Fear Isn’t Final
Alright—show of hands. Who is still eating leftovers?
Some of you are basically 80% stuffing at this point. And some of you are on that post-Thanksgiving emotional roller coaster: “I’m grateful… I’m exhausted… I love my family… I need a nap… I miss people… I need a nap… did I say I need a nap?”
Thanksgiving can be really sweet. Good food. Laughter. Familiar traditions. A little more time with people you care about.
But it can also expose what’s missing.
Sometimes the empty chair hits harder than the full table. Sometimes the family tension stays quiet until someone says one sentence, and suddenly everybody’s “fine” in that way that means… nobody’s fine. Sometimes you leave the holiday thinking, “I should feel happier than this,” but what you really feel is stress, grief, conflict, fatigue, regret, loneliness, pressure, or just a low-grade heaviness you can’t quite explain.
And then Sunday comes. The holiday is over. The dishes are done. People are traveling back. The calendar is still full. Your problems didn’t take the week off. Your thoughts didn’t take the week off.
And you show up here.
For some of you, you’re not really looking for a sermon today—you’re looking for steadier hope. Not hype. Not a “just smile more” talk. Something solid enough to hold you up when you feel shaky.
That’s why Mark 16 is such a gift.
Because Mark starts the resurrection story with people who love Jesus… but arrive expecting to manage death, not celebrate life.
They come to honor a memory. They meet a miracle.
They bring spices for a corpse. God gives them news of a King.
So here’s the question we’re going to sit with today:
What does God do when his people show up with love—and no plan for resurrection?
And as we walk through Mark 16:1–11, I want you to notice this:
The risen Jesus meets us in sorrow and shakiness, restores the fallen, and keeps sending out witnesses—even when fear and unbelief show up.
One quick Bible note before we jump in: if you’re reading Mark in many Bibles, you may see a footnote about how the ending of Mark appears in different forms across manuscripts. Today we’re focusing on Mark 16:1–11 as printed in the ESV, and what we’re reading here lines up with the resurrection testimony across the New Testament.
Let’s walk through it.
Love that shows up with questions (vv. 1–3)
Mark begins:
“When the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb.” (vv. 1–2)
These women are not going to the tomb to celebrate. They’re not going to the tomb to start a “He’s alive!” parade. They’re going to the tomb to mourn.
They’ve got spices. They’ve got grief. They’ve got love. They’ve got tears in their throats.
And Mark says they go “very early.” That detail matters. It’s like they can’t sleep. Grief does that. Anxiety does that. Heavy thoughts do that. The day hasn’t really started, but your mind already has.
And they’re walking to the tomb with a question:
“And they were saying to one another, ‘Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance of the tomb?’” (v. 3)
That’s such a human moment.
They’re doing the faithful thing, but they’re also being practical. They’re thinking, “Okay, but how is this going to work?” The stone is big. They’re not sure they can move it. They don’t have a plan for the obstacle.
And here’s the tension Mark is quietly building: their plan is loving, but limited to a dead Jesus.
Mark uses the word “anoint” (ἐλθοῦσαι ἀλείψωσιν). Their whole plan assumes Jesus stays where he was laid. Their devotion is real. Their expectations are small.
And honestly… that’s relatable.
Because plenty of us have a faith that shows up, but has questions. We show up with love, but we’re carrying concerns. We show up to pray, but we’re not sure how anything will change.
Sometimes faithfulness looks like walking toward the hard place.
Some of you came into this service today with something like that stone in your mind:
“How are we going to fix what just happened in our family?”
“How do I carry this grief through another holiday season?”
“How do we pay for what’s coming?”
“How do I stop this pattern that keeps pulling me back?”
“How do I rebuild trust—either in someone else, or in myself?”
“How do I move forward when I’m tired of fighting?”
And if you were honest, you might not say it out loud, but in your heart you’re whispering something like:
“I don’t know how this will work, but I’m going anyway.”
