The Words They Carved in Stone

In the ancient catacombs beneath Rome, two kinds of inscriptions line the tunnel walls. Pagan tombs bear the letters D.M. — Dis Manibus, "to the spirits of the dead" — followed by words of finality: "farewell forever," "eternal sleep," "no more." But walk a few passages deeper into the Christian burial chambers, and the language changes completely. There you find anchors, fish, and olive branches carved into limestone alongside words like in pace — "in peace" — and vivit, "he lives." One inscription from the second century reads simply: "Alexander is not dead, but lives above the stars."

These early believers were not naive optimists. Many had watched friends dragged into the Colosseum. They had buried their own children in these very tunnels. They knew death with brutal intimacy. Yet they carved hope into rock — literally — because they staked everything on the claim Paul makes in 1 Corinthians 15: that Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep.

Paul understood that the resurrection is not a pleasant footnote to the gospel — it is the keystone. Pull it out, and every one of those catacomb inscriptions becomes a cruel lie. Every martyr died for nothing. Every grieving mother was deceived. But if Christ is risen — and Paul insists He is — then Alexander really does live above the stars, and so shall all who belong to Him.