Faith Works 4-15-06
Jeff Gill

Did the Easter Bunny Visit?

Over the last few weeks, especially on-line, the story from St. Paul, Minnesota has made the rounds. All too sadly true, the human rights director for the city ordered an Easter Bunny be removed from a seasonal display area, since it could "give offense to non-Christians."
Buddy, I got news for you. There are quite a few Christians, especially the very passionate and evangelical among them (the type I’m guessing really bother this fellow), who would be delighted if they never see an Easter Bunny again, and are . . . well, they would likely avoid saying the pastel-painting rabbit was "offensive," but from their point of view it sure isn’t Christian.
Which, of course, it isn’t. Even the name of the observance is one of those classic Anglican baptisms of the pagan cosmos into Christ’s service. "Eostre," and fertility icons like the ever-burgeoning wabbit, come from the Angles and the Saxons and springtime rites that pre-date the whole Resurrection deal coming to the British Isles.
Christians of good will can disagree about the seasonal Harvey appearances (I find full-human-size rabbits as scary as a two year old does Santa Claus), but I can’t help but wonder what planet the administrator up north is orbiting if he sees the Big Bunny as the thin edge of Christian theocracy. Throw ‘im out, if you must, but if we had come forward to ask the municipality to remove the Fuzzy Lupine because he offends our religious sensibilities, am I wrong to suspect Christians wouldn’t have gotten the same hearing? Just wondering.
Liturgical purists, of the sort who insist that churches shouldn’t sing Christmas carols until Dec. 24 at the very earliest, will observe that the Hopping Fellow shouldn’t be hiding eggs and little surprises until we actually have something to celebrate, i.e. after church on Sunday.
Practicality, the true religion of America, has dictated that Saturday is the canonical Egg Hunt day, so both churches and community groups are planting unearthly colored oblate spheroids among the sprouting grass tufts, with teenagers carefully stashing the good candy up in tree limbs for later recovery.
Ham sells like turkey at Thanksgiving, only less so, and the rush to buy new dresses and pants long enough for the growing Little Guys gives a small retail bump to the season, and the sugar rush is nothing like Hallowe’en. Easter tries to emulate the rest of the cultural calendar, but it can’t quite, at least not so far.
Because even more than the Virgin Birth lurking awkwardly behind Christmas (hiding behind a screen of "heh heh, sure, I’ve known pregnant girls who said they hadn’t…"), Easter puts front and center a culturally very un-assimilateable image.
Good Friday pop culture doesn’t even want to touch, except for a glancing mock here and there, and the stray movie in Aramaic, Hebrew, and Latin. Maundy Thursday still baffles all but believers, and even a fair number of those.
But Easter…
The celebration of a sunrise after a Sabbath Passover, in a garden on a city’s edge 2000 years ago, next to the town dump, adjoining the civic execution ground. A commemoration of women who were where they weren’t supposed to be, doing what no one was supposed to do, hearing what wasn’t possible to hear, and seeing . . .
"He lives, He lives, Christ Jesus lives today; He walks with me, and talks with me, along life’s weary way."

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; share your story with him at disciple@voyager.net.