That’s not fake faith. That’s often what real faith looks like: taking the next step with a shaky hand.
Love showed up… carrying questions.
And here’s what I want you to see: God isn’t offended by their question. Mark doesn’t mock them. Scripture doesn’t scold them. Their question is simply the weight they’re carrying on the way.
Some people think faith means you never ask “how.” But these women do. And they’re not punished for it.
So if you came today with questions, you’re not disqualified. If you came today with grief, you’re not behind. If you came today with “I’m trying, but I’m tired,” you’re not alone.
They expect a sealed tomb… but God has already gone ahead.
2) God has already acted: the gospel is news (vv. 4–6)
Verse 4:
“And looking up, they saw that the stone had been rolled back—it was very large.”
It’s already moved.
The thing they were worried about is already handled.
Before they can ask for help, God has already moved the stone.
And notice: the women didn’t roll it away. They didn’t recruit a crew of strong guys at sunrise. They didn’t show up with a Roman-engineering YouTube tutorial. God did it.
They step into the tomb and see something they weren’t expecting:
“And entering the tomb, they saw a young man sitting on the right side, dressed in a white robe, and they were alarmed.” (v. 5)
Yes. Alarmed. That’s a polite way of saying they’re scared out of their minds.
And the messenger says:
“Do not be alarmed. You seek Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified.” (v. 6)
I love that it’s so specific.
“Jesus of Nazareth.” Not a vague spiritual idea. Not “any kind of resurrection, in your heart.” This is about a real person, in a real place, who really died.
“Who was crucified.” Mark underlines it. There’s no confusion about whether Jesus truly died. He was crucified.
And then comes the announcement that changes everything:
“He has risen; he is not here. See the place where they laid him.” (v. 6)
That’s the center of the Christian message. Not “try harder.” Not “turn over a new leaf.” Not “here are some tips for improving your life.”
It’s news.
The resurrection is not advice. It’s an announcement.
And Mark’s Greek helps us hear the force of it. The angel says, “He has risen” (ἠγέρθη). That’s passive. The idea is: he was raised. God acted. God did this.
And with the stone too, Mark uses language that carries the sense of “it’s been rolled away and it stays that way.” In other words: this isn’t a brief emotional moment. This isn’t “maybe it happened.” This is done.
So here’s what that means for us:
Christianity begins with news: not “do more,” but “it is done.”
You don’t earn resurrection. You receive it.
You don’t lift the stone. You discover it already moved.
And if you’re coming out of a heavy week, you need that. Because when you’re worn down, the last thing you need is another set of instructions you can’t keep. You need an announcement you can lean on.
“He is not here.”
That sentence is simple, but it’s loaded.
It means the grave doesn’t get the last word.
It means cruelty didn’t win.
It means betrayal didn’t win.
It means shame didn’t win.
It means Rome didn’t win.
It means sin didn’t win.
It means death didn’t win.
If Jesus is raised, then grief is real—but it’s not ultimate.
If Jesus is raised, your worst moment doesn’t get the last word.
And some of you need to hear that as more than a slogan.
Because after the holiday, you might be back in the routine where the grief is still there. The regret is still there. The problem is still there.
And Christianity doesn’t pretend those things aren’t real.
But it does say: they are not final.
And the announcement comes with a command and a promise.
3) Grace that restores and leads forward (v. 7)
Verse 7:
“But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going before you to Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.”
This is one verse, and it’s doing a lot of work.
First: “Go, tell…”
The resurrection is not a private comfort only. It’s also a public message.
But then—don’t miss this—“tell his disciples and Peter…”
Why does Peter get named? Peter is a disciple.
And that’s the point.
Because Peter doesn’t feel like one anymore.
The last time we saw Peter in Mark’s Gospel, he had denied Jesus three times. He had crumbled under pressure. He had run his mouth with confidence and then folded in fear. He had failed in a way that felt permanent.
And now, on the first morning of resurrection announcement, God makes sure this gets said:
“And Peter.”
Grace calls failures by name.
