the sun rises

For many years, I have woken up early on an Easter Sunday morning and watched as the darkness of night turns into morning with the rising of the sun. 

Every year, I've read the story of the resurrection and soaked in every detail: the women, the spices, the stone, the garden, the fear, the confusion, the angels, the joy. I've walked in the shoes of Mary, Peter, and John. I have also called out, "Rabboni." 

Easter is different now. I struggle to believe that any resurrection actually happened. But even so, I found myself gathering friends together to meet in the dawning hours of this morning. Last night, as I set my alarm and prepared warm clothes, I wondered what compelled me to maintain this tradition, what still moved me to meet the sunrise. 

Each of the apostles who comes to the tomb has no idea what to expect or what they will find. The expectations they do have are quickly abolished. They expect to find Jesus right where they laid him, right where he was supposed to be. Mary weeps and agonizes, asking where he has gone. In the earliest version of the resurrection story, the chapter ends with the women running away from the tomb terrified, not having seen any Jesus, full of confusion. 

I still find myself in that story. I realized that more than a story of victory and defeat and glory, the story of Easter morning meets me in my fear and unknown. I too come in the dark. I too come with expectations, assumptions, and interpretations that I may soon discover are obsolete. I too come in grief over what feels like the death of the Jesus I've always known. 

What the resurrection story still teaches me - whether it is true or not - is to simply come. To go to the tomb, and not to assume I know what I will find. 

Do I know the truth about this story and this faith? No, I don't. But I do know that the sun always rises.