Easter Morning and the Master Teacher Who Leads Us to Peace

 

“By His Stripes We Are Healed”: Learning to Forgive Through Christ Who Overcame All

Forgiveness may be one of the greatest challenges we ever face. For those who have been hurt, betrayed, abused, or wronged, the path toward healing can feel impossible. We know we're commanded to forgive, but how? How do we release the pain that wasn't ours to carry in the first place?

This is the power—and the beauty—of Gethsemane.

In Come, Let Us Adore Him, Denver Snuffer describes a vision of the Lord’s suffering. What was shown wasn't just a glimpse of agony—it was a revelation of divine instruction. This was not pain for pain’s sake. It was the Savior learning, in the extremity of experience, how to succor His people. Denver wrote:

“The Lord was required to overcome both [the sinner and the victim] so that He could succor both” (Come, Let Us Adore Him, p. 10, emphasis added).

The word succor means “assistance in a time of distress.” What kind of assistance does He give? Not fairy dust. Not a magic wand to make us instantly pure. He gives us something better: a Teacher. One who knows exactly how it feels, because He felt it all.

“The waves of torment suffered by the Lord came in pairs… The first of each wave poured upon the Lord those feelings, regrets… felt by those who injured their fellow man. Then followed a second wave… [the] anger, bitterness and resentments felt by those who suffered these wrongs” (Come, Let Us Adore Him, p. 9).

And here is the key: He overcame each wave. Not by avoiding them, but by facing them. He learned what it takes to forgive. He experienced what it feels like to want justice more than peace, to ache with righteous pain, and then to let it go. He didn’t just command us to forgive—He learned how to do it so He could teach us how.

“He overcame them all. He descended below them all. He comprehends it all. And He knows how to bring peace to them all” (Come, Let Us Adore Him, p. 10).

Forgiveness doesn’t come from pretending the pain wasn’t real. It comes from walking through the suffering with Christ as our guide. He doesn’t take away the struggle. He walks beside us in it. He promises, “I’ll show you how. I’ve done this before.”

And the question becomes: Are we willing to be taught?

The Lord Himself said to Joseph Smith:

“For behold, I, God, have suffered these things for all, that they might not suffer if they would repent… Which suffering caused myself, even God, the greatest of all, to tremble because of pain, and to bleed at every pore… Nevertheless, glory be to the Father, and I partook and finished my preparations unto the children of men.” (T&C 4:5)

He finished His preparations. Now He invites us to begin ours. He prepared the path. Our preparation is the walk.

Easter morning is not just a moment of victory—it is an invitation. The Lord lives. And because He lives, He can teach. Because He understands every pain, He can guide us through our own. Because He forgave all, He can show us how.

“He can bring peace to any soul. He can help those who will come to Him love their fellow man. He alone is the Perfect Teacher because He alone has the knowledge each of us lack to return to being whole and at peace with God” (Come, Let Us Adore Him, p. 11).

This is what we celebrate: not just that He rose, but that He is present. Ready to teach. Ready to succor. Ready to lead us to peace—not by bypassing the hard road, but by walking it with us.

The question is not whether He can teach us.

The question is: Are we willing to learn?

If you’ve never listened to Gethsemane by Rob Gardner, please do. It is one of the most powerful musical portrayals of the Atonement I’ve ever experienced. The deep, rich tones of the bass cello seem to be the voice of Jesus—full of sorrow, weight, and unwavering love. In the opening, He is alone, and you can feel the loneliness, the pain, the raw ache of what He is about to endure.

Then, slowly, the rest of the orchestra joins in—and something beautiful happens. It’s as if you’re hearing a divine conversation: the Son communing with His Father. There is comfort, instruction, response. The music becomes not only expression, but connection.

And when the choir enters, it’s as if heaven itself is witnessing and rejoicing—not in joy over His pain, but in reverent awe of His love. The triumph doesn’t erase the sorrow—it redeems it. The whole piece remains sacred, somber, but deeply victorious.