Easter is surely the most confusing holiday when it comes to celebration.
You’ve got good old Peter Cottontail, hoppin’ down the bunny trail, carrying a basket of eggs, which is a very strange bit of cargo for a mammal, especially a male one.
And then, usually, in the eggs are chocolate pellets, something that—to anyone who has ever had a bunny and was responsible for cleaning the hutch—is not very appetizing in connection with a rabbit. Or else, there are jellybeans which don’t make any sense, since why would Cottontail be planting sugary legumes; aren’t carrots his species’ favorite delicacy? Or Peeps, which are even weirder, being a marshmallow simulacrum of the mid-20th century practice of selling pink and powder-blue dyed baby chickens for the ephemeral entertainment of suburban toddlers and, more often than not, the family dog.
Of course, all this pales in comparison to the peculiarity of the “official” story, the one where the supposedly immaculately-conceived alleged son of God is brutally sacrificed by crucifixion, buried, and then, three days later, comes back from the dead to absolve the faithful of their sins and let the rest of us know that his Dad will judge the world severely in His righteousness.
But you know what? It all becomes clear when your ride your bike with fifty or so other cyclists to a city park by a lake at twilight and are met there by folks bedecked in bunny ears and cottontails who have kindly hidden plastic eggs filled with treats, adult and otherwise, on the rolling lawn leading to the water.
And as you compare the shouts and murmurs of the happy human revelers to the guttural song of thousands of randy amphibians in the nearby brush, you come to understand how it all fits together: the rabbits, the eggs, the jellybeans, immaculate conception, the great mystery of creation and resurrection, and even, O Miracle of Miracles, the Peeps, so help me God.
You’ve got good old Peter Cottontail, hoppin’ down the bunny trail, carrying a basket of eggs, which is a very strange bit of cargo for a mammal, especially a male one.
And then, usually, in the eggs are chocolate pellets, something that—to anyone who has ever had a bunny and was responsible for cleaning the hutch—is not very appetizing in connection with a rabbit. Or else, there are jellybeans which don’t make any sense, since why would Cottontail be planting sugary legumes; aren’t carrots his species’ favorite delicacy? Or Peeps, which are even weirder, being a marshmallow simulacrum of the mid-20th century practice of selling pink and powder-blue dyed baby chickens for the ephemeral entertainment of suburban toddlers and, more often than not, the family dog.
Of course, all this pales in comparison to the peculiarity of the “official” story, the one where the supposedly immaculately-conceived alleged son of God is brutally sacrificed by crucifixion, buried, and then, three days later, comes back from the dead to absolve the faithful of their sins and let the rest of us know that his Dad will judge the world severely in His righteousness.
But you know what? It all becomes clear when your ride your bike with fifty or so other cyclists to a city park by a lake at twilight and are met there by folks bedecked in bunny ears and cottontails who have kindly hidden plastic eggs filled with treats, adult and otherwise, on the rolling lawn leading to the water.
And as you compare the shouts and murmurs of the happy human revelers to the guttural song of thousands of randy amphibians in the nearby brush, you come to understand how it all fits together: the rabbits, the eggs, the jellybeans, immaculate conception, the great mystery of creation and resurrection, and even, O Miracle of Miracles, the Peeps, so help me God.
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