Easter Tradition

I’ve been seriously considering skipping Easter this year- pretending like it’s not even happening.

A few weeks ago, I examined my schedule and decided that as much as I want to be home for the Easter holiday, I really need to stay in Kirksville and spend at least 1.5 days of that three day weekend studying.  My mom and I determined that not only would I have to drive quite a bit (not that much compared to most of my friends… but still), but I would also accomplish absolutely nothing at home.

I’ve always loved Easter.  In central Illinois, you never know what kind of weather you’re going to get.  Some years, it’s the first weekend that I wear shorts.  Other years it snows.  For many holidays, my family is as shifty as the weather.  We all pack in the van and roadtrip to any number of relative’s houses.  However, Easter is different.   We actually stay home.  We have traditions.

It starts with our attendance of the Easter Cantata at our church on Friday night.  From there, we go fishing many times.  Dad hides Easter eggs- hiding our own personal egg in a special place just for each individual kid.  We attend the sunrise service at church (that’s not at sunrise, thank God!).  Mom makes orange jello.  We usually eat a turkey that Dad or one of the other kids shot.  We dye Easter eggs and probably go fishing again.

I’m going to miss all that stuff.  Granted, Jeremy is coming to visit, and my sweet roommate will be here, but it just won’t be the same.  I’ve already cried several times just thinking about it.  Perhaps I’ll just pretend that Easter isn’t happening.

As much as Easter is layered with family traditions, that’s not the purpose of the day. 

On Easter morning, many years ago, a mysterious thing happened- a tomb that had been sealed over only three days prior was broken into… or was it broken out of?

The former inhabitant of the tomb was a man who had walked the earth for thirty three years, proclaiming that He was the Son of God.  He preformed miracles.  He was loving and inclusive in a way that flew in the face of modern convention. He made radical statements.  He knew the law of the religion and followed it… yet He said that He came to fulfill it.

This delighted some, and angered many.  That’s how He ended up being executed with common criminals.  Those who had loved him turned against him, whether in handing him over to be crucified, or by denying Him.  To the horror and shock of many, He who claimed to be God died like a man. 

He was buried in the tomb of a friend.  Some of His friends may have vaguely remembered that He said that He would raise the temple in three days, and may have vaguely remembered that He said that He would not stay dead.  But how were they to really believe that after the crazy turn of events that had just transpired?

Then came Easter morning… these people were not finding Easter eggs or attending morning services.  They were probably scared and confused.  One of the women that had been friends with the God-man came to the tomb early that morning, only to find it empty.  She ran to a man whom she assumed was the caretaker of the land surrounding the tomb.  Perhaps he would know who had moved the body of her friend, the man she had come to know as God. 

It was Him. 

There is one Easter tradition that I can continue on my own.  Ever since I was a junior higher, I’ve tried to get up a little before the rest of my family and slip outside with my Bible.  Admittedly, it’s become harder to get myself out of bed the last few years, and so I haven’t always followed through.  I wrap myself up in some big old hoodie and curl up on the porch, watching the sun rise. 

As I shiver in the morning air, I wonder what it was like, wondering if it seemed like the whole earth had crumbled to the ground when He died.  I wonder if the friends had any hope at all that He really was who He said He was. 

I read through the account of the events leading up to His death, then about His death, and finally, about His resurrection.   I wonder what it was like for them to see Him again, to put their fingers in His nail-scarred hands, and to have all of their doubt, fear, and trepidation replaced by awe and wonder. 

This man truly was the Messiah, the Son of God!

Family tradition of egg dying and Peeps and going fishing is wonderful, and I will miss it, but this is not the reason for Easter.  This story and the subsequent pondering that it provokes is the meaning of Easter. 

Is it simply a good story?  And if it is, is it fact or fiction?

The implications of God becoming a man are huge- and the fact that He was willing to accept a punishment that should have been ours to bear- that requires careful thought and consideration.

Even though I’ll miss being a part of my family’s traditions this weekend, I will continue to partake in the tradition of considering my response to the real Easter story.