Once, when I was probably 11 or 12, my mom let me dye Easter eggs. I grew up in a pretty Christian town, and holidays like Christmas and Easter always brought me down. So Mom said, “OK, let’s dye eggs this year.” We did—and it was boring as all hell. That was the point Mom was trying to make, and it was a strong one: Without the context of celebrating the actual holiday, rituals are merely rituals.
Hence, that was my last Easter … until this weekend.
As I write this, we’re hanging with Jill, Greg and their little son, Joseph—celebrating Easter. My kids went to an egg hunt this morning. Now, they’re making chocolate. Tomorrow, baskets.
Are we suddenly followers of Christ? Uh, no. We’re just a couple o’ Jews hanging with Christians. But, I’ve gotta say, this is fun. And joyful. And there’s actual context—the people we’re with celebrate Easter. So why can’t we enjoy it with them?
Truth is, all this stuff is very silly. I used to hate Jews with Christmas trees. But why? Who cares? What difference does it make? Religion is, in my mind, 99 percent silly inane ritual. Earlier this week I held a Passover seder at my house. I wore a yarmulke on my head—literally, a small piece of neon blue fabric supposedly offered respect to Adonoi. So silly. So mindless.
Point is, who cares? If we’re all gonna die anyway, and if there is no hell, and if life is a fleeting series of events, why not seize the day?
Why not dye eggs?