Grace and peace to you and mercy from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Clinton sat at his desk and massaged his temples.
He had, admittedly, wanted this for years. He had put in the hours—late nights at the office, weekends answering emails, extra projects that weren’t his responsibility but made him stand out. He had watched others climb the ladder and told himself, “That’ll be me one day.” He imagined the promotion—the corner office, the bigger paycheck, the respect. No more being just another cog in the machine. He wanted to be the one calling the shots.
And then, it happened. Vice President of Operations. His name on the door. A $15,000 raise. A seat at the table where the big decisions were made. He had done it. He had arrived.
And now—the emails never stopped. His phone vibrated with another urgent message. Someone knocked—again. He had pictured the prestige, the authority. He hadn’t pictured the stress. The back-to-back meetings, the endless demands from shareholders, the constant complaints from subordinates. Every decision carried weight, every problem landed on his desk.
The title had been a dream. Now it was a weight on his shoulders. The raise? It barely felt worth it.
Another knock.
“Mr. Branowicz, do you have a minute to review the Weber-Steinmann proposal?”
He sighed, straightened his tie, and forced a smile.
“Yeah. Come in.”
Maybe that’s the problem with wanting something: we rarely anticipate the cost until we’re living with what it really means—the unforeseen consequences, the unexpected sacrifices, the underestimated expectations.
Clinton had wanted this. He had worked for it. He had imagined what it would be like. And then, when it came, it was far more than he bargained for.
Thomas had wanted something too.
Maybe not with the same level of ambition, but certainly with longing. He had wanted Jesus to be alive. The other disciples had seen him—“We have seen the Lord!” But Thomas hadn’t. And the ache of loss was still raw. He wanted to believe, but he also wanted certainty. “Unless I see the nail marks… unless I put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”
And then, suddenly, Jesus was standing there.
Thomas had asked for proof. He got presence. He had demanded evidence. He received encounter. And now, faced with the reality of what he said he wanted, he wasn’t reaching for wounds or measuring miracles—he was falling to his knees. “My Lord and my God!”
Because that’s the other thing about wanting something: when we finally get it, it’s often more than we expected.
We want resurrection. We want hope. We want assurance that death isn’t the end. But do we really want what resurrection means? Because resurrection isn’t just life after death—it’s Jesus, victorious over death. And if he is victorious, then everything else—every lesser thing we live for, every passing authority, every competing allegiance—must bow.
The book of Revelation doesn’t leave room for doubt. Jesus isn’t just someone who came back to life. He is the firstborn of the dead, the Alpha and the Omega, the one who was, and is, and is to come. His resurrection isn’t just a miracle to be marveled at; it’s a declaration of his dominion.
And if we would share in his victory, we must receive it on his terms.
The problem is, we want the benefits of resurrection without the demands of it.
We want hope, but do we want surrender?
We want life, but do we want to lay aside everything else that would claim first place?
We live in a world where countless things demand our allegiance. From the earliest days of life, we’re taught to chase after the next big thing—get ahead, work harder, own more, be more. These pursuits promise security, success, happiness, but in the end, they rarely deliver.
For some, it’s the pursuit of a career—climbing a ladder built over decades, where work becomes the measure of worth. Many who devoted years to building their professional lives eventually ask themselves, “Was it worth it? Was the prestige worth the time away from family? Was the extra money worth the sacrifices made for a company that moved on the moment I left?”
For others, the drive has been for independence—the belief that if you pull yourself up by your bootstraps, you can control everything. That self-reliance, once a celebrated ideal, can turn into isolation. Placing faith in one’s ability to master every circumstance often comes at the expense of genuine connection and community, leaving a lingering emptiness despite the freedom once promised.
Then there’s the relentless pursuit of the perfect life—a vision of a home, a car, the ideal family, and a life of comfort. The promise of material success seduces many, only to be followed by a stark realization: instead of more time, more peace, and deeper connection, we often end up with mounting pressures, debts, and disillusionment.
All these promises—the security of wealth, the freedom of independence, the respect of status—are like empty wells. They demand our commitment, our trust, our allegiance, and in return, they deliver nothing but empty promises and lies. As David warns in the psalm, “Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, who cannot save.” Whether it’s a political figure, a corporation, or even our own ambitions, these mortal solutions are fleeting. They rise and fall, and if we place our trust in them, we will always be disappointed.
We say we want Jesus as Savior, but do we want him as the end-all-be-all of our lives? We say we want the benefits of resurrection—freedom, joy, and eternal life. But the truth is, resurrection isn’t just about life after death; it’s about life right now—life that comes from dying to everything else that would claim our loyalty. It’s about declaring Jesus Lord and God, and when we do that, it means denying everything that would try to take center stage in our lives.
Do we want Jesus to be our top priority? To really live according to his model of the godly life? To follow his path of surrender and service, of sacrificial love? To say “My Lord and my God” means taking every part of our lives—the work we do, the relationships we nurture, the values we hold dear—and placing them under the authority of Jesus. It’s not about having Jesus as just another addition on our shelf. It’s about him being the ultimate authority, above all else.
And that’s the rub, isn’t it? We want the benefits—hope, life, joy—but do we want the cost? Do we want Jesus to be everything, or do we just want him to fit neatly into our lives as a little extra help when we need it—a small comfort when things get tough?
If we want the benefits of Christ’s victory over death, we must relinquish everything else that competes for our allegiance. The resurrection means that Jesus is the one who holds true power over life and death. Everything else must fall into its rightful place under him. If we declare him Lord and God, then he’s not just part of our lives—he is our life, and nothing else can ever claim that spot.
Thomas got what he wanted, but it was more than he expected. More than he could have imagined. And his only response was to give up the last word, to relinquish every hesitation, every condition, every lesser desire.
To stand before the risen Christ and say the only words that make sense: My Lord and my God.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev'd Daniel W. Spigelmyer, Jr. 