This is Jesus reaching into Peter’s shame and saying, “You’re not erased.”
The risen Jesus doesn’t write Peter off—he writes Peter back in.
And that’s not just a nice Bible moment. That’s how Jesus deals with people.
Some of you are living with a chapter of your story that you keep replaying. A choice you regret. A habit you hate. A relationship you damaged. A season you wasted. A compromise you made. A confession you didn’t have the courage to make. A thing you did that you’re still trying to outwork by being “good now.”
And you might assume God talks about you like this: “Well, yeah… them.”
But this verse shows us something else.
Jesus calls failures by name because he intends to restore them.
Now look at what else the angel says:
“He is going before you to Galilee.”
That phrase “going before” (προάγει) carries the sense of leading from the front. Not pushing them from behind. Not dragging them with disappointment. Leading.
And where is he going?
Galilee.
Not a dramatic mountaintop. Not a palace. Not Rome. Galilee.
Galilee is ordinary. It’s where the disciples worked. It’s where they lived. It’s where life happens. It’s where bills show up and laundry piles up and people argue and kids cry and work gets stressful and you’re trying to be faithful in plain routines.
And the risen Jesus says, “I’ll meet you there.”
Jesus goes ahead of you into Monday, not just Sunday.
He goes ahead of you into real life. Into your job. Into your home. Into the conversation you’ve been avoiding. Into the burden you’ve been carrying. Into the habit you’ve been stuck in. Into the grief that still catches you in the quiet moments.
And then the angel adds:
“Just as he told you.”
That’s Mark’s way of saying: Jesus keeps his word even when you didn’t keep yours.
The disciples promised loyalty and ran. Jesus promised to meet them again, and he did.
So if you’re the ashamed one today, here’s your word: You are not erased.
If you’re the drifting one today, here’s your word: Jesus goes ahead of you.
Which raises the next question: what happens when this message hits actual human hearts?
Because if this were a made-up story designed to make everyone look strong, this next part wouldn’t be here.
Fear and unbelief are real, but not final—because Jesus is alive and still speaks (vv. 8–11)
Well… okay then.
That’s not the triumphant ending you’d expect, right? If you were making up a resurrection story to launch a movement, you don’t end your big moment with “they panicked and ran.” You end with fireworks and a choir and at least one person yelling, “I KNEW IT!”
But Mark is very honest. The first response is not a polished testimony. It’s trembling and overwhelm and silence.
And Mark stacks words here like he’s trying to describe a moment that won’t fit neatly into sentences:
“Trembling” (τρόμος): not a cute little shiver—more like your body is reacting before your brain can give a speech.
“Astonishment” (ἔκστασις): literally being “beside yourself,” overwhelmed, disoriented. The kind of moment where time feels weird and you can’t find the right words because your mind is loud.
Fear: the instinctive “I don’t know what to do with this.”
This isn’t mild surprise. This is shock.
And if you’ve ever been blindsided—by tragedy or by sudden good news—you know what this feels like. Sometimes joy still feels like threat at first because it’s so unexpected. Sometimes the body hits the brakes because your world just changed faster than you can process.
So don’t read verse 8 as “they failed.” Read it as “they’re human.” In Mark’s Gospel, people regularly respond to divine power like this. After Jesus calms the storm, the disciples don’t high-five each other—they’re terrified: “Who then is this…?” (Mark 4:41). When Jesus does something that reveals his authority, it often produces awe and fear mixed together. That’s what happens when you realize God is not tame.
And it’s also worth noticing this: the fear in verse 8 isn’t the fear of “we got caught doing something wrong.” It’s the fear of standing on the edge of something massive. Resurrection is not a light upgrade to your current life. Resurrection is God overturning the deepest reality we all assume: that death gets the last word. That’s a lot to take in at sunrise.
Now, Mark adds one more literary punch: in the earliest manuscript tradition, verse 8 ends with the word γάρ (“for”). That’s an unusual way to end a book. It makes it feel abrupt—like Mark puts a period where we expected three more paragraphs.
