Easter... A Beautiful Mess

Have you ever stopped to realize the inherent schizophrenia that surrounds the holiday weekend we call Easter?

 

Think about it: what originally began as a pagan fertility festival has morphed into a celebration of spring that slams smack into the death and resurrection of Jesus. The cross and crucifixion all tangled up with chocolate bunnies and painted eggs. Ham dinners baking to the tune of "Up From the Grave He Arose!”.

 

Easter has become a holy holiday that is not wholly holy. Egg-laying bunnies and cellophane grass juxtaposed with a crown of thorns and nail-scarred hands.

 

It's no wonder people get bent out of shape trying to make sense of it all. Those of us who enjoy our pretty pastel frocks and our calorie-laden Easter baskets are frowned upon by those who shun the commercialism of what is arguably the most religious of all religious holidays.

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I have nothing but wonderful memories of Easter as a child. I particularly remember the Easter Mom bought me my first 'big girl' dress. It was a pretty plaid dress with a full skirt and a fluffy petticoat that crinkled when I sat down and a tiny bells that jingled when I bounced. [Because nothing says 'Christ is Risen' like a jingling petticoat.] I remember how proudly I wore my white patent-leather shoes, even though they were hard to buckle and pinched my toes. I felt new and oh-so-shiny.

 

As the Mama of two boys, I  missed out on the fun of playing Easter Dress-Up with a daughter.  Still, I spared no preciousness in dressing my boys in matching outfits, while they were still too young and clueless to protest.

 

[To be honest, I live in fear that they will retaliate by dressing me in ugly polka dot moo-moos in the nursing home, when I am too old and clueless to protest.]

 

But now... now I have The Grand-Girl. The One Who Loves To Go Shopping.

 

This six-going-on-thirty-year-old describes her style as “not fancy like you, MiMi, but sporty... kinda like my Mama but more girly and not as matchy as my Nana.”

 

We went shopping for her Easter dress yesterday.

 

Four stores and several dollars later, I had managed to talk her into the cutest little spring blouse and matching skirt—but only if I agreed to buy the matching bike shorts, which I strongly suspected she would favor over the skirt.

 

And then she saw the shoes. Beautiful, glittery, shiny purple sandals.

“Oh MiMi... look at these shoes! They are EXACTLY the same color as the flowers on my shirt!  I really, really want them... I NEED them!!!

 

Did she? Did this six year old fashionista really need a pair of purple sandals?

 

Hardly.

 

Nor had she done anything to deserve them.  No more or than I had done anything to deserve my jingling petticoat or pretty patent leathers.

But then... do any of us really deserve Easter?

Absolutely not.

 

And therein lies the source of the schizophrenia.

You see, while Christmas is all about being jolly and singing carols and giving gifts, Easter has an ugly side. There is nothing pretty about a crucifixion. A man on a cross, humiliated and condemned, beaten and bloody.

 

It is hard to think about that innocent man hanging limply on the cross. Difficult to feel worthy of such a Gift of Love. While we crave the salvation He offers, we cringe at the sacrifice He made.

My heart breaks with every remembrance of the shredded flesh, the suffering sighs. The cross is so painful that I am in a hurry to rush through the torture and fast-forward to the resurrection.

 

I am swamped by the cross, undeserving of the Gift of Grace. And I thank God the story did not end on Golgotha.

Because, as much as I need a Savior who would die for a silly little girl in a crinkly petticoat... I need the resurrection more. I need to believe in an empty tomb and a risen Savior. I need the hope of a second chance. I need the glorious promise of Easter.

The plastic eggs and shiny shoes do not distract me from the message. To those who criticize the secularized aspects of this holy holiday, I would offer that your energy is wasted in judgement.

Easter is not about who worships Jesus the best. It is about remembering God's promise of hope and celebrating  joy that comes in the morning.

There is a song by Amy Grant that I love... “Better than a Hallelujah”. My favorite verses are:

 

We pour out our miseries

 

God just hears a melody.

 

Beautiful the mess we are

 

The honest cries of breaking hearts.

 

Better than a hallelujah, sometimes.

 

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This year, I will celebrate Easter in every high and holy way, as well as with all the Cadbury Eggs that Weight Watchers will allow.

I will celebrate the melody that God makes of my miseries.

I will celebrate the blessed hope of the resurrection.

This Easter and every other day of my life, I will celebrate Jesus who lives in me and in the heart of my favorite little girl with the new purple sandals.