I feel the need to explain why I hate the Bunny. I had no animosity toward this spring tradition until this weekend.
Monday morning, as I was praying for my little class of 6 and 7 year olds (they were 5 and 6 when we started this adventure — they’re so big now), I started thinking about the conversation between the boy and the girl. For the first time, I felt angry about the Bunny.
Easter Sunday…THE Sunday of Sundays…was not the exciting, celebratory lesson that I had hoped it would be. Sunday School was the “do-I-have-to?” activity of the weekend. It was the “between egg hunts” activity. It was the big letdown after the discovering-all-of-the-goodies-in-the-basket activity.
After a morning celebrating the Bunny and the joy of discovering their baskets, the children came to church to learn about the real meaning of Easter. And while they were there, what they really believe about Easter (the stuff that happens at home) reared its head. These children defended the existence of the Bunny until they were in tears! Real tears! Over something that isn’t even real.
Could I tell them the truth? Absolutely not. If I said, “No, Honey, the Easter Bunny isn’t real,” then I could have expected to hear a complaint from one, if not all, of the mothers because I have ruined Easter for her child. (And probably ruined Christmas, too, because when one falls, they all fall.) But I couldn’t say, “Yes, the Easter Bunny is real,” because I had to tell the truth. A few of the children do not believe in the Bunny; what would they think if I lied to the class?
I was upset yesterday because too many parents can’t be bothered to help their children memorize one verse per week, but will bend over backwards to fill a basket in order to pretend that an overgrown rabbit came to visit them in the night.
It just made me sad.
When I sat down to blog yesterday morning, that’s what was on my mind.