It’s like you’re watching the scene, and right when you’re waiting for the women to run off and tell everyone and cue the triumphant music… Mark just stops. And you’re left sitting there with the empty tomb and your own heartbeat.
And that abruptness has an effect: it leaves you with a question.
What will you do with this?
In other words, Mark doesn’t let you watch these women from a safe distance. He pulls you into the story. The tomb is empty. The message has been announced. The fear is real. Now what?
Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: the resurrection doesn’t just comfort you—it confronts you. If Jesus is alive, you don’t get to keep him as a respected memory. You don’t get to keep him as a sentimental figure. You don’t get to treat him like a helpful teacher who stays in the past.
If he’s alive, he’s Lord. And that’s where fear often shows up—not because the news is bad, but because the news is claiming. It demands a response.
That’s why the Bible is so realistic about fear. Fear is what you feel when you’re not in control. And resurrection is the ultimate announcement that control was never yours in the first place.
Now, that verse says, “they said nothing to anyone.” We should be careful here. Mark is describing their immediate reaction—panic and silence. But the other Gospels make clear that this silence didn’t last forever. Matthew says they ran “with fear and great joy” and went to tell the disciples (Matt. 28:8). Luke shows the women reporting it (Luke 24:9–10). So Mark is zooming in on the first raw moment before the nerves settle and obedience kicks in.
And that’s pastoral gold for a Sunday like this, because a lot of us carry guilt about our “first reaction.” We think, “If my faith were real, I wouldn’t feel this.” Or “If I trusted God, I wouldn’t be anxious.” Or “If I were mature, I’d be calm.”
But Scripture routinely separates first reactions from final directions.
Elijah has a mountaintop victory and then collapses into fear and despair (1 Kings 19). God doesn’t crush him; God feeds him, lets him sleep, then speaks.
The Psalms are full of “here’s what I feel” before they get to “here’s what is true” (Psalm 42 is practically a masterclass in preaching to yourself).
Even in the New Testament, fear shows up in the presence of Jesus—and Jesus doesn’t respond with disgust. He responds with steadying words: “Peace be with you” (John 20:19).
So if your first reaction is fear, that doesn’t mean you don’t have faith. It means you’re encountering something bigger than you.
Then in verses 9–11, the story continues with an appearance of Jesus:
“Now when he rose early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene… She went and told those who had been with him… But when they heard that he was alive and had been seen by her, they would not believe it.” (vv. 9–11)
So the women fear. The disciples doubt.
That’s important.
Because the Bible doesn’t pretend the first followers were easily convinced. It doesn’t paint them as gullible people who would believe anything spiritual. They resist the news. They struggle to trust.
In Luke’s account, the disciples call it an “idle tale” (Luke 24:11). In John, even after Mary reports it, the disciples are still confused, still running to check, still trying to piece it together (John 20:1–10). And in Matthew, even when they finally see Jesus in Galilee, it says, “some doubted” (Matt. 28:17). Not “some strangers doubted.” The worshipers doubted. Right there in the presence of the risen Christ.
So if you’re sitting here thinking, “I want to believe, but it’s hard,” you’re not weird. You’re human. If you’re thinking, “I believe… but I’m scared,” welcome. If you’re thinking, “I used to believe more easily than I do right now,” you’re not the first.
But here’s what’s not in doubt:
Fear can mute your mouth—but it can’t undo an empty tomb.
Their fear was loud. His resurrection was louder.
And don’t miss this: Jesus doesn’t give up on shaky people.
He appears to Mary. She tells the disciples. They don’t believe. And in the other Gospels, Jesus keeps showing up. He meets them, eats with them, speaks with them, corrects them, comforts them, and commissions them.
That pattern matters: Jesus does not build his church by finding the bravest people in town. He builds his church by resurrecting hope in people who were not brave at all.
