When I was a kid my least favorite day to go to church was Easter. As a pastor’s son Easter Sunday meant being at church from sunup to sundown. It meant constantly being asked where the bathrooms were located. It meant playing some bit part in a horrible Easter play. It meant everything I didn’t like about church became exacerbated.
Even after I moved away from home I had a rocky relationship with Easter Sunday. Sometimes I went, sometimes I didn’t. The crowds were still out of control; the “dramas” – as they became known – were still embarrassing; and, without fail, someone always asked me about the bathrooms.
But, a few years ago I read an explanation of Easter that resonated with something at the core of who I am. It didn’t come from a pastor or a theologian. It came from a wizard; it came from Tolkien.