Easter

It’s Holy Week.  I remember being confused by so many pieces of Easter when I was young.  Why was it called Good Friday if Jesus died?  Wasn’t that BAD Friday?  Why did we eat so much fish?  Ick.  Why did it always seem to be a gloomy, rainy, week?  Did God do that on purpose?  How could Jesus ride into the city of Jerusalem with such fanfare on Sunday and be beaten so brutally just 6 days later?  As I’ve grown in my faith and age, I understand so much more.  When Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ played in theaters, I went to see it.  My sobs could hardly be heard over the sobs of others.  This wasn’t a movie where you munched on popcorn and sipped a soft drink.  This was a chore—a duty as a Christian to come face to face with the brutality endured by our Savior.  To come to terms with what He experienced so that I could, what?  Show up late to work with no excuse?  Watch movies with foul language?  Tell the occasional lie and not suffer the consequences?  Was it worth it?  What justification could I possibly have for any sin?  And my sins weren’t so great, were they?  Little things.  I’d never stolen anything (well, that pack of gum when I was young).  I’d never cheated on a test (except that impossible anatomy test in the 10th grade, but everyone did that).  I didn’t dishonor God (except when my brother and I left mass after communion, but what did we miss?  A song?).  I didn’t covet my neighbor’s spouse (did it count that I was jealous of my best friend for always having a boyfriend when I never seemed to?).  I honored my mom and dad…mostly.  Ok, so I wasn’t perfect but I didn’t worship other gods and I absolutely NEVER killed anyone.

Or did I?

I have reflected so much in the last 4 years about what God asks of me.  It’s no coincidence that the pandemic and the subsequent upheaval of everything I thought I understood about the world changed everything about how I live my life and what I see as my role in this world.  All of this has caused deep reflection.  What do I really know?  What do I really believe?  What am I really here for?

My faith in Christ has never wavered.  I trust my God completely.  I lean heavily on the Holy Spirit as my comforter.  I feel firm in the fact that nothing can separate me from the love of my God.  I am His.  He is mine.  No question.

But so many other things have come into question.  And I turn to Him for answers.  Some, He gives.  Others, I’ll have to wait for the other side of eternity.  Not the least of which is how I treat other living beings.

It’s a touchy subject, especially in my house these days.  I have never (and still do not) considered myself an animal person.  (Yes, I KNOW there are more non-humans than humans who live in my house.)  It’s like people who say they love kids—I don’t love kids.  Yes, I have FOUR!  I love MY kids.  I’m not so attached to other people’s kids.  I love MY animals.  I don’t gravitate towards those cared for by others or wildlife.  I respect them.  I try to leave them be.  I don’t feel the need to touch them or pet them or feed them or get close to them.  (I’m no idiot—leave that bear ALONE!)  And yet, my life’s work, from here on out, will be for the advocacy and care of non-human animals.  I am committed to them.  I owe them—for every one of their lives I have taken, I owe restitution. 

Even if I cast aside the mosquitoes I’ve slapped or the ants I’ve crushed when they invade my home—I could argue that it’s self-defense.  (It’s my kid or YOU, wasp!) I cannot avoid the cow in the room.  Or the chicken.  Or the turkey or the duck or the goat, sheep, alpaca.  I have killed.  Again and again. And though I have not held the knife or the gun or the machine used to scald them alive, I have caused the death of thousands.

What does this have to do with Jesus?  Or Easter?  Well, I’ll tell you.

Once and only once, I ate lamb.  And what is lamb?  It’s a baby sheep.  Let me say that again.  It’s a baby SHEEP.  It’s a BABY.  I ate a baby.  I didn’t think about it at the time.  That I was eating someone’s child.  But that’s what I did.  So what?  Everyone did that.  Was it really a big deal? I didn’t think so then. 

