The sun broke over the river right about on time. It was predictable and it was what we came to see, but this sunrise was not like any other. On this day, we had gathered on the riverbank yet again to sit in cold metal chairs and shiver in our short-sleeved pastel dresses and suits that we were determined to wear because we had chosen them especially for this day. It was Easter.
Intent on the horizon, we heard the same story of new life that we always heard at this time of year and watched the brightening sky for any indication of an awakening sun. Little by little, the day lightened and the river began to shimmer in competing tones of lilac and pink, darkening to a rippling deep orange and then blinding bright yellow as the sun burst forth and we reluctantly had to look away. Finally, the river returned to its usual state of emerald green and continued its lazy course into Tennessee, smugly content with having wowed us with the light show.
And then we turned our attention to the message at hand, being delivered by a seasoned pastor who had seen many Easters and many sunrise services. But he really didn’t need to say too much about new life and new beginnings. The sunrise had just convinced us of that without uttering a word. In fact, words always fall a bit flat after the miracle of a new day. What God says in one sunrise over the river can’t be duplicated in a million well-planned messages.
I like words. I stink at math but I love to paint pictures with words. Even so, there are no words capable of conveying the true picture of dawn breaking over a riverbank early on Easter morning. Others might be able to, but I know I simply can’t verbalize the hope and assurance and God-given natural beauty of an April sunrise over the Tennessee River, no matter how much I like to try.
Not all sunrise services are bright, though Sometimes the clouds don’t part and there is no evidence of a sun at all. In fact, more often than not, we’re disappointed that the light show doesn’t come off and the river remains hazy gray. The only pastel hues are in the dresses we choose and we’re an incredibly poor substitute for the brilliance of a sunrise. But that’s when we have to rely on words of promise and listen more intently than we see. And we have to believe in miracles and take joy in the day anyway.
Occasionally, we attended Easter sunrise services at Wilson Park in downtown Florence, arriving at first light, eager to see the sun come up from behind First Baptist, which bordered the park on the east. Same cold metal chairs, same pastel dresses, same song, second verse. The song never grows old, though, and the story never tires and the beauty never dims. Even if there is no sunrise behind the clouds, we know it’s there and we commit to the same time and place next year because we have hope and we have faith and it’s what we do.
Easter is a simple story, really, of a miracle that doesn’t need a lot of embellishment on our part. But embellishing is what we do. A local church hires a helicopter to fly over a field near our house, scattering 20,000 eggs—symbolizing new life, of course—to hundreds of children who are then released onto the field in a mad rush to collect as many eggs as possible. After that, they are treated to free face painting, games, and inflatables. Another church competes with a petting zoo, Easter bunny photo sessions, and a live DJ.
We just can’t help it. We are certain that something as uncomplicated and as beautiful as the story of sacrifice and new life needs our help to a jazz it up and make it more entertaining. We are intent on driving the car when what we should actually do is just move over and look out the window and be happy. But I suppose that’s OK as long as we never lose sight of the story and the season. We mean well.
The message is not at all complex, though, and it doesn’t need props. It can be told on a riverbank at sunrise on Easter morning or it can grace the sitting area of a nursing home on any Sunday where a few nodding gray heads vaguely remember the same story from earlier days in faraway places. Its joy is evident in the breakfast served in the fellowship hall on Easter before the few early risers gather to hold hands in prayer around the purple draped cross out front. And its predictability and familiarity ground us.
Sunrise or not, the promise is the same whether we want to believe it or not. Regardless of our convictions, we all get up each morning with no doubt, in fact with full faith, that a day is promised and that the sun will rise. It’s just really nice to have that confirmation at the same place at the same time each year. And that’s Easter. But I have no doubt that it’s a story best told on a riverbank at sunrise in Alabama.
