Easter is Story
Easter is like a story of early childhood told to you by your parents. You do not actually remember the day when you hunted eggs in the snow, but you have seen the photograph of a tiny child in a coat with a fur-lined hood, and you have heard so many times how your mother and father shivered in the late-season cold while you slowly filled your basket, so that you sometimes think you do remember. The plastic eggs and the dripping snow are that real to you.
But when your own child asks how you celebrated Easter when you were young, you feel sure that the story of candy-filled eggs nestled in snow is a story and not a memory. Passing the story on to your own child is an act of faith. You trust your parents and so you tell it, but it can never be as real as your memories of subsequent Easters in a different place when you hunted eggs beneath an already hot southern sun.
Easter is a story handed down. Though fantastic, like spring eggs in winter snow, it is a solid thing, fortified by witnesses and with the ring of truth.
It is also a translucent thing. Like sunlight, Easter is radiant, but one can never fully grasp it by the hand. It is as elusive as a not-quite-memory.
C. S. Lewis famously said, “I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it but because by it, I see everything else.”
You were not there on that sunny morning in that garden to see the empty tomb for yourself. But the same radiant sun dazzles your own eyes. You have seen how it transforms melted snow, cold mud, and a buried seed into some new, astonishing flower.
You may not remember that first Easter day, but you, too, have seen miracles for which Easter is the final and the full explanation.
You, too, are a witness.