A Sunrise Service

The sky is heavy with clouds and a light rain is falling.  Just moments ago, a spectacular thunderstorm rumbled through the county bringing lightening and brisk winds.  The skies are just beginning to lighten the slightest bit as I pull my green plastic chair around on the front porch and face it towards the east. A little bleary-eyed and gripping my hot cup of coffee, I wait in the gray-tinged dawn for any hint that the sun is about to make its appearance this morning. Looking out over the ridge beyond the shadowy trees that border the hillside, a faint band of light appears.  The mourning dove are cooing and in the distance some dogs begin to bark.  I settle under the sheltering roof and gaze at the rolling hills of Central Texas.  I welcome the April warmth, if not the bright sunrise of yesterday.   Not edged with shades of gold, peach and orange but sporting today’s subtle layers of grey and navy blue, the sky is changing as morning creeps into this special day.  It is Easter, and I am the sole participant in my personal sunrise service.

A uniquely American tradition, the popular sunrise services of today can be traced to a group of Moravian Protestants in North Carolina about two hundred and fifty years ago. They first gathered in a small cemetery to remember the early morning visit to Jesus’ tomb by a small group of grieving followers and their subsequent miraculous discovery, as recounted in all four gospels.*  Many modern services are not re-enactments of that experience. Instead, they capture the spirit of that amazing morning. I recall past sunrise services when I gathered with others at lakeside or mountain meadow, at campground or parking lot. The services are usually simple and brief. The sunrise is the focus and the timing is precise and carefully planned. Scriptures tell the beloved story while the sky lightens and joy unfolds as the first rays of sun gleam over the horizon.  Songs and prayers of praise rise to greet the risen sun, a symbol of the risen Son.  The hallelujah of Easter begins.

Here on my hillside, I look out towards the vague and shadowy forms of the trees where often the sun’s golden glow transforms the sky to bright orange and lavender. In today’s muted light, I can barely pick out the colors of familiar trees: the bright lime of the hackberry; the deep green of the live oaks; the near-black of the gnarled ash junipers.  My attention sharpens and I hear two crows cawing their strident warnings. A cardinal teeters on the tip top of a live oak and begins his daily call for a mate. Nature is not silent, but I am. I wait, and as I wait, I picture those early morning faithful followers of long ago hurrying towards Jesus’ burial site.  Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and others walk towards the tomb carrying their burial spices to anoint Jesus’ body.  I imagine they do not hurry with bright anticipation, but walk with feet made slow by grief and heads bowed by sadness. Perhaps they murmur words of comfort to each other, or weep silently.  Some turn stoic faces towards the duties ahead. The morning sun does not herald new life to them, but begins another day of loss and confusion.  The women mourn and minister with no thought of resurrection or hope for enlightenment. They do not live in expectation of a miracle. They come, carrying love and devotion along with their jars of myrrh and aloe.  As the sun rises and shines into that place of death, they stop, curious and cautious. In the dimness of the tomb, something gleams like lightening (See Matthew 28). They are stunned by what they do not see and by what they do see, surprised by death’s absence and surprised by a Holy Presence.  Infused with light and warmth and a power much stronger than the sun, the tomb becomes a place where Death disappears and Life returns. Elation replaces despair. The women marvel…and run to spread the news, their plodding feet of grief transformed into swift messengers of hope. They were afraid, yet filled with joy. (Matthew 28:8). Light streams from a dark place of death out into a joyous new reality. 

Today, just like every day, the earth continues its circling journey, and suddenly there it is– not a blaze of the sun’s full glory or even a gilded edge of cloud, but the faintest tinges of peach and turquoise right above the tree line. The colors quickly disappear as another shower begins. This Easter morning, I could easily take my place among those heavy-spirited mourners as they walk towards the tomb.  These past days my feet, too, have slowed with grief, and my shoulders are stooped with the burden of worry and uncertainty. Suddenly, Easter comes with its own light and warmth.  Like the waves of rain, an unbidden, unexpected joy suffuses me this morning, this Easter like no other. I am not shackled to sorrow, but free to rejoice in the midst of pain.  Like those mourners of long ago, I too am afraid, but filled with joy. I too can be surprised by what I don’t see and what I do see. This morning, I am surprised by the absence of despair and amazed by the presence of elation.  Something unexpected, a bright beam of joy, pierces my darkness today. I savor it along with the sunrise.  I humbly receive this Holy gift this morning, this glowing reminder of new Life, this experience that needs no justification or explanation. There is a time to mourn and weep and I do not brush away or minimize these feelings.  There is also a time to live into joy and receive its nurturing warmth. Today is that day, and this moment is that moment. C. S. Lewis said it best:  “Shut your mouth; open your eyes and ears. Take in what is there and give no thought to what might have been there or what is somewhere else. That can come later, if it must come at all.**  The dawning of this day, this cloudy day when the sun is hidden, I set aside the past and the future for just a little while. The sunrise may return tomorrow in all its glory, but I welcome this Easter sunrise just as it is: stormy, cloudy, its brightness dimmed but never absent.  I can rejoice this very moment in the Love that will not let us go. 

I visualize another Easter and another sunrise service to come, when hundreds, even thousands of people will gather to celebrate our resurrected world. Until then, I have this day, this place, this gift of joy.  I carry, not the ointments of burial, but the sweet fragrance of life. I am not alone as I attend my sunrise service after all.  I wait upon its resurrection message as a part of the community of faith, scattered but strong. Wherever we are, regardless of our view or the weather, our sunrise services unfold. Buildings may block the eastern sky, clouds may obscure or rain may fall, but still the sky lightens.  Together we go and together we are amazed. Together we turn towards the sun this Easter morning and the dependability of our Creator. There is no barrier to joy and no duty to linger within an empty tomb. Apart but not separated, a sunrise service blesses me, blesses all of us, the receivers of the benevolence of the sun, and of the Holy One who covers us in care and resurrects our spirits.  We all fall under this spreading glowing Love.  We all have the hope of new life. Our fears fall away; we are full of joy.

I take in this moment. I take in what is here before me, this muted, glorious Easter sunrise, with open eyes and ears. My voice, however, does not fall silent.  The words to an old hymn flow through my spirit and I stand and sing:  When morning gilds the skies, my heart awaking cries, may Jesus Christ be praised.*** This stormy Easter sky is gilded with the precious gold of new life. I pick up my now-cold coffee and turn to go inside.  The hallelujah of Easter begins.

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of God’s hands.  Psalm 19:1

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. Psalm 30:5

*History of sunrise services from online sources including Wikipedia

**From Surprised by Joy (1955) by C. S. Lewis

***Excerpt from When Morning Gilds the Skies by Joseph Barnby and Edward Caswell. 

Photo by author: Sunrise over Bosque County, April 2020