O nata lux

I struggle with Easter. It is the pinnacle of the Christian liturgical calendar, the highest of holy days. And yet, it has not resonated with me.

The coming of spring and new life is part of my life experience and is welcome. Easter is happily aligned with the vernal equinox thanks to pagan influence. There is, as Christians say, new life in Christ. I've even had to remind myself that the Latin phrase-concept nata lux, "birth of light" refers to Christmas, not Easter. Yet Easter could be described as a birth of light -- as the days get longer, the stone is rolled away from the tomb. Jesus, light of the world, is reborn through resurrection.

But as we celebrate it, Easter is about the resurrection's implications for salvation, the defeat of death. "Up from the grave he arose, with a mighty triumph o'er his foes!"; "Christ is arisen and we shall not die!" the hymns go. But my faith is not one of Christus victor theology, not one that emphasizes salvation, and certainly not personal salvation. And to me, what comes after death is less important than what comes before. The gospels, which come between Christmas and Easter, which are elevated above the rest of the Bible in Mennonite theology, are the heart and soul of my faith.

And on Easter, when the gospels come to an end, perhaps it is natural to feel a little lost. It's like finishing a captivating novel -- I'm never satisfied with the ending, and I wish to be back in the throes of the narrative. On Easter morning, I'm with the disciples. I want to be with Jesus again as he heals and multiplies food and drink and speaks in parables and teaches what is dangerous, exciting, new, even revolutionary. I want to come along with this Messiah as he brings in the Kingdom of God. I am not comfortable with Easter morning reality. I do not want this empty tomb, this figure who is unrecognizable even as he speaks to Mary in the garden and the disciples on the road to Emmaus, whom Thomas must touch to believe.

And then, one by one, the disciples recognize Jesus. They come to terms with the new, impossible reality that their belief was not in vain. This miraculous reappearance cements their certainty that this Messiah was for real, although this new reality was unexpected and maybe even a little disappointing for some of them who were expecting a significantly different manifestation of God's kingdom. But here among them was the impossible. This experience would be the push that gave the early church momentum. Rather than return, defeated, to their hometowns, they would "make disciples of all nations."

As we observe Holy Week, we know what's coming. Part of our yearly cycle, it lacks the despair it held for the disciples; it is preparation for the celebration of Easter, not the end of everything we hold dear. Easter is not a surprise for us. And there is a lot of theology between us and those who experienced the resurrection in the gospel stories. Easter means both more and less. This - this separation - is where Easter loses meaning for me.

With the disciples, we have learned from Jesus how to build God's kingdom. And today, Jesus, our teacher, the prophet, is born anew from the grave. The birth of light, which the darkness has not overcome. As we, with the disciples but in a different way, suspend reality to experience the risen Christ, we come to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is the anointed one, God's son, love embodied, the light of the world. In Jesus' resurrection, our journey is validated. The end of the gospel story is satisfying.