I wrote this piece last year on Easter for my senior project. For the first time in over three years I attended a church(y) service today--Mount Hermon's Sunrise service. Churchy because the message is a telling of the Easter story mostly. (Which I appreciate. I'd rather not a full sermon.) However, this piece still rings quite true for me on the Easter Sunday.
31 March 2013
Holy week. The naming of the days preceding Easter is much more
reasonable in the Romance languages. Viernes
Santo. Not “Good,” but rather Holy Friday. The days are considered holy.
Good, especially in modern English, is quite out of place, so far as I’m concerned.
Church. “Cr-easter Christians.” That term is insulting. As is “Nominal
Catholics.” To each her own. Allow that she labels herself according to that
with which she most identifies, whether or not her habits are up to the
“standards” of said community.
Lapsed Christian that I am, there is a remnant of tradition that pulls me
toward the Church on Holy days, paired with a dose of self-inflicted guilt. Yet
I do not go. Besides, Jesus didn’t go to Church on what we call Easter. My sin,
if I can use such language, my sin is that I am not with others, among friends.
That’s what Jesus did. When Jesus
rose from the dead, he went and hung out with his friends, after enjoying some
gardening.
