Play One on TV

Happy Easter, everyone. At least, I hope you’re having a happier Easter than I am, being in the throes of one of my classic sinus headaches. No, we’re not talking about taking two aspirins and calling in the morning. This is a piercing, nail-biting, hurts-to-look-at-shiny-things headache. If you’ve never had one of these and want to know what it’s like, take a vise, tighten it around your head, and then throw yourself off the Empire State Building headfirst.

Thanks to an incredibly hot shower, a few extra hours of sleep, and the use of some pseudoephedrine hydrochloride (also known as “unrefined meth”) I am starting to feel somewhat better. Downgrade “Empire State Building” to “Trump Tower”.

However, I did wimp out on church this morning. It’s no big deal, really, as I don’t attend one of those churches that banish you to one of Hell’s circles for neglecting the risen saviour on His day. However, I do feel a little guilty about it. Figures — I finally find a church that doesn’t use guilt as one of its motivational tools, and I go on and supply my own instead. If you can’t tell, I’m not the best person in the world at accepting grace.

But I really do feel like a class-A wimpomatic. I’m a Christian. Saved by grace, empowered by the Holy Spirit, and beholden to nobody on earth, right? I’m suppposed to go and serve and be Christ on Earth and baptize and all that jazz, yet I can’t pull myself out of bed long enough to sit on a padded pew for an hour. Pathetic.

I’m sure that Jesus felt like total crap on the Third Day — after all, he’d been kinda sorta dead and all, not to mention recovering from a small detour through Hell (and ripping down some gates along the way, if I remember correctly). But did he wimp out? Did he give in to what must have been the mother of all hangovers? No, sir! Not only did he get up and Go Forth, but he rolled this humongous stone out of the way and capped two guards on the way out.

Next to that, I’m a bunny rabbit (although I fit the other popular Easter icon). Something tells me if the resurrection story had been up to me, it would have been the Fifth or Sixth day, possible Seventh if I couldn’t find any Alka-Seltzer. Thank God (quite literally) that He had better stamina. Or maybe he had access to better nasal steroids. Who knows?

If there’s a theological or psychological term for being intimidated by your savior, let me know. I’ll put it down on my next physical form for a conversation piece.

Happy Easter. Eat some chocolate bunnies. Just try to chew very softly, please.