For as long as I can remember, I’ve always liked Easter a lot better than Christmas. Not because I like rabbits and chocolate eggs better than Santa Claus’s and Christmas trees. But because it’s a celebration of hope when everything seems so beyond hope.
In the world today, it seems to me that we need hope perhaps more than ever. I don’t mean the everyday kind of hopes that permeate our lives. You know, I hope it won’t rain today, or I hope I get over this flu soon, or I hope I can find my lost set of keys, or that I get the job I’ve applied for.
I don’t even mean hope that the worst isn’t going to happen. Because it might. We might destroy ourselves with war, or epidemics, or sheer environmental destruction. Is hope possible in the face of such final death, in the face of the darkness of such an ultimate Good Friday?
Easter, for me, is a commitment to hope that it is. That whatever happens, being is good, that simply to be alive has an intrinsic value. That whatever happens, it is worthwhile, even wonderful, however despairing it may look.
It’s the only act of faith of which I am capable. On the dark days I sometimes have to work on it.