Do I Believe in the Resurrection of Jesus?

This is the big question most of us put off until the end of our deconstruction. For very good reasons.

Resurrection

A confession in three parts: death, descent, and return

Yesterday I wrote about two of the biggest questions I get all the time:

• Do you believe Jesus is the Son of God?

• Do you believe the Bible is the word of God?

But today I got another one.

Or rather, a statement that sounds like a question—usually offered as reassurance, from someone trying to be generous:

“Well… as long as you still believe Jesus died and rose again on the third day, that’s all that really matters.”

I’ve heard some version of that fifty times this year.

And every time, I want to say:
I believe in the resurrection more than ever.

But not the way you think.

Because what I believe now was only made possible by letting go of what I used to believe.

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Allow me to say this.

As I deconstructed, the bodily resurrection of Jesus was the very last “miracle” I let go of.

Mainly because it felt like the final death blow to my Christianity.

And thus, in some ways, a death to my whole life story.

And here’s the thing.

When I let go of it—it was a death.

A death to my Christianity.
The one I had inherited.
The one I had bet my life on.
The one I held onto with white-knuckled fear for decades.

It died the moment I let Jesus die.
And let his body stay dead.

And in truth, I entered the tomb with him.

For a season, I died too.

I told no one.

Not my family.
Not my friends.
Not a soul.

At the time—maybe ten years ago—I was no longer on staff at a church. But I still preached occasionally as a guest. I needed to be Christian enough to speak in churches… and to speak to my family.

So I found ways to preach without lying.

I talked about love.
About grace, forgiveness, community.
All things I still believed in.

But if you'd hooked me up to a lie detector back then and asked, "Are you a Christian?"
I would have said no.

Because I no longer “believed in the resurrection.”

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I knew there were progressive and some mainline Christians who saw the resurrection as symbolic.

I knew you could take it figuratively and still call yourself a believer.

But my heart couldn’t make that leap.
Not yet.

So I decided I was an atheist.

A materialist atheist… who still liked Jesus.

At least, the stories and teachings we have that claim to be from him.

And what may seem strange is—I don’t remember when I became a Christian again.

Maybe I always was. I can’t say.

Or maybe I became one again the moment I allowed myself to believe I was one.

I had a gradual resurrection.

I remember facing a hard decision.
Comforting a grieving friend.
Managing my anger.
Trying not to gossip.
Choosing how to treat an enemy.
Struggling with fear.

And every time, I thought about Jesus.

What would he say?
What would his stories teach me to do?

And weirdly, even when I didn’t want to do what I thought Jesus would do… I always did it.

He was still my… I don’t know.
Teacher?
Guru?
Moral compass?

But eventually, it felt like something deeper.

He became like my conscience.
Like someone I obeyed—even when I didn’t want to.

And if you obey someone all the time…

That makes you kind of like their understudy or student.
Or, their disciple, maybe?
Or, if you really think about it… their… servant?

And if you're a servant, they’re a master.

And “master” is just another word for Lord.

So, excuse the language, but I basically woke up one day and realized:

“Holy shit. Jesus is Lord.”

And I’d studied enough through the years to know:
That’s the earliest Christian confession we have.

Not “I believe in the virgin birth.”
Not “I believe the tomb was empty.”
Just this:
“Jesus is Lord.”

So now I had work to do.

Because somehow—without even trying—I had become a Christian again.

Not because I believe his corpse revived.

But because I believe his story never stayed dead.

His body decayed. But his truth didn’t.
His voice didn’t.
His invitation didn’t.

That’s when I began the journey into mysticism.
And held onto my materialism.

And that’s how I became a Materialist Mystic Christian.

Do I believe in the resurrection?

Yes.

More than ever.

But not as a reanimated body.

I believe in resurrection as the deepest truth we have access to.
As a pattern the universe runs on.
As a metaphor that saves—not because it happened once in history, but because it keeps happening in all of us.

And suddenly, the most impactful Christian mystic in human history started to make sense to me. I had mostly written off Paul when I walked away from substitutionary atonement.

But wouldn’t you know it—one day I woke up and said:

“Holy shit. Paul gets it.”

I could still quote half of what he wrote. But for the first time, I believed it.
Because now, I had actually been resurrected with Christ.

And it meant nothing like what I thought it meant my whole life.

“We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead… we too may live a new life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly also be united with him in a resurrection like his.”
—Romans 6:4–5

Maybe it’s a truth so big, you can’t accept it until it happens to you.

So, yeah. I belive in resurrection.

And I happen to think the Jesus story is the most influential resurrection myth in human history.

But it’s certainly not the only one.

Nearly every religion, every tribe, every culture has resurrection stories at the center of their mythic imagination. Even humanism and atheism are full of resurrection metaphors. And science? It quietly agrees—energy doesn’t disappear. It just changes form. Everything that dies literally contributes to new life.

So I’d argue this:
Resurrection—defined a certain way—is an undeniable truth.
It’s real both mythically and materially.
Spiritually and scientifically.

So believe whatever you want about what happened to Jesus’ body.

But also believe this, especially if you’re in the middle of deconstruction:

If you feel like you're dying right now… or dead inside… or slowly being crushed by grief, fear, or uncertainty—
I understand. I was there too. It sucks.
But it’s normal.

And like all energy in the universe—and like the Jesus story—this pain won’t actually kill you.

It will change you.

After three metaphorical days of hopeless darkness…

You too will rise again.

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EDIT - I wrote a follow-up piece to this article. You can read it here.

Life follows death.