When I was young there was one Sunday every Spring different from all others. My parents purchased new pastel, floral dresses for my sisters. My brothers and I were forced into the discomfort of a coat and tie. Our family arrived at our church’s building early to beat the larger than normal crowds.
The mood during the worship service was decidedly upbeat, and everyone was in a good mood. The pastor started by saying, “He is risen.” The congregation replied, “He is risen indeed!” After the worship service we got home as quickly as possible to enjoy the feast waiting to be devoured.
I am speaking, of course, of Easter Sunday.
It honestly meant very little to me. There was the talk about the women gathering spices for Jesus’ body, a garden, a tomb, and an angel saying Jesus wasn’t there anymore, but by Monday afternoon what we celebrated on Sunday seemed a distant memory. Jesus’ resurrection felt quite shallow.
I’ve often wondered why this ...1