Tomorrow, we will gather, some at sunrise and others at eleven or so, with the thought to remember the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. We will file into the pews, our children dressed in clothing that prevents play and any possibility of comfortable seating, to sing the pre-selected hymns for this sacred occasion. We will sit and listen to the story, shake our heads and say, “Amen.” But, if we are honest with ourselves, we will not remember. We will not remember Christ, His suffering, death and resurrection.
We will get up from our seats after the benediction, get into our cars and begin to converse amongst ourselves about the afternoon’s family gathering and the children’s Easter egg hunt. Christ’s blood will be lost in the mixture of pastel colored eggs. His cross replaced with an Easter bunny. His flesh traded for its white, fluffy fur. I suppose it is easier this way. It is best that we not remember.
For then, we would have to consider our life and suffer through the painful realization that it is not new, that this racialized life is not that promised by Jesus Christ. We would have to confront the fact that we are just going through the prejudicial motions, that we have not died at all, that we have yet to be resurrected with Him.