The tomb was not empty. It was never confirmed, never documented by neutral observers, and never investigated with the tools of history. It was a story—a tale told in grief, then in myth, then in empire.

The so-called witnesses disagreed on everything: who was there, when they arrived, what they saw. Some saw angels. Others saw men. Some saw Jesus. Others just the linens. Some were terrified. Others ran to tell the disciples. If this were a court case, it would be thrown out before the first argument was made.

We are told to believe that a dead body disappeared without decomposition, without a trace, and left behind no blood, no decay, no scent of rot. But we are also told this by men who needed the body to vanish—because a Messiah who dies and stays dead is no Messiah at all.

The truth is this: ancient people had no concept of forensic integrity. There were no coroners, no DNA tests, no sealed evidence. A stolen body becomes a holy mystery. A missing corpse becomes a divine triumph.

But absence is not resurrection. Silence is not proof. And contradiction is not revelation.

The empty tomb is a metaphor. It is not an event—it is a narrative construct. A symbol of hope for the broken. But when symbols are mistaken for facts, delusion begins. And when billions build empires on that delusion, truth becomes dangerous.

We interrogate this tomb not to destroy faith, but to deliver the mind from hostage.

The bones of revolution do not rise from graves—they rise in minds that are no longer afraid to ask, "What if they lied?"