Easter Sunday feels both impossible and a little too easy.
To claim impossible things hours upon hours across the globe as the meridian moves in single-hour increments.
Bombs. Easter egg hunts. Incense.
We celebrate ridiculous hope one time zone after another;
That’s what we do on Easter Sunday.
And then comes the Monday after Easter.
Easter Monday.
We return to our jobs
where we are in trouble for questioning the reasoning,
and caught between our ideas of Easter Sunday and bottom-line Friday.
And we make our choices.
And then comes the Monday after Easter.
Easter Monday.
We return to our churches
where we are in trouble for questioning the lessons and the allegiances,
and caught between character and piety and donor-approval.
And we make our choices.
And then comes the Monday after Easter.
Easter Monday.
We return to our neighborhoods
where we are pushed to hate and discriminate for the sake of something…
and caught between partisan and party and allegiance.
And we make our choices.
Easter Sunday is as holy
and easy
and gutless as
Christmas Sunday.
Unless we decide that somehow
ultimately
Easter changes everything.
And the Monday after Easter
is going to make us different
in all the ways
we hoped to secretly stay buried in
the tidiness
of our own racist and pious histories.
But Easter Monday means we crash into our
jobs
and our
churches
and our
neighborhoods
uncomfortably different than we left them.
And once we notice where we are,
we ask ourselves,
What about Easter Tuesday…
djordan
Pine Tree Dr.
most hopeful 