Easter makes me itch, always has. When I was
little, it was the damned dress, all lace and unforgiving elastic around my
chubby middle. Hair ribbons! Pulling the skin taut across the skull, hiking the
eyebrows. Perfect little Mary Janes and tight-tight tights. An endless church
session – drone drone drone – incense tickling the nose and sweat crawling the
ribs. It was monstrous, I’m telling you.
In adulthood, the itch has become more a thing of the mind.
Well, here it is . . . why so quiet? Really, why is nobody
shouting about this back-from-the-dead thing? Shouldn’t we be?
I think we should build a huge bonfire on Holy Saturday
night and just push the darkness all the way back to the horizon. We should
have all our friends over and sit talking beneath the moon with a wine glass in
our hands until dawn cracks the sky open.
And then . . . bells
should be ringing everywhere, joy on the very air we’re breathing; we should be
delirious with it. Because – in case anybody missed the big memo – we are God’s
children and, ipso facto, we are
happy. Poof! There is no anger, there
is no hate, and here is the big one . . . there is no fear. Because Jesus took that package for us. He
wrapped it up in blood and tears and humanity and he tossed it in our laps and
said, “open it.” Inside?
Life. There is life
.
We’re meant to be joyful.
So throw away the pastels. Color the day in vivid emerald
and sapphire and fill it with laughter. Toss every little transitory death that
has victimized you into the clean blue fire and call it good. They were never
yours anyway. Don’t ask yourself what you believe, or why or how. Just believe. Wrap your mind around the
incomprehensibility of Eternal Life, and let yourself be awed. Not only are you
good enough - you are, by your birthright, incredible. You just have to own
it.
In a nutshell: Easter is probably the biggest thing that can
happen to us here on Earth. I think we should all stop yawning and take notice.
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