When I was eight, I begged my parents for a necklace with the icon of a criminal. Perhaps even the world’s most famous criminal. I was eight when I received a delicate gold crucifix necklace for my birthday. I had a secret envy of the Greek girls in my class and, to me, it was the accessory du jour. If Jesus were around today, I think we would be wearing a t-shirt with his mug shot on it.
Despite Jesus’ austere existence, most of my religious memory, particularly Easter, is associated with consumerism and defining personal events.
I was 10 when I first heard that “it is easy to give something up during Lent, but it is harder to take something up”. I thought I was a child wonder for giving up chocolate, just to celebrate with inordinate amounts of it when Easter Sunday arrived.
I was 13 when I first was introduced to Andrew Lloyd-Webber and Tim Rice’s camp masterpiece Jesus Christ Superstar in music lessons. It would reignite my passion for musicals and revolutionise the way I conceptualised Jesus: as a man and historical figure rather than the Son of God.
I was 15 when my childhood dog Bacchus, seventeen at the time, was put down on Easter Saturday. The irony was not lost on me as I sobbed endless tides onto my Grandma’s pillows.
I was 16 when I had what I like to describe as my ‘religious calling’ during a routine water polo game at PLC Croydon. Thrashing towards the goal with a defender gnawing at my failing feet, I was blinded by a vision of the Altar and Tabernacle at my local childhood parish and a burning desire to attend Church. My Mum thought there was something wrong with me when I insisted we go to Church that night after fervently avoiding Saturday night mass growing up. I became completely engrossed by the Gospel and the homily. My mind wandered not once, not even to read the death announcements in the Parish newsletter. Call that a modern day miracle! It was a short lived revelation (maybe my blood sugar was low) and I am no closer to sainthood today.
I was 17 when Cadbury stopped producing Chocolate bilbies, a staple confectionary of Easter. It was the death of childhood nostalgia and entrance into Adulthood when I graduated to Darrell Lea’s nougat Easter Eggs.
I was 19 when I developed a hot cross bun obsession. In the midst of covid, when I worked at the local supermarket, I would buy all the discounted chocolate hot cross buns and sit in my car at 10:30 pm at night and pick them apart on a quest for the pockets that weren’t completely devoid of moisture.
Now at 23, Easter has not been a defining personal event in many years. My relationship with institutional religion has changed. I cannot marcate where I stand on a line of religious and non-religious. I get disproportionately stressed when Census time rolls around.
Even though I cannot remember the last time I went to Mass (sorry Mum) and do not feel ‘religious’ most of the time, whenever Easter approaches I am struck with a sense of piousness — or maybe it’s a bubbling feeling of superiority as a death sentence abolitionist. I find myself to be quite emotional around this time. Maybe it has to do with the focus on the idea of death and rebirth, as well as the beauty and mystery of life — a reminder of my middle name Anastasia’s Greek meaning of ‘resurrection’. Maybe it has to do with the power of the moon. After all, Easter is decided based on a lunar calendar and the spring equinox.
Maybe it’s not my faith I return to, but the weight of tradition, melting slowly like a chocolate egg in my pocket. No longer neatly wrapped, way past its best before date, but still there. It’s impossible to ignore, melted into the fabric of your pants. Sticky, bittersweet, and lingering long after Easter Sunday has passed.
