Resurrection and Renewal
I don’t consider myself a Christian. Even saying that makes me shiver a little in my Methodist-raised boots. I believe Jesus did exist and was probably a pretty incredible human being, but struggle with the rest of the Bible story. And I celebrate Easter. Why?
Easter is one of those weird American holidays that puts us non-Christians in a tough spot. Like Christmas, what started as a religious observance has morphed into a commercial extravaganza open for all religions. The religiousness has been sucked out by Hallmark and Target.
As a kid, Easter meant our bi-annual trip to church, an indulgent buffet brunch, and baskets filled with quality chocolate, the last of which being obviously the most essential. Mom only included distinctive artisanal confections, not found at a drug store, but at Sydney Boggs Chocolates found in Jacobson’s mall. I enjoyed brunch too since it was typically hosted at some fancy hotel where I could get a custom made waffle and a plate full of tiny desserts. Last and definitely least in my childhood priorities was church. One could say could say that I had a small sugar fetish and also that the meaning of Easter was certainly lost on me.
My mom, sister and I would get dressed in our brightest Spring ensembles and walk up the hill to St. Paul’s Methodist. I’d listen to the Bible story of Jesus’s resurrection and had so many questions. My rational, logic-centric brain would poke holes in the story because it didn’t make any sense to me. And I certainly didn’t understand how bunnies and eggs got involved. In my teens and twenties, I still celebrated Easter, just with two of three of my childhood components — chocolate and brunch. Church didn’t make the cut.
Even trying to figure out the story now I’m confused and I guess that reinforces why I don’t consider myself a Christian. Trying to wrap my arms around it, I asked Bob, who still considers himself a quasi-Christian. I just ended up peppering him with questions and pissing him off.
In 2013, I found Unitarian Universalism, which unlike other religions that tell you what to believe, it allows you to decide for yourself. UU is more of a spiritual vessel for self-discovery, while providing community, eye-opening sermons, meditation, and music…at least that is what it is for me. I attend regularly and don’t dread it. But I still struggled with what to do with these traditional Christian holidays like Easter.
The first year I attended my UU church, I wondered how they would handle Easter. Ignore it completely? Nope. The sermon took the story of Jesus’ death and resurrection and focused on the overarching themes of rebirth and resurrection — an interpretation of a critical but questionable component of Christianity that I could relate to! And this year’s Easter sermon was no different, highlighting renewal, starting over, and second chances. It hit me profoundly in the heart.
I am not by nature a forgiving person. My maternal bloodline was notoriously unforgiving. Grandma Dunlap held grudges like she was holding on to the last drops of water during a draught. Mom wasn’t much better, telling stories on her deathbed of wrongs from 1975. But somewhere along the way, I acquired a forgiving spirit.
When my first husband had an affair, I forgave him (the first time) and was rewarded with the birth of my daughter a year later. After my discovery of more infidelity and my realization that this was a chronic issue, I called it quits, but I learned a valuable lesson along the way — giving someone a second chance, especially when they’ve hurt you deeply takes courage and faith. It takes believing that while they might disappointing you again, trying again can be worth the risk.
Selfishly, I’m not sure I gave my ex a second chance for him; I did it for me, to free me from the chains of bitterness. I did not want to be like Mom, nestled into my bitterness. Instead I chose to try to find love again with him. When that didn’t work, I tried again. Enter, my second husband, Bob.
As most of my closest friends know, I adore my husband. He is the peas to my carrots. Friends also know that Bob has struggled with alcoholism since I’ve known him (and well before that). It has been like living with Dr. Jekyll, who is amazing, and Mr. Hyde who is an enormous jerk. Unfortunately, I was spending way too much time with Mr. Hyde over the last twelve years. And the last six months had become unbearable, complete roller coaster hell, culminating with Bob spending a month in rehab. His first day home? Easter Sunday. The symbolism was not lost on us.
There have been many do-overs in our relationship. Many, many broken promises. But there is a fundamental love between us that I’ve never experience with anyone else. Something in me — my faith in second chances, my willingness to forgive — kept me believing a change was possible.
So as I sat in my UU church on Easter Sunday with my sober, loving, husband, I thought about what Easter means to me and came up with these three main themes.
Sacrifice for those you love — give wholly. Even if you don’t receive wholly, the giving is for you.
Starting anew is possible — not sure if it is just coincidence that Easter happens in Spring, but what a beautiful coincidence. Spring is the season of fresh starts, when Nature resurrects itself. If Nature, in its primal, instinctual state can start over, so can we.
Forgive — Give out second chances liberally, for you benefit from forgiveness
Bob’s been home for two weeks now and something in him has shifted. His eyes light up and his energy is renewed. Maybe this was his Spring, his awakening, his resurrection. But from now on, when asked what Easter means to me, I’ll think of this period of our lives and celebrate.
