Early in the morning on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary of Magdala came to the tomb. She saw that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance, so she ran off to Simon Peter and the other disciple—the one Jesus loved—and told them, “The Rabbi has been taken from the tomb! We don’t know where they have put Jesus!” At that, Peter and the other disciple started out toward the tomb. They were running side by side, but then the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He didn’t enter, but bent down to peer in and saw the linen wrappings lying on the ground. Then Simon Peter arrived and entered the tomb. He observed the linen wrappings on the ground, and saw the piece of cloth that had covered Jesus’ head lying not with the wrappings, but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the disciple who had arrived first at the tomb went in. He saw and believed. As yet, they didn’t understand the scripture that Jesus was to rise from the dead. Then the disciples went back to their homes.

John 20:1-10, The Inclusive Bible

Not long ago I answered a request to provide pastoral care to a woman whose cancer, after being in remission for nearly a decade, had recently recurred. She understood that the doctors were telling her her prognosis was good, that the treatments were working, yet she wondered, amidst a whirlwind of possibilities, “Is it okay for me to celebrate?”

She repeated this question several times during our conversation, a question full of both longing and apprehension.

It strikes me as a very Easter question.

In her sermon this morning, my pastor pointed out that, unlike Jesus’ disciples—first the women, then the men—who witness the empty tomb, we have always known what is going to happen. The dramatic irony present throughout the gospels is that, while the characters in the story repeatedly respond with incomprehension or denial each time Jesus foretells that he will be crucified and raised from the dead, we, the readers, the Church founded on Christ’s teachings and resurrection, already know where all of this is going. We get up on Easter morning and confidently proclaim, “Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed!” How different this is from the Easter experience of Jesus’ first disciples, for whom Resurrection Day was a whirlwind of grief (Jn 20:11), wonder (Lk 24:12), fear (Mk 16:8), joy (Mt 28:8; Jn 20:20), and doubt (Mt 28:17; Lk 24:11; Jn 20:25).

Perhaps, like me, the proclamation, “Christ is risen!” came more haltingly from your lips and settled more uncertainly in your heart than it has on past Easter Sundays. Whatever the calendar may say, my spirit is still somewhere in Holy Saturday. And it has been for the last two-plus years. When I sat down to watch church online for the third Easter in a row, my heart ached with longing for a time when holidays—especially this most important holiday of the Christian calendar—felt more celebratory.

Is it okay for me to celebrate? Do I even have it in me anymore?

Though my church has been back for in-person worship as of last week, my pastor delivered a video-broadcast sermon because she tested positive for COVID-19. And my family and others have elected to keep watching online from home for now because of ongoing concerns for the health and safety of ourselves or others in our household. Never before have I felt more attuned to the uncertainty, loss, and ambiguity the Bible portrays as the dominant feelings of that first Easter morning. “Christ is risen? Um…are you sure? I don’t even know what to do with that information.”

Feeling confusion, uncertainty, and dread in response to the message of the Resurrection is not only okay; it’s Biblical. There’s some comfort in that for me. And I’m also comforted to know that our liturgical calendar doesn’t offer us just this one-off moment to contemplate our existence as a Resurrection People, but a whole season of Eastertide: the fifty days between now and Pentecost Sunday (June 5 this year), to commit ourselves to a discipleship that does not demand certainty, but faithfulness rooted in love. Even as my heart remains troubled, I can get up again tomorrow and continue to act in the faith that God not only knows where this story is going, but has promised that the end of the story is—and always has been—Resurrection.

Hallelujah. Amen.