Rejoicing in the Resurrection during COVID-19

Easter doesn't feel the same this year. 

There's no celebrations at church, no Easter egg hunts in the park, no family gatherings. We will not gather in Christ's name and proclaim the Resurrection through loud singing and collective Amens. It is possible that some of us will spend the holiday alone - watching streamed services in our apartments, away from our families and the rest of the body of Christ. Usually, people dress up in bright colors and smiles abound in church services. Not this year. It's not just the absence of these things though that have changed the feel of Easter. The world is in crisis and we're expected to rejoice?

Easter is meant to be a time of celebration and joy. Language of rejoicing surrounds the day. Charles Wesley's famous Easter hymn rings out: "Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!" We rejoice at Christmas at the birth of our Savior, but Easter brings a different type of rejoicing. The rejoicing Easter aligns with the springtime and we are able to hope for sunnier days again (at least in places in the Northern Hemisphere where the four seasons run their course). But, this year feels different.

I will be the first to admit that it has been hard to observe Holy Week this year. I can barely tell you what day it is, let alone recognize the significance of each of the days that have passed. And, while I grieve every year on Good Friday, hopeful of the resurrection, this year, it feels as if I am stuck in one long Holy Saturday. I can't seem to look forward to Easter.

Good Friday is a day of reflective and collective recognition of the death of Jesus, the Son of God. Christian traditions observe this in different ways based on their particular theology of the significance of the cross. You may have particular rituals for Good Friday. Perhaps you follow the Stations of the Cross, fast, or light candles. I have always felt an almost supernatural shift in my mood when I walk into a church on Good Friday. One of the churches I attended growing up had a large cross standing in the center of the church. In any case, the crucifixion was unavoidable.

I always cry on Good Friday. While my understanding of the cross and the crucifixion has evolved and developed over time, I am always struck by the sheer brutality of it. I remember the first time I really envisioned the cross. I remember being so afraid of the picture that my imagination had constructed. It was horrifying. I couldn't shake the image of Christ crucified from my mind, and it's an image that returns every Good Friday. And so, I cry. I cry because I am still afraid of the image my mind conjures up. I cry as my heart breaks that humanity could be so cruel. And I cry because I don't understand. I don't understand how it works. I continue to struggle with the violence at the heart of my faith. How can it be that I am saved because someone died? It's a question that I wrestle with every single year.

But, this year, things are different. Good Friday is ordinarily a shock to the system. I am reminded of a great trauma and I remain stuck in it until I rejoice with my church family on Sunday morning. It's like Jesus dies and is resurrected every single year. This year though, I am already shook to the core. It may have been a number of weeks since the World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a pandemic, but the shock has not dissipated. I wouldn't even say I'm in aftershock. I am shook every single day that I wake up and am reminded that my life is not normal anymore.

Ordinarily, each morning, I would wake up, Andrew would go to work and I would quietly (but unashamedly) fall back asleep. Then, when I eventually would wake up, I would leave my house, go to the Divinity School, hang out with my friends, go to class, pretend to do my reading, come home, write some stuff, and wait for Andrew to get home so that my evening of more working and reading can begin. Now, though, I wake up. So does Andrew. Andrew doesn't leave for work, which means I don't get to fall back asleep because he'll (rightly) wake me up again. Sometimes, my friends and I talk over Zoom, but that's not every day. I sit in the same chair from dawn to dusk, writing and drawing and trying to read. There's no movement, no real interaction with anyone other than Andrew, and I feel an overwhelming sense of loss.

For me, this year, it felt like Christ died when everything changed. I felt the shock and grief of Good Friday and I cried. And now, I'm just waiting. Waiting for the resurrection of normalcy. Waiting in Holy Saturday for things to get better, not knowing if they ever will.

Like Good Friday, people have varying Holy Saturday traditions. Altars are covered in black, sanctuaries are stripped bare, and some refrain from ordinarily joyous activities. For every Christian, whether they formally observe the day or not, there is sense of solemn waiting. The Son of God has died and, while we know how the story ends, we still sit in the waiting.

This year, we wait with a different anticipation. Like we anticipate Easter on Holy Saturday, we anticipate the day when COVID-19 will end and our "normal" lives will resume. But, unlike Holy Saturday, we don't know how this story ends.

So, I feel a newfound sense of solidarity with the disciples. Normally, I relate to their sheer lack of understanding, their seemingly stupid questions and the ways they earnestly try to help Jesus (but still often fail). The disciples were scattered on Holy Saturday and must have wondered if they would ever gather together again. Some of them denied Christ, others of them ran away. Maybe you feel the same as some of those disciples. Maybe it's easy to run from Christ at this time, not because you want to, but because access to church - the place where you find most connection with him - is hard. It's once again easy to feel like the disciples as we scatter.

I encourage you this Easter weekend to be like Mary Magdalene. It is not unlike me to identify the women in the Bible and long for more of their stories. But, reflecting on her encounter with Jesus in John 20, there's something there that each of us can learn this weekend. John 20:1-10 reads:

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes. (John 20:1-10, NRSV)

Mary Magdalene went to the tomb. Given that the Saturday was the Sabbath day, this was the earliest opportunity she had to go there. She went "while it was still dark." Maybe she went at that time to avoid being seen. Maybe she went at that time to ensure she would be the first one there that day, and get precious time alone with Christ's body. Maybe she couldn't sleep, still traumatized by the crucifixion, and needed to get away. We will never know her motivations for going to the tomb, but we know that when she did and saw that it was empty, she ran to share the news. She was afraid that they had taken her Savior, but she was not afraid to boldly go to the disciples and demand their help. The disciples returned home. Mary stayed by the tomb. Even after she had been dismissed by the disciples, she remained.

And Jesus appears to her. In John 20:11-18, it reads:

But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her. (John 20:11-18, NRSV)

She wept outside the tomb. She drew near to Jesus, just as Jesus was too drawing near to her. This Easter, I encourage you to draw near with faith to the empty tomb. Christ drew near to Mary as she was weeping at the tomb, and Christ draws near to us as we weep there also.

We can rejoice then because we know that Christ does come back. He came softly in the words to Mary Magdalene in the garden. He called her by name, evidence of his resurrection. So too is Jesus calling us each by name, ushering us in to celebration. This Easter may seem to be characterized by loneliness and grief. We mourn the loss of our ordinary Easter. We miss our friends and long to sing in union with the body of Christ.

But, we need not fear it. It is in Mary's weeping that Jesus calls to her. It is in her grief and her sorrow and her loneliness that Jesus comes. For now, it may seem as if we are stuck in Holy Saturday. It may be hard to muster the energy to rejoice. It may feel like we are weeping outside of an empty tomb. But, it is in these moments that Christ comes to us.

This Easter Sunday will inevitably be different this year, but my prayer for us is that we will draw near to Christ in the solitude. And, that, when Easter comes next year, we will remember that Christ did come in the midst of silence and weeping and grief. Christ did not come as loudly as our voices ring out on Easter morning. Christ came quietly to the garden to his beloved follower, as too will he come to each of us.

No matter how we might feel right now, we will get through this. There is cause to be hopeful, for Christ gives us an everlasting hope. Even though the world is constantly changing around us, we will continue