John Chapter 20 – Commentary and Explanation Bible Study (Verse by Verse)
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There’s something about John Chapter 20 that just breathes hope right into your chest. It’s like standing outside before dawn, shivering in the chill, waiting for the first light to break through after the longest night. You can almost smell the damp earth, feel the heavy silence, and then — a sudden tremor in the air, something’s changing. This is the chapter where everything shifts. The cross looked like the end, but this… this is the beginning of beginnings.
Verse 1 – “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance.”
Still dark. That phrase always hits me. It’s not just a time description; it’s emotional. “Still dark” — that’s how grief feels, doesn’t it? When something dear has died and you still wake up early, still go looking, but your world hasn’t yet caught up to hope.
Mary Magdalene — what a woman. She loved Jesus in this deep, loyal way that words can’t even stretch to explain. She didn’t come expecting resurrection; she came to mourn, to weep, maybe to tend to His body one last time. And then… the stone was gone. Can you imagine her heart racing? Fear, confusion, a little hope maybe, but mostly that gut punch of something’s wrong again.
Sometimes, God starts His greatest works in the dark, when we least expect it. Mary’s faith was raw, not polished. She didn’t have perfect theology — just love that kept showing up, even when it hurt. That’s the kind of faith God honors.
Verses 2–4 – “So she came running to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one Jesus loved, and said, ‘They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!’”
She ran. Panic. Her heart breaking all over again. “They’ve taken Him.” That’s what trauma does — it makes you expect the worst.
Peter and John (the “other disciple”) run too. I can almost hear their sandals slapping against the dirt, their breath fast and sharp. John outruns Peter — he’s younger, maybe lighter — but he stops at the entrance. That small detail always feels so human. You reach the edge of something holy, and you pause. Maybe fear, maybe awe.
Peter though, impulsive as always, bursts right in. That’s Peter — bold, messy, full-hearted. The kind who falls hard but loves harder.
You can almost picture this small moment: the dawn light creeping, tomb air cold and stale, the quiet of death — and two men breathing heavy, hearts pounding, realizing something impossible might have happened.
Verses 5–7 – “He bent over and looked in at the strips of linen lying there but did not go in. Then Simon Peter came along behind him and went straight into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen lying there, as well as the cloth that had been wrapped around Jesus’ head. The cloth was still lying in its place, separate from the linen.”
Little details like these — they’re not random. They feel like eyewitness memory. The linen folded, the head cloth set apart. That’s not what a grave robbery looks like. Thieves don’t tidy up.
This is order after chaos. Resurrection doesn’t come with lightning and thunder here — it comes quietly, neatly, like a calm morning after a storm.
The folded cloth speaks. It whispers of peace, of Jesus being in control even after death. He didn’t need to fight His way out; He chose to rise, like a man stretching after a deep sleep.
And maybe that’s the lesson — resurrection isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet, gentle, deliberate. Sometimes hope sneaks up on you like sunrise.
Verse 8 – “Finally the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went inside. He saw and believed.”
That line always gets me. He saw and believed. No angel, no voice from heaven — just empty linen.
Faith can start small, in moments that look empty. John saw absence and believed presence. That’s what faith is, really — believing in what isn’t there yet, because something deep inside you knows it’s true.
It’s strange, isn’t it? They didn’t understand yet that Jesus must rise from the dead, but still, John believed. Sometimes understanding comes later. Faith often walks ahead of reason.
Verses 9–10 – “(They still did not understand from Scripture that Jesus had to rise from the dead.) Then the disciples went back to where they were staying.”
They saw, they believed — sort of. But they didn’t fully get it.
And that’s comforting, actually. Even the closest disciples didn’t have it all figured out. They loved Jesus, they followed Him, they saw miracles — and still, they didn’t understand everything. That’s okay. Faith doesn’t mean having all the answers. It means staying close enough to keep learning.
Verses 11–13 – “Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus’ body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot.”
There she is again — Mary, the faithful heart who stayed when the others left. She doesn’t run this time; she just weeps. Sometimes grief roots you to the spot.
And then, angels. But even that doesn’t comfort her at first. She’s too lost in sorrow to notice heaven in front of her. That’s how pain works — it narrows your vision.
They ask her, “Woman, why are you crying?” and she answers, brokenly, “They have taken my Lord away.” She still calls Him my Lord — even in despair, He’s still hers. Love clings even when understanding doesn’t.
Verse 14–16 – “At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.”
This verse always feels like a whisper from eternity. She saw Him but didn’t know it was Him.
How many times has that happened to us? We’re crying, begging for God to show up, and He’s right there — we just don’t recognize Him because we’re expecting something else.
Jesus asks, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?” She thinks He’s the gardener. That’s both tender and ironic — He is the Gardener, in a deeper sense. The new Adam, in a new garden, beginning creation again.
And then — He says her name. “Mary.” Just one word. That’s all it takes. She turns and says, “Rabboni!” (Teacher).
He doesn’t explain theology or shout, “I’m risen!” He just says her name.
There’s something unspeakably beautiful about that. God doesn’t just rise from the dead — He calls us by name.
Verse 17 – “Jesus said, ‘Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them…”
That “Do not hold on to me” always used to confuse me. But I think He wasn’t rejecting her — He was inviting her to something bigger. He wasn’t gone; He was ascending. His presence would soon be everywhere, not just in one body.
