I am desperately sad today, on Easter. Easter represents all of the best things about Christianity and about church that I loved so much. The joy of renewal. The hope and promise of a resurrection. The celebrating. The singing of those beautiful hymns that you only sing today. The joining together as a family of faith. The communal table. The food.
And today I am lonely. I am scrolling through Facebook and seeing picture after picture of happy families in their bright regalia, posing with the floral crosses outside their churches. Easter baskets. Children smiling over their first egg hunt successes. It aches to know that I was a part of that and I have ripped myself from the cloth.
Perhaps the hardest part is that I know that “right” answers. I know that if I admit, believe, and confess I will be welcomed back into the fold with rejoicing and open arms. And I want to. I want to so badly that it breaks my heart. But I can’t. Because at the moment I find it impossible to believe that a man who walked around thousands of years ago has anything to do with my life today. It is scientifically improbable that he was killed, and that he rose again. I want to, and I can’t.
I do wish I had made some nod toward today. Some sort of irreverent adult Easter baskets, perhaps a ham, at least some jelly beans. But it snuck up on me, because I am no longer entrenched in the sacred rhythms of the liturgy, the schedule of the institution that once so shaped my life. I hardly knew it was Easter until I woke up and Easter broke my heart.
