Easter is the high point of the Christian year. Eastertide lasts between Easter Sunday and Pentecost. It is a season of resurrection. Eastertide takes place in Springtime, a time of new blooms and new leaves, when nature itself seems brimming with new life. Yet the resurrection we celebrate as Christians is unique.
Trees lose their leaves in the fall and go dormant, budding in the springtime. Jesus Christ did not go dormant. He did not go to sleep. He died. And then the impossible happened.
Resurrection is a belief that the God of all creation has defeated death and will make all things new, beginning with Jesus, continuing with all of us. The Christian hope does not rest in clouds and harps but in the new creation, in all things being made new.
To live into resurrection is to imagine something more than the possible. We often times feel limited with what we can or cannot do. Resurrection points beyond these limits. Resurrection lets us hope in a concrete possibility of abundant life, but only if Jesus really did rise. Here is what the Third Article of Religion states:
Article III — Of the Resurrection of Christ
Christ did truly rise again from the dead, and took again his body, with all things appertaining to the perfection of man's nature, wherewith he ascended into heaven, and there sitteth until he returns to judge all men at the last day.
Another description of Resurrection that I appreciate is from a poem by the novelist, John Updike. Updike wrote it in his twenties for a magazine, but it has a lasting power because of the biological details: 'amino acids', 'valved heart.' The poem helps us to remember that resurrection is not a metaphor. Or, if it is, than it is truly worthless to us.
Seven Stanzas at Easter by John Updike
Make no mistake: if he rose at all
It was as His body;
If the cell’s dissolution did not reverse, the molecule reknit,
The amino acids rekindle,
The Church will fall.
It was not as the flowers,
Each soft spring recurrent;
It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the
It was as His flesh; ours.
The same hinged thumbs and toes
The same valved heart
That—pierced—died, withered, paused, and then regathered
Out of enduring Might
New strength to enclose.
Let us not mock God with metaphor,
Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence,
Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded
Credulity of earlier ages:
Let us walk through the door.
The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
Not a stone in a story,
But the vast rock of materiality that in the slow grinding of
Time will eclipse for each of us
The wide light of day.
And if we have an angel at the tomb,
Make it a real angel,
Weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair, opaque in
The dawn light, robed in real linen
Spun on a definite loom.
Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
Lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed
By the miracle,
And crushed by remonstrance.