He calls His disciples brothers now. That’s new. Before, He called them servants, then friends. Now — brothers. Because His death and resurrection made them family.
Mary becomes the first messenger of the resurrection. The first preacher of the Good News was not a man, not a priest — it was Mary Magdalene, weeping one moment, proclaiming the next. That says something profound about how God chooses people.
Verses 18–20 – “Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: ‘I have seen the Lord!’”
I can almost hear her voice trembling — half joy, half disbelief, tears still drying on her cheeks. “I have seen the Lord!”
You know what’s beautiful? She didn’t have to explain everything. She just shared what she saw. That’s how testimony works — not polished speeches, but honest encounters.
And yet, the disciples didn’t believe her right away (Luke’s Gospel mentions that). Even so, truth doesn’t wait for belief. It just is.
Verse 19 – “On the evening of that first day of the week, when the disciples were together, with the doors locked for fear of the Jewish leaders, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you!’”
Locked doors. Fear. And then — Jesus appears. No knocking, no dramatic entrance, just… there. Peace breaking through panic.
That’s how He still comes, sometimes — quietly, unexpectedly, through our locked hearts.
“Peace be with you.” Those words aren’t just greeting; they’re healing. He’s saying, It’s over. The fear, the shame, the running — peace now.
If I imagine that room, I see faces pale with shock, eyes wide, and then this wave of realization and relief. The air itself must have changed. The scent of oil lamps, sweat, maybe tears — suddenly filled with peace.
Verses 20–23 – “After he said this, he showed them his hands and side.”
Proof of love, not just proof of life. The scars remain, even in glory.
Isn’t that something? Resurrection doesn’t erase the wounds; it redeems them. His scars tell the story of love that went all the way through death.
He breathes on them — “Receive the Holy Spirit.” That small breath carried eternity. Creation 2.0. Just as God breathed life into Adam, now Jesus breathes new life into His followers.
He also gives them authority to forgive. That’s massive. It’s like He’s saying, I’m sending you out to carry what I started — reconciliation.
Verses 24–25 – “Now Thomas (also known as Didymus), one of the Twelve, was not with the disciples when Jesus came.”
Thomas. The doubter, though maybe that’s unfair. He was just honest. He missed the moment — maybe out getting food or too broken to gather.
When they tell him, “We have seen the Lord,” he doesn’t believe it. And honestly? I get it. Grief makes you suspicious of hope.
He says, “Unless I see the nail marks and put my finger where the nails were, I won’t believe.” He’s not being rebellious; he’s being real.
Sometimes, faith begins with honesty like that. Doubt isn’t the enemy of faith — dishonesty is.
Verses 26–28 – “A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you!’”
Jesus shows up again — same locked doors, same peace offered. He doesn’t scold Thomas. No lecture, no shame. Just patience.
He says, “Put your finger here… stop doubting and believe.” It’s tender, almost intimate. Jesus meets Thomas exactly where his doubt demanded proof.
And Thomas responds, “My Lord and my God!” The strongest confession of faith in the whole Gospel.
Isn’t it amazing how Jesus turns doubt into worship? Sometimes the people who question hardest love deepest once they see truth for themselves.
Verse 29 – “Then Jesus told him, ‘Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.’”
That’s us — you and me. The ones who haven’t seen with eyes but still believe.
This verse feels like Jesus looking straight through time. A soft blessing whispered into the centuries. Belief without sight — that’s the hardest, but it’s also the most precious kind.
Faith is not blindness; it’s trust. It’s saying, “I may not see, but I know.”
Verses 30–31 – “Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not recorded in this book. But these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.”
The chapter closes with this purpose statement — and it’s beautiful. Everything written here, every word, is so we might believe and find life.
Notice it says “life,” not “religion.” Real life — pulsing, joyful, purposeful life in His name.
John doesn’t end with Jesus ascending or giving final commands. He ends with belief — because that’s where life begins.
Reflection – The Resurrection and the Heart
John 20 isn’t just a story about a miracle 2,000 years ago. It’s about resurrection now — in you, in me.
Every one of us has a tomb — some dark place where hope died. Maybe a relationship, a dream, a version of yourself. We stand outside sometimes like Mary, crying, thinking it’s over. But Jesus is often standing right behind us, whispering our name.
Resurrection doesn’t erase grief. The scars remain. But they shine differently in the light of dawn.
There’s a quiet invitation in this chapter:
Come and see. Touch and believe. And then go tell others that life has won.
Because the story isn’t over. It’s just beginning.
A Personal Thought
Sometimes, when I read John 20, I remember mornings from my own life — after heartbreak, loss, confusion — when I thought God was silent. And then, in some small way, He spoke. Maybe through a person, maybe through a verse, maybe just peace I couldn’t explain.
That’s resurrection life. Not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just waking up one more day and finding enough strength to say, “I have seen the Lord,” even if only in a whisper.
And I guess that’s what this chapter really is — not just history, but invitation.
To believe again. To love again. To rise again.
“Peace be with you.”
Those words echo through every locked door of fear, every weary heart, every shadowed morning.
He is alive. And because He lives, so can we.
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