From Presidential Platforms to Empty Tombs: Power That Stays

Years back, Gracie—my wife—had the kind of moment most of us only dream about: singing for President George W. Bush at a Nashville event. That performance was more than just a song; it opened doors, including one straight to the 2004 Republican National Convention at Madison Square Garden in New York. After Gracie sang in New York, we got swept into the president's box, seated just behind George H. W. and Barbara Bush. The next day, another call from the White House: they wanted us on the platform as President Bush accepted his nomination. Talk about being in the thick of history—flags everywhere, the crowd a living, breathing force, and there we were, clapping until our palms stung, just over the president’s left shoulder.

But the moment that stuck with me most didn’t happen under the bright lights. A week after that Nashville event, I found myself walking past the very ballroom that had been the epicenter of American power—packed with Secret Service, media, and the president himself. Now? The room was empty. Not a chair, not a flag, not a trace of the whirlwind that had blown through. Just four walls waiting for the next big thing.

That’s the thing about earthly power: it might roar, but it never lingers. The stage gets packed up. The applause fades. Even Madison Square Garden, which can feel like the center of the universe one night, is just an arena again the next.

When I watched President Donald Trump’s second inauguration, I saw former President Bush and Laura enter the Capitol Rotunda to polite applause—a far cry from the thunder they once commanded. The glory of office had already moved on. Earthly power is loud, it’s impressive, but it sure doesn’t last.

Contrast that with the story of Christ. He didn’t step onto a stage—He was lifted onto a Roman cross, not to inspire but to save. Golgotha was no grand arena; it was more like a garbage dump than center stage. There was no spotlight, no entourage, no applause—just a Savior and a cross.

Presidents hold borrowed power. Christ doesn’t borrow anything. Here’s the difference: when a president leaves, the power goes with him. But when Christ enters a life, He stays. He’s not in it for the ceremony; He’s here to reign, and His authority never packs up and leaves.

I’ll never forget that Madison Square Garden night—President Bush stepping forward, the air crackling with energy. But that was just a spark. The resurrection of Christ? That was an earthquake. Presidents take an oath for a term; Jesus sealed an eternal promise with His own blood. Presidents eventually leave the stage. Christ left a grave. The world might shake with applause for its leaders, but the earth itself shook at Christ’s resurrection.

Once, I stood in the shadow of power on a stage the whole world watched. At Easter, I remember the One who holds the whole world. Earthly power is fleeting, but Easter is a reminder that some power doesn’t just visit—it moves in and stays.