Paul later says Jesus appeared to many witnesses (1 Cor. 15:3–8), and that’s part of how God deals with doubt: not by scolding first, but by giving real, repeated, patient confirmation. Thomas is allowed to touch the wounds (John 20:24–29). The disciples are given time. They’re given proof. They’re given presence.
So here’s the point: the mission doesn’t rest on fearless people. It rests on a living Savior.
That’s great news, because if God only used people who never felt fear, nothing would get done. Starting with me. Starting with you.
So what do we do with this?
A couple expectations are worth naming—not as a new list of applications, but as a reality check for discipleship:
Expect fear to show up right next to obedience.
The women go to the tomb—and fear meets them there. They receive the message—and fear rides along. Fear isn’t always a sign you’re doing the wrong thing; sometimes it’s a sign you’re standing at the edge of something holy.
Courage in Scripture is rarely the absence of fear. It’s obedience in the presence of fear. That’s why “Do not be afraid” shows up so often—it’s not said to fearless people.
Expect doubt to be more relational than informational.
Notice: the disciples don’t lack data. They lack trust. Mark’s verb for “they did not believe” (ἠπίστησαν) isn’t just “they didn’t understand.” It’s refusing to entrust themselves to the report. Doubt often isn’t solved by more facts alone. It’s solved when Jesus becomes more real to you than the thing you’re afraid of.
That’s why the answer to fear and unbelief in the Gospels is so often: Jesus draws near.
Expect Jesus to keep pursuing you anyway.
This is the mercy of the resurrection accounts: Jesus keeps showing up to people who “should” be further along. He doesn’t say, “Circle back when you’re impressive.” He moves toward them.
Which means if you’re shaky today, the invitation isn’t “clean yourself up.” The invitation is “don’t run from him.”
The call isn’t “be brave enough.”
It’s: bring what’s real into the presence of the risen Christ, and let him have the last word.
Because fear isn’t final.
And Mark’s point is: it never was.
Expect resistance inside you.
You may feel afraid to speak about Jesus. Afraid of being dismissed. Afraid of awkwardness. Afraid of questions you can’t answer. Afraid of what changes might be required if you really trust him.
You may even fear hope because hope sets you up to be disappointed again. Some of us have learned to protect ourselves by staying cautious emotionally. We keep expectations low. That way, if life hits us again, we can say, “See? I knew it.”
And the resurrection doesn’t just challenge your despair—it challenges your self-protection.
Expect resistance around you.
You can tell the truth and people can still be slow to believe. Mary Magdalene says, “He’s alive!” and the disciples say, “No.”
So if you’ve ever tried to share what Jesus has done in your life and got a blank stare… you’re in Bible territory.
Now hear the gentle call underneath all of this:
The call isn’t “be brave enough.”
It’s: trust the risen Jesus and take the next step.
Speak.
Repent.
Forgive.
Return.
Serve.
Ask for help.
Show up again.
Take the next step, even with some trembling.
Because Jesus is alive… and he goes ahead of you.
What does “Fear isn’t final” mean for us?
Let’s slow down and talk about what this means for us as we sit here this morning.
1) It means you can come honestly.
The women didn’t come with a victory parade. They came with spices. They came with sorrow.
So you can come honestly too.
You don’t have to edit your emotions before you come to Jesus. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. You don’t have to force yourself into a cheerful mood to qualify for God’s help.
Bring your grief.
Bring your questions.
Bring your limits.
Sometimes people think the “right way” to come to church is to show up polished. Like everyone else is doing great and you’re the only one struggling.
Let’s just clear the air: plenty of people here are holding it together with prayer and caffeine.
The women come early because grief doesn’t follow a schedule. And God meets them there.
If your faith is as small as “I showed up,” that’s not nothing. Show up faith matters. Walking-toward-Jesus faith matters. Carrying-spices-and-questions faith matters.
2) It means you can look at the empty tomb and hear the announcement.
“He has been raised. He is not here.”
That sentence is not a motivational poster. It’s a claim.
