It may surprise you to know how the date for Easter is decided each year. It sure as hell surprised me. Well no, actually “surprised” may not be the right word to describe such feelings of shock and disdain for the counterfeit; like the way I felt when I learned that four out of our last five commanders-in-chief were all draft dodgers (www.armytimes.com, “Dodging and deferring: Trump wasn’t the only POTUS to avoid the draft”). Not really a surprise, so much as serial disappointment in this systemic charade of patriotic piety.
The date for Easter is based on an older-than-old Pagan-esque formula. The first Sunday after the first full moon after the spring equinox is always Easter Sunday, though the Vatican would have us believe they have to consult the talking mirror in the basement and light a candle to read the Holy Spirit’s wishes in the smoke to determine the date (all the while wearing a dress, I might add). But Easter Sunday is, in fact, determined by a simple order of natural events as old as the stars.
I have always loved Easter. Ever since we ordered our clothes out of the Sears catalog and went to pick up the packages in one of the few buildings in Aspen that still looks like it did when I was a kid — for now, at least. Aspen still houses many of my happy childhood memories, despite the developers who are eager to destroy any/all remnants of Aspen-past, in order to pad their own Easter baskets (and if the Almighty is going to judge us by our bank accounts, then I really will be surprised).
I think there’s more to life than a fat bank account, and I like to spend my money on things I know will last — like memories and calories. Some of my earliest Easter memories are waking up in my matching cat pajamas (from Sears) and spotting a small pile of jelly beans matching (not really) the color of their surroundings; like five bright green jelly beans in the middle cushion of our jade green Bethune & Moore couch. Or counting the backs of heads at church (what else are we supposed to do between songs?) before the egg-and-money hunt back at the ranch. My grandfather always hid money on Easter and boy, did that bring the whole family together! Now that I think about it, I don’t ever remember finding any eggs…
Since we all follow the money anyway, I think it would be a good idea to label products as to where our money actually goes. This way we would know the real time ramifications of our spending sprees. For instance, if I buy a Pepsi product, I can find the nutritional (or lack thereof) information right on the label, so why not add a few categories: environmental impact, diversity advocacy, CEO salary cap — just kidding! Sky’s the limit, right boys? But how about a CEO-to-average-worker-salary ratio. This way we can all shop to our conscience’s delight and the companies that attract the majority will thrive. Isn’t that the ultimate business model we’ve embraced in our very important and civilized society?
And while we’re on the subject of corporate capitalism, I have another bone to pick with the Christian church. I recently learned that abortion is permitted in Islam and Judaism — in fact, it is mandatory for Jewish women when their life is in danger from a pregnancy. I’m also pretty sure the Pagans had a medicinal herb for such situations, but the Vatican doesn’t allow abortion under any circumstance. This is in direct conflict with the belief that life is sacred, not to mention smelling more like some backwoods, medieval buju than one of the Top Three Best Selling Dogmas.
As we all hunt for eggs (or money) this Easter, I would just like to point out that throughout history women have been loved, revered and trusted with the tribe’s food, health, shelter and eggs. We are an integral part of this den of conformity and chaos, but according to Christianity, we do not possess the autonomy to decide what is best for our very own bodies. Crazy. Call me hell-bound, but until Christians can practice what they preach, I’ll stick to my own method of interpreting the heavens.