I don’t believe that Jesus was the son of god, or that he rose from the tomb (though it’s totally cool if you do!)
I do believe in the possibility of ongoing renewal, of new beginnings, of what the Quakers call continuing revelation brought about by the light, the that-of-god, within each of us; of trees regaining their hard-won leaves; of sheets of ice melting to reveal the life-giving water within; of that simplest, barest hope, shoots breaking through the cold hard ground; of the possibility of miracles.
I do not believe that Jesus was the son of god. I do believe that he was a prophet, the original flaming liberal, someone who perhaps started our proud tradition of prophets who would show us how to live. And I believe that the story of his resurrection is a marvelous, meaningful fable, the telling of which reminds us that we, too, may rise from whatever tomb we have buried ourselves in.
There are aspects of winter that I love: the bracing cold, the quiet during a snowfall, the clarity of ice. It is also the time when cold and bitterness may seep more easily into the human heart, where the iciness outside may settle itself inside. It is the time when nothing grows, when everything is in hibernation, waiting for the chance to begin anew.
And so I celebrate Easter, proudly, as a Unitarian Universalist. I do not celebrate it as the day that Jesus, son of god, rose from the dead, although I see no reason why you should not celebrate that.
I celebrate it as the reminder that spring has arrived, that that which sustains life may finally grow again, that all that we love may return to us in varying forms, that after a long time hidden in the cold and dark we may arise and walk, squinting and stumbling and blessed, into the sun.