus is dead. Hope is buried. The best part of her life is behind her.

So she comes to the tomb not expecting resurrection, but to deal with reality as she understands it. She’s grieving. She’s trying to make sense of what’s left.

When she sees the stone rolled away, she doesn’t think, “He’s alive!” She thinks, “Something else has gone wrong.” She runs to Peter and John: “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they’ve put him.”

Peter and John race to the tomb, see the grave clothes, and then… they go home.

Mary stays.

And there she is—standing in that space so many of us know:

The space between what God has done and what we can see.
The space between resurrection being true and resurrection being experienced.

She is standing in front of an empty tomb, and it still feels like nothing has changed.

That’s where some of us live:

We’ve prayed, we’ve hoped, maybe we’ve even believed…and we open our eyes and nothing looks different.
We’re trying to do the “right things,” and we still quietly ask, “God, are you doing anything here?”
Mary weeps at the tomb. She bends down, sees two angels, and they ask her, “Woman, why are you crying?”

Her answer is very human, very familiar:

“They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they put him.”

She’s still trying to solve it. She’s still trying to explain the empty tomb. She is not looking for a risen Savior. She is looking for an explanation.

Again, that’s us. We want to make sense of a life that doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to be this way.

Then, everything changes—quietly, personally.

The Moment Jesus Says Her Name
Mary turns around and sees Jesus, but she doesn’t recognize Him. She thinks He’s the gardener. That’s not a bad guess; who else would be there this early?

Even standing face to face with the risen Christ, she doesn’t see Him for who He is.

Because resurrection is simply beyond her imagination.

So Jesus does something incredibly simple and incredibly profound.

He calls her by name.

“Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’”

Not “Ma’am.”
Not “Follower.”
Not “Faithful disciple.”

Mary.

The same voice that once called her out of darkness now calls her again. The same voice that knew her story—her whole story—speaks directly to her.

And in that moment, everything that was abstract becomes personal.
Everything that was unimaginable becomes undeniable.

Her circumstances haven’t suddenly rearranged. Rome is still in power. The religious leaders who orchestrated the crucifixion are still free. The disciples are still fearful and scattered.

But Mary has encountered the risen Jesus. She has heard Him say her name.

That’s when she recognizes Him: “Rabboni!” (Teacher).

This is how resurrection becomes real. Not first as an idea we fully understand, but as a Person who meets us and calls us by name—even while our grief and confusion are still very much present.

This is how Jesus still meets people.

Resurrection Is Not Just a Story, It’s an Encounter
Mary doesn’t then sit down and work out a complete theology of resurrection. Jesus doesn’t give her a detailed explanation. He gives her a mission.

“Go to my brothers and sisters and tell them…”

The one who came in grief now goes out in witness:

“I’ve seen the Lord.”

She doesn’t go because she has all the answers.
She goes because she has met Him.

That’s the pattern:

Jesus meets us in the middle of our “this isn’t how it was supposed to be.”
He calls us by name.
He changes the direction of our life—not always our circumstances, at least not right away—but our trajectory.
And then He sends us back into the same world, the same city, the same relationships, the same job… as people who have encountered the risen Christ.

What Easter Means for Your Story
This is why Easter matters for the questions you’re carrying right now.

Easter is not just the announcement that Jesus rose from the dead back then.

Easter is the declaration that:

This is not the end of your story.

The grief you carry is not the last chapter.
The anxiety you can’t shake is not the last chapter.
The failure that haunts you is not the last chapter.
The diagnosis, the loneliness, the confusion, the “I thought I’d be further along by now”—none of that is the last chapter.
Because Jesus is alive, what feels final is not final.
What feels hopeless is not hopeless.
What feels beyond repair is not beyond redemption.

And maybe most importantly:

You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

God Loves You. Really.
I know that can sound like a cliché, especially on Easter Sunday. But sit with it for a moment:

God.
Loves.
You.

Not the cleaned-up future version of you.
Not the religiously polished version of you.
You—as you are today.

Jesus knows your name.
He knows your story.
He knows what you walked in with, what you cried about this week, what you’re afraid to say out loud.

And He moves toward you, not away from you.

He died for you.
He rose for you.

As a pastor, that’s not just a line I’m supposed to say. It is the only hope I have for my own life and the lives of the people I shepherd.

Because if Jesus is not alive, then honestly, all we have is tradition and sentiment. But if He is alive, then everything—everything—is different.

If You’ve Never Surrendered to Jesus
If you’ve never actually surrendered your life to Jesus—beyond just liking the idea of Him—Easter is a beautiful time to turn toward Him.

I won’t sugarcoat it: following Jesus is not a quick fix.

It doesn’t mean everything in your life will suddenly fall into place.
It doesn’t mean your questions will instantly disappear.
It does mean a new direction.
A new center.
A new way to live, not alone but with Him.

It means learning to bring your real life—your fears, sins, hopes, and hurts—to a real Savior again and again. And you don’t do it alone. You do it in community, with other imperfect people trying to follow Him too.

You don’t need perfect words.
You don’t have to have it all figured out.

You can turn to Him today—honestly, simply:

“Jesus, I need you.
I can’t fix myself.
I believe you died for me and rose again.
Forgive me.
Lead me.
Make me new.”

If that’s where you are, reach out to someone who follows Jesus. Talk to a pastor, a friend, someone in your church. Don’t carry it alone.

If You Already Belong to Him
If you already belong to Jesus, Easter is an invitation to bring again to Him what you’re carrying:

The thing that still hasn’t changed, even after years of prayer.
The ache that whispers, “This is not how it was supposed to be.”
The areas you’ve quietly taken back control and tried to manage without Him.
You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to be “strong.” You don’t have to act like you’ve figured it all out.

Bring it into the presence of the risen Christ.

Like Mary, you may not walk away with everything solved, but you can walk away having encountered Him again. And that changes how you carry what you carry.

A Moment of Stillness
One of the small but important things we try to do in our services is to create a moment of silence. Just a breath in the middle of the noise. A chance to ask:

“Lord, what am I carrying right now that feels like it’s not the way it’s supposed to be—and that I need to bring to you?”

You don’t need to wait for Sunday to do that.

You can pause even now, as you read this. Name that thing before Him. Picture yourself like Mary, standing at the tomb with tears in your eyes, grief in your chest, confusion in your mind—and then hear Him say your name.

He is not far. He is not indifferent. He is not done.

Communion and the Empty Tomb
Every time we come to the Lord’s table, we remember:

His body, given for us.
His blood, shed for the forgiveness of sins.
But we also remember:
The tomb is empty.

The One who said, “This is my body…this is my blood” is not a memory. He is not a concept. He is alive, and by His Spirit He meets us—even now.

We come to the table not because we’ve been good enough, but because He has been faithful enough.

“You who truly and earnestly repent of your sins…draw near with faith…”

That invitation is as real on a random weekday as it is on Easter Sunday.

As We Go
At the end of our Easter services, we said it again and again:

“He is risen.”
“He is risen indeed.”

Because He is alive:

What feels hopeless is not hopeless.
What feels final is not final.
What feels beyond repair is not beyond redemption.
You may walk back into the same circumstances this week. But you do not walk back as the same person—or with the same resources.

You go with the risen Christ.
You go with the One who calls you by name.
You go with the One who promises, “I am with you always.”

So whatever you are carrying today, you don’t have to carry it the same way you did yesterday.

Not because everything is instantly fixed.
But because Jesus is alive.

And that changes everything.

He is risen.
He is risen indeed.