I Was Not There

Easter in Connecticut is rarely warm. It is usually cold and gray--which isn't saying much, because Connecticut weather can be described as cold and gray for roughly six to eight months of the year. When I was a child, we sometimes attended an Easter sunrise service on the beach. I'm not sure who started this tradition, but attending a sunrise service on Long Island Sound is more a display of grit and religious dedication than a chance to enjoy the crashing beauty of the ocean. There's nothing quite like being lashed by sea winds at six in the morning while chattering through "Christ the Lord is Risen Today."

Yet despite these chilly moments, Easter always ushered in an internal warmth. There is much to love about the narrative of Easter Sunday, but besides the actual resurrection bit, my favorite aspect of the story is the fact that I was not there.

The haunting African-American spiritual often performed on Good Friday asks, 

"Were you there when they crucified my Lord?...

Were you there when they nailed him to the cross?...

Were you there when they pierced him in the side?...

Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?...

Were you there when he rose up from the grave?" 

The answer—quite obviously—is no. I'm not yet thirty-five. Do the math, and it should become clear that I wasn't anywhere near Jerusalem circa 33 A.D.

I am an American, and a Connecticut Yankee at that. Ingrained into my psyche is the belief in rugged individualism and the importance of accomplishing goals through willpower; I'm subconsciously committed to pulling myself up by my proverbial bootstraps.  American Christianity tends to follow this motif of self-help, as book after book is published yearly, offering us wisdom on how to overcome anxiety, poverty, lust, discontentment, marital strife, and countless other ills--with God's help, of course, but also with a good dose of our own effort. 

Several years ago, I stopped listening to most of what is currently produced and marketed as Christian music, mainly because much of it has turned into what I like to call "Christian Stomachache Music"--lyrics describing what the speaker is doing, feeling, wanting, etc, rather than actually focusing on God himself. About the same time, I also stopped reading Christian self-help books. Those books--like much of contemporary Christian music--leave me tired and distraught that I'm not doing enough.

Resurrection Icon from the Benaki Collection

Four years ago, as I wandered through the Benaki Museum with Benjamin, an icon tucked inconspicuously on a side wall arrested my attention. It depicts the Ανάσταση, the Resurrection. The image is Christ rising from Hell, holding the wrists of two of the dead and lifting them up with him. What struck me most was that this lifting from death to life was entirely one-sided. Christ is holding the wrists--not the hands--of the two individuals. There is no you-hold-onto-me-and-I'll-hold-onto-you going on here. There's just Jesus, pulling two people up entirely by himself. 

The icon is a prefect representation of Christ's words in John 11:25, "I am the resurrection and the life." If Christ is the resurrection, then one thing is very certain: I am not the resurrection. I am not a vital element of the Easter story..

Part of the essence and beauty of Easter is that it exists entirely independent of my efforts. It is finished. It is done. Let the cold winds of the sea blow while I bask in the glorious, eternal completedness of a task in which I had no part, but of which I am forever a beneficiary.

On Easter morning, the only thing left to do is to stand in awe, to listen amidst the crash of the ocean, and to hear the echoing words of the risen Christ:

"Peace be with you!"