Jesus is often referred to as the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.  A lamb is a child.  Even though he was over 30 at the time of His death, Jesus was a child—God’s child.  Do our children ever stop being our children?  As the mother of a 17 year old I can tell you—NO!  She is my baby.  I feel it every time she gets behind the wheel of a car.  Every time she goes on a date.  She’s my baby girl and no one—NO ONE—better mess with her (or momma bear will claw you to DEATH).  Jesus was His child.  His child who He sent to the cross.

I have known several sheep—most of them were male.  Poppas.  Daddys.  How many children did they sire?  How many were sent to slaughter?  How many did they have the chance to watch grow up?  Few, if any.  How many of those babies ended up on someone’s Easter dinner table?  How many lambs were sacrificed in celebration of the Lamb of God and His triumph over death?  Jesus died in place of animal sacrifice.  I’m not a Biblical scholar and I have more questions about how animals are portrayed in the Bible than I can count.  But of this I am sure—we are not expected to sacrifice animals to atone for any sin.  If we were, though, how many of us would fall short?  I couldn’t do it.  Could you?

When animals are sent to slaughter, they often witness the slaughter of many others before their own turn comes.  I don’t know what it’s like to watch another human being die.  And I definitely don’t know what it’s like to wait around for my own turn to die.  That’s what the animals do.  They are helpless to stop the one who is dragging them off, one by one.  They can hear the frightened cries.  The pain-filled screams.  How many of those screams and cries came from their babies?  What did that do to them?  What was it like for the Father of the Lamb?  What did HE feel in the moment His child cried out “My God, WHY have You forsaken ME?”

Can you imagine?  If you’re a parent, can you feel the stab of those words?  Poppa, Momma, WHY?  When she was not quite 2, my youngest daughter got into a laundry detergent pod.  Before I knew it, she’d burst it open on her head, in her eyes, in her mouth.  We called poison control who directed us to the emergency room.  We went.  She cried.  But there were no tears.  Her eyes squinted shut and her screams grew louder.  As her mom, I begged everyone I could grab hold of for help—something is wrong.  My daughter is crying but there are no tears.  Something is WRONG!  Finally, I had the attention of a doctor who decided the thing to do was to flush out her eyes.  My baby girl, not yet 2, was held down by adults who pried her eyes open and squirted fluid into them.  All I heard were her agonized, frightened cries of MOMMY!  Over and over.  And all I could say was, “I’m right here baby!”  My own tears clouding my vision. 

What on Earth did God feel in that moment?  How could He stand it?  How could He not gather up his baby boy in His arms and say “I’m right here.”?  But He didn’t.  He remained silent when the cries of His child echoed in His ears.  I could not be so strong.  Could you?

His silence was necessary for scriptures to be fulfilled and our salvation to be planted so firmly in place.  I am grateful.  More than I can say.  He knew that what He asked His Son to do was the ONLY thing that would save you and me. 

The Easter season is brutal.  Good Friday is violent.  We soften it for our children with bunnies and baby chicks, chocolate, and brightly colored eggs.  But we’re celebrating the slaughter of a live human.  This slaughter is the final payment for all sins, past and future.  We’re forgiven—even for things we haven’t done yet! 

Our Easter dinner is also brutal and violent.  And we soften that too.  We use words like pork and veal but never pigs or baby cows.  Why?  And why do we only soften Easter until we’re old enough to understand and appreciate it, but when it comes to our dinner, we continue to soften it for the rest of our lives?  I can not possibly understand Easter until I realize what it was all for.  The death of Christ was necessary.  His Resurrection solidified His authority over death, but it was His death that paid the price.  Ironically, it is when I understand what went into my Easter dinner—the slaughter of an innocent animal—that I similarly wonder, what is it all for?  Can I justify it?  Can I send this animal to their death just so I can eat them?  Would their father agree?  Would that lamb’s father turn from his child’s cries (and surely, the child did cry)?

Can we accept God’s final sacrifice and ask no more parents to watch their children die on our celebratory tables?  Our days of sacrifice are over.  Can we finally let them go?