He is Risen

This weekend is Easter and what should be the most important day of the year in my tradition. In the family I grew up in Easter always took a back seat to Christmas - maybe not in words but definitely in actions. In the morning there was always a trail of jelly beans leading to an Easter basket full of candy the Easter bunny had left. Then it was time to go to church and then to my grandma's house for a boring lunch. There was a hollowness when I compared it to the excitement that came around Christmas time with its lights, presents, christmas carols and a contagious atmosphere of good cheer. The subdued pastels, white lilies, and jelly beans of this spring celebration never really appealed to me and the holiday has imprinted in me the same feel of the plastic grass I used to get in my Easter basket. This feeling of emptiness has been intensified because many of my closest friends and acquaintances that I spend time with are burned out with Christianity. Either they have survived a traumatic childhood with strict and fundamentalist parents or they have had the life slowly drained from them by years of pastel sermons and cliche slogans that Easter no longer has any meaning.

This Easter I find myself longing for authentic faith. I long for hollow cliches to be filled with meaning. I want to say "He is risen" and have it actually mean something. I actually want to pray and reflect on the meaning of what I sincerely feel is the most moving and hope-filled story that I have ever encountered. And I am not usually one for devotional time or reading the Bible daily but I actually want to today. I find myself returning to the old traditions like a prospector to an abandoned mine, desiring to bring the rusted machinery back to life, to get old gears and pulleys moving. Last night I had a strong desire to take part in communion and invite some friends that were over to take part in this tradition that is close to my soul. Unfortunately, my fear prevailed and I kept silent, not wanting to risk the rolling of eyes or the wrinkling of noses. And now today in the daylight my fear seems so absurd and I realize that when others feel that something is meaningful to you, they will respect it and maybe even gain something from the experience. This Tuesday I am attending a Jewish Seder meal that a good friend is facilitating, and I am so excited to take part in and learn from this friend's tradition. Why is it that I don't expect others to respect my own tradition in the same way? I just need to have the confidence to enter into that experience and to share myself and my heart with others with courage.

I think next year will be different.