I’m approaching Easter this year largely void of feeling. It feels strange to stare at those words, as I’ve just written them on the page. It feels like a strange thing to say—or a faithless one—to approach the high point of the church year with little anticipation, with little emotion. It is the resurrection of Jesus we’re talking about, after all, that cataclysmic inbreaking of the New Creation, that first fruit of all that’s to come. And yet this year, I’m wrestling to give it more emotion than a data point and a date circled on my calendar.
I feel like I should feel something. I should feel visceral grief over the sufferings of Jesus or perhaps tear-filled awe over his sacrifice or exuberant joy over the resurrection. But there are no emotional highs, no big “feels.” Just the steady passing of days.
In various stages of my spiritual life, I would probably have tried to manufacture an emotional experience, as if it was a necessary part of faithfulness. Although it was never to my memory explicitly taught, I somehow implicitly absorbed the need to feel big feelings for God. It was cultivated in me through worship concerts and summer camps, youth retreats and celebrated experiences. More than Wesley’s “strangely warmed heart,” I wanted mine engulfed in flames because something in that would demonstrate God’s presence and my love for him.
This seems like a good point to clarify that I think emotions can be positively wonderful. I am far from anti-emotion. They are designed by God, and He can work in and through them in a multitude of ways. Our faith is far from a cold, cerebral affair—it engages all of our being, including our emotions. And many of us, in various seasons or circumstances or temperaments find our faith engaging our emotions in powerful and transformative ways.
But what about when we don’t? What about when we sit numb on Good Friday?
As I’ve reflected on this in this season, I’ve considered the range of emotions felt by those close to Jesus through Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday. There was disbelief and regret. There was fear and confusion. Surely, by the time the women were walking to the tomb on Sunday morning, there was the numb exhaustion of grief that comes after too much weeping.
And yet the Resurrection came for them all. Jesus appeared to Mary, weeping at the tomb, and he came to the disciples locked away in a room. He showed himself to those who quickly believed and to those who doubted and asked to touch him. The resurrection was not less true because of their emotions or emotional response. And it is not less true or less meaningful because of mine.
The resurrection of Jesus is a steady, fixed point, whether I recall it with great emotion or with numbness. It is a signpost and a stake in the ground, declaring the New Creation and the promise of the redemption and restoration of all things. This is part of its good news to us: in highs and lows, all seasons and circumstances, it holds out a steady message of hope. With our bodies, our brains, and, yes, even our emotions, we rehearse the story of God’s redemption each year—the story of Christ died, Christ risen, and Christ coming again—because we need anchoring in this story. We need its fixed point year after year, so that regardless of our ability to “feel the feels,” we remember.
Your “hallelujah” this Easter Sunday may be a quiet one, but the Risen Jesus comes to you just the same. Thanks be to God.