How MY FAMILY celebrates Easter

Apr 04, 2010 20:06


Because my Mother and I are not the usual Christians, and like to poke fun at our religion at holidays, my Easters always included a ceremonial reading of the Gospel According to Sedaris. David Sedaris that is. Specifically his lovely essay, "Jesus Shaves". In honor of this day, I share this essay with all of you.....

Jesus Shaves by David Sedaris

"And what does one do on the fourteenth of July? Does one celebrate Bastille Day?"
It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise
designed to promote the use of one, our latest personal pronoun.
"Might one sing on Bastille Day?" she asked. "Might one dance in the street? Somebody give
me an answer."
Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays alongside a scattered arrangement of
photos depicting French people in the act of celebration. The object was to match the holiday
with the corresponding picture. It was simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to
the use of the word they. I didn't know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day
eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.
Normally, when working from the book, it was my habit to tune out my fellow students and
scout ahead, concentrating on the question I'd calculated might fall to me, but this afternoon,
we were veering from the usual format. Questions were answered on a volunteer basis, and I
was able to sit back, confident that the same few students would do the talking. Today's
discussion was dominated by an Italian nanny, two chatty Poles, and a pouty, plump
Moroccan woman who had grown up speaking French and had enrolled in the class to
improve her spelling. She'd covered these lessons back in the third grade and took every
opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. A question would be asked and she'd give the
answer, behaving as though this were a game show and, if quick enough, she might go home
with a tropical vacation or a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. By the end of her first day, she'd
raised her hand so many times, her shoulder had given out. Now she just leaned back in her
seat and shouted the answers, her bronzed arms folded across her chest like some great
grammar genie.
We finished discussing Bastille Day, and the teacher moved on to Easter, which was
represented in our textbook by a black-and-white photograph of a chocolate bell lying upon a
bed of palm fronds.
"And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?"
The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the question when the Moroccan student
interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"
Despite her having grown up in a Muslim country, it seemed she might have heard it
mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are
talking about."
The teacher then called upon the rest of us to explain.
The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of
God who call his self Jesus and . . . oh, shit."
She faltered, and her fellow countryman came to her aid.
"He call his self Jesus, and then he be die one day on two . . . morsels of . . . lumber."
The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an
aneurysm.
"He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father."
"He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to
the peoples."
"He nice, the Jesus."
"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead
today."
Part of the problem had to do with grammar. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection
were beyond our grasp, let alone such complicated reflexive phrases as "To give of yourself
your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of
Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food
instead.
"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One, too, may eat of the
chocolate."
"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.
I knew the word, and so I raised my hand, saying, "The Rabbit of Easter. He bring of the
chocolate."
My classmates reacted as though I'd attributed the delivery to the Antichrist. They were
mortified.
"A rabbit?" The teacher, assuming I'd used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on
top of her head, wiggling them as though they were ears. "You mean one of these? A rabbit
rabbit?"
"Well, sure," I said. "He come in the night when one sleep on a bed. With a hand he have the
basket and foods."
The teacher sadly shook her head, as if this explained everything that was wrong with my
country. "No, no," she said. "Here in France the chocolate is brought by the big bell that flies
in from Rome."
I called for a time-out. "But how do the bell know where you live?"
"Well," she said, "how does a rabbit?"
It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That's a start. Rabbits move from place to
place, while most bells can only go back and forth--and they can't even do that on their own
power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character; he's someone you'd like to meet and
shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It's like saying that come
Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who
wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they've
got more bells than they know what to do with right here in Paris? That's the most implausible
aspect of the whole story, as there's no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker
to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a
French bell's dog -and even then he'd need papers. It just didn't add up.
Nothing we said was of any help to the Moroccan student. A dead man with long hair
supposedly living with her father, a leg of lamb served with palm fronds and chocolate.
Confused and disgusted, she shrugged her massive shoulders and turned her attention back
to the comic book she kept hidden beneath her binder. I wondered then if, without the
language barrier, my classmates and I could have done a better job making sense of
Christianity, an idea that sounds pretty far-fetched to begin with.
In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our
very presence in that classroom. Why bother struggling with the grammar lessons of a sixyear-
old if each of us didn't believe that, against all reason, we might eventually improve? If I
could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing
that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of
chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. So why stop there? If I could believe in
myself, why not give other improbabilities the benefit of the doubt? I accepted the idea that an
omniscient God had cast me in his own image and that he watched over me and guided me
from one place to the next. The virgin birth, the resurrection, and the countless miracles -my
heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.

A bell, though, that's fucked up.

easter

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