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“Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb.” (John 20:11)

This is how John begins his account of Jesus’ first appearance after the resurrection. Mary Magdalene arrives at the tomb distraught to find the stone rolled away. The disciples follow, approaching death gingerly, then swiftly departingonce they confirm Mary’s story, but none of them see the risen Christ. It is only when Mary returns to the tomb and faces the fullness of her grief—inclining her body toward the emptiness before her—that Jesus reveals himself and asks, “Who are you looking for?” In that moment, God proclaims that violence is not the ultimate force shaping our world.

This is the scandal of resurrection: precisely when death seems triumphant and despair all-encompassing, when violence seems like the only path forward to transform the world, love breaks through its grip and shatters that illusion.

Mary’s story also reveals something about the faith required to experience this promise. When she first arrives at the tomb, she runs to tell the others—a faithful act, yet one that moves quickly past the sorrow of the moment. When she returns and allows herself to weep, allows herself to mourn the way violence and the misuse of power took from her the life of someone she deeply loves, she remains present to the grief she carries. Love meets loss, and in that encountershe glimpses a deeper reality: God still breathes.

It is a word for our own time. We live in a world where suffering, conflict, and uncertainty often seem to multiply around us, like the tombs that proliferate by the minute as a result of senseless, unjust violence. In moments like these, it can be tempting to rush past grief or to respond with the same fear and anger that shape so much of public life. Yet the resurrection reminds us that God meets us precisely in those places where hope appears most fragile.

This is the truth Jesus speaks even from the cross: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Those who crucified Jesus understood the pain they inflicted. What they could not see was that a world built on domination and death cannot endure. Violence, even when ostensibly wielded in the name of peace, only multiplies the very wounds it seeks to remedy. God’s work in Christ reveals a deeper power—the power of love that leads toward new life and liberation.

The challenge of faith is to hold fast to this truth without ignoring or minimizing the suffering around us. How do we grieve the senseless loss of life across our world, or the struggles faced by families in our own communities, without allowing despair to shape our vision? How do we not let our hearts succumb to the logic of violence, allowing space for an inverse hatred to masquerade as faithful response? How do we build communities of resurrection—places where God’s repair, healing, and hope take root?

I see that story unfolding every day in the witness of the expansive community we call Garrett-Evangelical. I witness students who, like Mary, bear a courageous faith that lets them fully weep beside the tomb, and face the realities of our world with honesty and faith. And our graduates continue that work in congregations and communities across the country and around the globe.

Crucifixion is real; suffering leaves a deep mark. The risen Christ still bears the wounds of the cross. Yet resurrection is real as well. Each act of compassion, each community shaped by justice and mercy, each faithful witness to hope bears witness to the God who brings life out of death.

This Easter, may we have the courage to linger beside the tomb long enough to encounter the God who meets us there. May we follow where Christ leads—toward a world where swords are turned into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks. And may we take up our calling not as saviors of the world, but as faithful servants who kindle hope instead of despair, and who proclaim that the violence and death that seems to reign will not have the final word.

Happy Easter,

Javier A. Viera, President