It makes such sense that we resort to eggs filled with candy, bunny rabbits, elaborate lunches, and our finest clothes. How else would we function without a few simple rituals while we immerse ourselves in the violence of Good Friday and the absurdity of Easter morning.
I read the Easter story to the boys last night. In place of our regular bedtime books, I told them of bitter weeping and swords and clubs, the crowds and the single kiss, provocation and condemnation, pointed fingers and shouts of rage, denial and silence, isolation and public execution.
The boys’ eyes grew wide and little bodies so still. They were captivated, confused, and even a bit scared. They kept pushing for me to turn the page and read one more story as if that next page might resolve the tension or provide some absolution to the violence. But I knew this wasn’t possible. The next page merely added another layer to the complex mystery whose miracle exists with wounds still fresh. I knew that the story of our resurrected Lord is one of a breathing but punctured body at the hands of human atrocity.