I don't really get very uptight about the commercialisation of Christmas. There's so much going on that is more mid-winter festival than anything else and the songs and stories, even the Christian ones, are a veritable mish-mash of miscellaneous myth and metaphor with a few facts carefully hidden amidst the partying.
But Easter. It's holy. I don't really want cards and this morning's three cards - one cross of flowers, one stained-glass church window and a bunny - just got on my nerves. I never send Easter cards. Every year Liz and I have a conversation which goes:
Are you sending your Mum an Easter card?
She sends you one.
Shall I send one from both of us?
What would you say if I did it anyway?
I'm going to.
It's a sort of Maundy Thursday liturgy for us.
Even our over-enthusiasm for daffodils and other spring flowers at this time of year suggests a mix-up between ancient fertility rites and resurrection. And what is Passover if it isn't a new start? I don't like saying Happy Easter to people. I just want to walk around bare-foot for a bit. The central, celebrated moments of the Christian faith are an annual reminder that either God did something miraculous or I misdirected my life believing it. Quiet please. I'm trying to be holy. Enjoy the break.
Don't confuse this with theology. It's my meditation and no more.