Let’s talk about Easter. You know, the holy day that somehow manages to be about Jesus AND a giant bunny who sneaks around your house like a fuzzy chocolate-bearing ninja. I love Jesus with my whole heart. But every year, I wonder how He feels watching us celebrate His resurrection with marshmallow Peeps and competitive egg hunting in which children learn the true meaning of love—right before they body slam each other for plastic eggs containing stale tootsie rolls. Nothing says “love your neighbor like yourself” like elbowing a toddler for that last plastic egg filled with two jelly beans and a sticker.

Easter is such a fascinating mashup of the sacred and the slightly absurd.

On the one hand, you’ve got the most awe-inspiring, life-changing moment in history—the resurrection of Jesus Christ, defeating death and bringing hope to the world.

On the other hand… you’ve got marshmallow Peeps. Bright yellow sugar chickens that somehow taste like regret and glitter.
It’s a weird holiday, folks.

You walk into a store this time of year and it’s a pastel explosion. Pink plastic grass, candy shaped like barnyard animals, and enough chocolate to keep dentists in business through Advent. And don’t even get me started on the Easter bunny. Honestly, if I ever saw a six-foot rabbit, I’d be on the phone with animal control. Can you imagine the damage that bunny could do to your garden? I’m still not clear on what a six-foot rabbit has to do with the resurrection or eggs but hey, he secretly brings chocolate, so I don’t ask too many questions.

Easter fashion is also something special. It’s the one Sunday a year when churches become runways for floral prints, tiny bow ties, and hats that could double as small landing pads. Somewhere, there’s always a child melting down because their new shoes “feel weird,” and an adult trying to remember how to tie a real tie after a year of stretchy waistbands and Zoom church.

Of course, there are the traditions: sunrise services for the ambitious and caffeinated, family dinners with suspiciously green Jell-O, and someone’s great-aunt insisting that deviled eggs are biblical. (I’m not sure they are, but I’m not arguing with a woman holding a tray of them.)

But in the middle of all the sugary chaos and photo ops, there it is—the heart of it all. The stone rolled away. The angel’s words: “He is not here. He is risen.”

It never stops being breathtaking.

No matter how many Easters we’ve seen, or how many times we’ve heard the story, it still has the power to stop us in our tracks. Right between the chocolate bunnies and the ham with pineapple rings, the truth breaks through: death doesn’t get the final word.

Because the tomb is still empty.

And that fact changes everything.

Happy Easter, friends. He is risen—and I, for one, am celebrating with joy, gratitude, and maybe just one more Cadbury egg. (Strictly for theological reflection, of course.)