Sheryl Brady - From Tragedy To Triumph, The Truth About The Tomb

I want to talk about the subject of tragedy to triumph. Come on, it is the truth about the tomb! Yeah, look at someone around you and say, «From tragedy to triumph, it’s the truth about the tomb.»

Father, today I honor you, and I thank you for this moment. I thank you for the power, God, that is in this room. I thank you that you are alive today, that you know who would be here. Yeah, you know their names one by one, and you know their faces one by one. You know the sound of our voices—yes, God—and you are a present help in the time of trouble. We thank you, God, that when you got up, we got up with you. Lord, we thank you for the power that is in us. God, if that same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead dwells in us, it will quicken our mortal bodies. Today, we ask that you would speak in this room; speak to all of us, speak to each of us face to face, situation by situation. Let us find ourselves in your word, and we’ll give you the glory for it. In Jesus' name, somebody who loves Him, just one more time, clap your hands, hold your head back, and tell Him thank you. Come on, tell Him from the bottom of your heart thank you today, God!

You may be seated in the presence of the Lord. On your way down, touch somebody and tell them, «From tragedy to triumph.» Easter is one of my favorite holidays. I believe that, through the resurrection, how you choose to say it, it’s one of my favorites because everything we believe hinges on the fact that He got up. If He had not gotten up, I don’t care how much you believe; it would not matter. But the fact that He got up is what matters. Put my mic back if you will, like it was in our text. There is a lady whose name was Mary. Look at your neighbor and say, «I hope your name isn’t Mary, because if your name is Mary, you’re going to think Pastor Brady is preaching all about you today.»

But her name was Mary, with tears rolling down her face, her eyes nearly swollen shut. Her head was pounding with pain because of all the stress associated with the last several agonizing hours. She wakes up early on Sunday morning, before the day does, and she heads out, walking towards the tomb. John said it was still dark; in fact, it had been very dark on that Sunday morning. It had been dark on Friday, dark because of Peter’s denial, dark because of the disciples’ betrayal. It was dark due to Pilate’s cowardly decision not to stand up for an innocent man. It was dark because the most excruciating pain that anyone had ever felt, or would feel, was being experienced right there on a hill called Golgotha.

It was dark because they began to celebrate, thinking that the Light of the World had been completely snuffed out. Dark because the Messiah—the purest of the pure, the most innocent of the innocent—was dying the most brutal and torturous death man had ever devised, known as crucifixion. After a night of beatings, mockings, and rejection—after a night of being spat on and having a crown of thorns pressed into His brow, having a spear gouged into His side—they hung Him up on a cross to die for your sins and mine. Every muscle in His body screamed for relief. His torn flesh had been pulled from the bone; His face was draped in blood and spit. His feet were swollen, his eyes were swollen; hands that had touched the leper, hands that formed Adam, reaching into the dirt and pulling up a handful of clay, hands that had toppled Babel’s Tower, hands that had split the Red Sea, hands that healed the sick and raised the dead, were now nailed to a cross. My God, the feet that had walked on water were now pinned down with spikes. The man who had just washed the feet of His twelve disciples—yes, that’s 24 feet—now had His own feet nailed to a bloody cross.

In His final hours, I was thinking about this the other night. In the last hours of His life, He chose to spend the final moments with His disciples. He chose to use that time not to preach a message with His words, but rather to preach a message with His hands. He chose to preach a message with His deeds; He chose to preach in a silent act of humility and washed their feet. They had promised to stay with Him, because you know how people do. «Yeah, we got you.» They promised to stand with Him; they promised to be there and uphold Him in His hour of trial. But those promises began to melt like wax as the Roman soldiers came in and applied heat to their lives. When the soldiers marched in, the disciples marched out. Wow; I imagine they didn’t just march out—they probably ran until they could run no more, wanting to get far away from the scene of what was happening to Him. So, they ran until they couldn’t run anymore.