If it’s true, everything changes.
It doesn’t erase pain, but it does put a limit on pain.
It doesn’t delete grief, but it does put grief in a story that ends with life.
If Jesus is raised, then God is not distant.
If Jesus is raised, then sin is paid for.
If Jesus is raised, then death is defeated.
If Jesus is raised, then the future is open.
And that’s why the messenger says, “See the place where they laid him.” The message is meant to be believed, yes—but it’s also meant to be examined. It’s rooted in reality.
You may be here wrestling with doubts. You’re not the first. The earliest disciples didn’t believe right away either. But what changed them wasn’t a clever argument. It was the risen Jesus.
And today, we meet him in his Word, by his Spirit, among his people, in prayer, in worship, as he keeps calling us to trust him.
3) It means grace can restore the parts of you that feel finished.
“Tell his disciples and Peter…”
Some of you need the “and Peter” moment.
You’re still carrying shame from something you’ve never fully brought into the light. Or you’re carrying shame from something that everyone knows, and you wish they didn’t. Or you’re carrying shame from a failure you can’t forget.
And Jesus names Peter because Jesus is not scared of Peter’s failure.
He deals with it. He restores him. He brings him back in.
The resurrection isn’t just cosmic victory. It’s personal restoration.
So hear this: Jesus is not done with you.
If you are breathing, God is still writing.
If you are still here, grace is still available.
If you have failed, there is still a future.
4) It means the next step matters.
The women are told, “Go.” The disciples are told, “He’s going ahead of you.”
The resurrection creates movement.
Not frantic striving. Not guilt-driven performance. But the next faithful step.
For some of you, the next step is simply returning to Jesus again. You’ve drifted. You’ve gotten cold. You’ve gotten distracted. The next step is: come back.
For some of you, the next step is repentance. Not shame-spiraling, not self-hate—just honesty and turning. “Jesus, I’m bringing this into the light, and I’m done pretending.”
For some of you, the next step is forgiveness. Not pretending what happened didn’t matter, but choosing to release what’s poisoning you.
For some of you, the next step is reconciliation—a conversation, a confession, a boundary, a humble apology.
For some of you, the next step is service. You’re stuck in your own head, and Jesus is calling you to lift your eyes and love someone, even in a small way.
For some of you, the next step is to speak. To share your faith. To tell someone what you’ve seen God do. To say, “I’m not an expert, but I do know Jesus is alive, and I’ve met him.”
And yes—fear may come with you.
But fear isn’t final.
There was a moment when it looked like darkness had claimed the win—when love was nailed to a cross, when the final breath left his lungs, when “finished” sounded like the end. But heaven wasn’t conceding; heaven was accomplishing. The ground itself couldn’t stay still. The barrier came down. What looked like defeat was the price of paying our debt.
And then there was another moment - the tomb, sealed shut, the place where it seemed like hope went to die, until God breathed life where we only knew loss. Not a rumor. Not a metaphor. A living Christ on the move. The same Jesus who was crucified now stands as Lord: of death, of fear, of your week, of your story.
Church, if you’re able, stand with me. Let’s pray.
Prayer
Jesus, we bow our hearts under what is true: you were crucified—and you have been raised.
For those carrying grief right now, meet them with your nearness.
For those carrying fear, steady them with your voice.
For those carrying shame, speak the same mercy you spoke over Peter—call them back in.
For those who feel stuck in silence, give them a settled confidence that doesn’t come from their personality, but from your empty tomb.
We confess we’ve tried to carry life with our own strength, and it’s so easy for that to wear thin. So we lay it down, our strain, our regret, our tension, our unanswered questions, and we look to you.
You are not in the grave.
You are not finished with us.
You are Lord of heaven and earth.
You are the Savior of the world.
Thank you for your Son, thank you for His sacrifice, thank you for the relationship that you have with each and every one of us.
In your name, amen.
Because Jesus lives, you can take the next step. Amen.
Let’s worship the risen King.
