I remember many a Holy Thursday—spent sitting in a pew, trying not to fidget while my stomach rumbled and my mind wandered to chocolate eggs I wasn’t even allowed to eat yet. What followed was the trifecta: Good Friday, Easter Saturday, and finally Easter Sunday.
Growing up Catholic meant Easter wasn’t just a day. It was a season. A full-blown liturgical obstacle course starting with Ash Wednesday and ending with candle wax and questionable fish dishes.
Even as a kid, Easter never sat right with me. Not because of the fish (okay, maybe partly because of the fish—what even was that curry sauce, Mum?), but because the whole event seemed soaked in fear, shame, and obligation. Not exactly the resurrection of joy. And strangely enough, not even the promise of chocolate eggs could pull me out of that slump.
Lent, Lollies, and the Stations of Sighs
It all started with Lent—six weeks of “What are you going to give up?” I never had to choose. The answer was usually made for me. For good measure, I’d toss in, “I’ll stop fighting with my sister.” Which lasted approximately one shared-bedroom meltdown.
Ash Wednesday kicked it off with school mass and a thumbprint of ashes to the forehead—your spiritual stamp of “must try harder.” And then, every Friday night? The Stations of the Cross. Walking around the church, muttering prayers, longing for the Friday night tradition I actually cared about: the library and a 20-cent lolly bag. Denied.
Easter smelt. Not of chocolate or roast lamb—but of benediction, incense, and polished wooden kneelers. My knees still remember the pain. Sacrifice, they said. Spiritual discipline, they said.
Holy Thursday meant another long mass. Good Friday began with benediction, one final lap of the stations, a lunch of smoked cod or some other mystery fish, and back to church for the 3 p.m. mass. We had to get there by 2 to get a seat. The Hoffman’s seat.
Then came the bit no one really prepared you for: the veneration of the cross (see even now I still remeber the titles). We’d all queue solemnly down the centre aisle, one by one, to kneel and kiss the feet of the crucifix held by the priest.
It was reverent. It was emotional for some, not me I loathed the whole process.
I even tried fainting once— before it started. No luck. There was no hopefor me. I was still lying right up until the end. A sinner to the very last moment. Would my soul even be saved? Better kiss the feet— just in case.
And in hindsight, the whole thing was a bit of an OH&S nightmare. This was the ‘70s, after all—hand sanitiser wasn’t invented yet, and we were all swapping germs in the name of salvation.
Easter Saturday brought candles, more mass, and a creeping suspicion that I might never escape the smell of frankincense. But you’ve got to hand it to the Catholics—they really knew how to do ritual.
At least I could take comfort in the fact that all my friends were suffering too. Communion through commiseration, if you will.
Four-Day Weekend, Courtesy of Jesus?
As a sarcastic teen, I once said that Jesus had great foresight to die on a Friday and rise on a Sunday—ensuring we’d get a four-day weekend. That didn’t go down too well at home. “Blasphemous child,” I believe, was the phrase used.
But as I grew older, I became what they call a lapsed Catholic—the kind who still remembers all the hymns but struggles with the institution. It’s hard to stay when those who preached morality failed to live it. Easter, for me, stopped being about sin and shame and became something quieter. More personal. More… curious.
From Resurrection to Retail: The Modern Easter
These days, Easter feels like Christmas’s slightly less glamorous cousin. The one who shows up in the hot cross bun aisle on Boxing Day and overstays their welcome.
I once worked a short stint at Woolies, returning to my roots as a checkout chick. And let me tell you—Easter Saturday queues were legendary. People were stocking up like the shops had been and would be shut for over a week.
They’d be open again the next morning, but panic-buying seafood and chocolate had become the new sacred rite. Somewhere along the line, we’d swapped the queues of the church for the queues of the checkout—and honestly, I’m not sure which was more chaotic.
Instead of a time of reflection or even moderation, we now have seafood feasts that could feed Atlantis. The sacred has been replaced by salmon.
A Nod to the Old Gods: The Pagan Side of Easter
Long before Christianity laid claim to it, Easter was pagan. The name itself likely comes from Ēostre or Ostara, a goddess of spring, light, and new life. Her festivals were held around the spring equinox, celebrating fertility, rebirth, and the turning of seasons. Eggs and rabbits? Ancient fertility symbols. Cadbury didn’t invent that—they just monetised it.
At its core, Easter has always been about cycles—death and rebirth, dark to light. It was never about rules. It was about rhythm. That makes more sense to me now than all the kneeling and kissing of crosses ever did.
Resurrecting Meaning: New Rituals for a New Time
So if the old ways don’t fit anymore—if guilt and curry fish no longer serve—what might we create instead?
What if we gave ourselves permission to form new Easter rituals? Ones that feel nourishing, grounding, and real. Not dictated by tradition or Woolies specials, but chosen with intention.
Here are a few that feel just right:
- The Silent Morning – No queues, no phones. Just you, a cuppa, and the sound of birds doing their thing. It might not be spiritual, but it’s soothing.
- Letter to Self – Write a letter to the version of you who’s still trying. Still hoping. Still showing up. Seal it and save it for next Easter. Or next Monday. Whatever works.
- Nature Offering – Go for a walk. Collect something that catches your eye—a feather, a gum nut, a perfectly imperfect rock—and create a little altar. A quiet “thank you” to the world.
- The Great Let-Go – Write down one thing you’re ready to release. A grudge, a habit, a half-dead pot plant that’s now a fire hazard. Burn it (safely) and let it go.
- Bring-a-Dish Resurrection Feast – Invite your people for lunch and ask everyone to bring a dish that reminds them of something good. Eat to connect, not to impress.
- Unplugged Day – Take one full day offline. No news, no notifications, no rabbit holes. Just books, naps, laughter, and being where your feet are.
Maybe Easter doesn’t need to be discarded. Maybe it just needs to evolve with us.
One Last Word (from Years and Years)
I came across a scene in the series Years and Years that hit harder than expected. It’s Anne Reid’s character, delivering a quiet truth bomb that’s stuck with me ever since I first watched it. It’s a wake-up call—not just about politics or the world, but about us. About how we live. About how we forget. About how we let things slide.
“Every single thing that’s gone wrong, it’s your fault. Every time you cancelled something, or ignored something, or put it off…”
Ouch. But also—yes.
Maybe the resurrection we need isn’t just about chocolate or church. Perhaps it begins with reflection. With noticing what we’ve normalised, what we’ve walked past, and what we’ve avoided. Maybe it’s in the small, conscious choices we make each day—to show up, to care, to speak, to act. To become just a little more human again.
Your Turn
What does Easter mean to you now? Is it a time to pause? A spiritual reset? A seafood buffet followed by an afternoon nap? No judgement here.
Whether you light a candle, bake a bun, walk through nature, or just sit still long enough to hear yourself think—I hope your Easter gives you something real.
And if your version of resurrection is simply finding the strength to clear the dining table or resist a third maybe fourth easter egg (or second chocolate bunny). I see you. 💛
