Easter Sunday, April 1, 2018
Thinking about how I make meaning of my life and sense of purpose. It is still an open question for me. I circle the question warily because I can see the edges but not the bulk of it.. I know, for instance, that I’m less concerned with the details of my faith and its story than I once was. Do I care about the virgin birth or the divinity of Jesus? Not so much anymore. I’m persuaded that it is OK to talk about the intelligence of the universe, but I’m blindingly clear that I don’t know what that might mean other than that the categories I use to apprehend this world are stupidly inadequate. I still think of myself as a Christian and read my bible quite often. I still enjoy the deep dive into exegesis of a passage and take pleasure in thinking that I’m getting a window into the thinking of those who kept the stories and reflections alive and those who recorded them. Do I feel smarter than the fundamentalists who would like to pretend that they are not interpreting these texts from which they are centuries removed? Sometimes, but not deservedly.
So what is Easter then? It is certainly my admission into a millennia-long conversation about ultimate things. That conversation is dominated by futile attempts to draw lines between the sacred and the ordinary. It seems obvious to me that the attention to the sacred is powerful insofar as it shines a bright light onto the possibilities of the ordinary. I find it harder and harder to see the divine as something altogether separate, even if that is the meaning of the word “sacred.” My suspicion is that the sacred depends on the ordinary for its existence and that mutuality is the core truth within the conversation.