Get your Religion outta my Bunny Holiday

Get your Religion outta my Bunny Holiday

[singlepic id=30 w=320 h=240 float=left] Easter is coming up, and you know what that signifies: another year a giant pink rabbit deems us good enough to live.

Growing up, my parents made no attempt to instill the Christian meaning of holidays in my brother or I. As a result, I would argue our holidays were much more fun, albeit somewhat redundant in that they were all vaguely modeled after Christmas. Easter, for example. The Easter Bunny was Spring Santa; if you were good, the Easter Bunny brought you candy and little toys and hid the eggs you dyed the night before around the yard.

To the bad boys and girls, he pooped in your basket. That’s why you had to wear your special Easter Gloves when looking through your stuff. Also, my brother and I were wary of chocolate.

When I did learn the holiday was religious around age 8, I assumed it was to celebrate the Jews’ escape from Egypt as the only movie ever on Sunday was “The Ten Commandments.” It beat me why or how bunnies got involved in the fairly gory tale, though I accepted painting eggs blood red. It also strangely worked with my prior Easter Bunny knowledge. Lots of people died, the Jews suffered for another 40 years, in retribution the Bunny will poo in your house. To me, it made a weird but logical sort of sense. It wasn’t until Middle School when I had to go to my Grandpa’s Easter Service that I realized Christians thought they had a stake in it.

“Why do they keep bringing up the propped-up dead guy?” I asked my mother.

“Are you referring to Jesus?” she whispered furiously.

“What’s his deal?” I shouted. “He friends with the Easter Bunny or something?

After the entire congregation crossed themselves and flung holy water at us, I was taken aside and explained “the dead guy” rose from the dead to absolve all of humanity of their sins, except those the pastor didn’t like. By the end I was pretty sure I was included in that category.

“So he’s like Vishnu, rising from the Dead?” I asked.

“NO! He is the ONLY Lord and Savoir!” the Pastor responded, pulling out his hair.

“So like…Eostre, goddess of spring? I don’t know what you want from me.”

“GAH!!!”

By the end of that year, I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. Santa was a sham, the Pilgrims were indiscriminate discriminators, Christopher Columbus was a murderer, and even my 5 year-old-brother had figured out the Easter Bunny was my parents (the Bunny’s increasingly well-worded requests from my brother and I to leave carrot cake and Scotch for him tipped us off).

In the end, after much research into the celebrations earliest roots, the true meaning of Easter saved me.

So happy We All Survived The Winter, Let’s Throw A Fucking Party!!! the holiday.

Feel free to append as much religious/secular/pagan/proto-Germanic/Modern American symbolism you want. Me, I’ll be hiding an easter egg and inspecting my chocolate very carefully.