Note to Readers:
This post is both a love letter to Easter and a reckoning with what we choose to forget. I say it all with love—and a little laughter.
There’s something undeniably beautiful about Easter. The spring light. The pastel dresses. The kids wobbling through the grass with baskets bigger than their bodies. And the tables—full of ham, deviled eggs, that one jello salad someone insists on bringing every year.
I grew up Catholic, going to church every Sunday, no questions asked. And even though I don’t really go to mass anymore, I still consider myself mostly Catholic. The kind that still whispers Hail Marys when I’m anxious, still tears up when I hear “Be Not Afraid,” still feels something ancient and grounding during Easter.
And also—the kind of Catholic who remembers the year my younger cousin Emily farted out loud during Easter mass and everyone around us (except the very serious usher) started shaking with silent laughter. I swear that memory is burned into my soul more than any homily. And honestly? That might be my favorite Easter moment ever.
But this year, between bites of chocolate eggs and the smell of baked ham, I found myself thinking about the real reason for Easter: Jesus.
Not the white-robed, blue-eyed version from American paintings. But the real Jesus. The historical man. A Middle Eastern Jewish man born in Bethlehem, raised in Nazareth—modern-day Palestine. A brown-skinned refugee who practiced Judaism and fled violence with his family when he was just a child. An outsider. A radical.
And it hit me: If Jesus lived today, would he even be allowed into this country?
Would he be stopped at the border? Flagged by TSA? Labeled a threat because of where he’s from or what his name sounds like? Would he be deported under Trump’s immigration policies?
Would the very people who say his name the loudest slam the door in his face?
It’s not a question of politics. It’s a question of truth.
Jesus would likely be on the wrong side of every system built to exclude. He wasn’t a Roman citizen. He didn’t hold power. He challenged authority. He flipped tables. He wept for the suffering. He welcomed the ones no one else would. He hung out with the poor, the sick, the criminalized, the outcast. If we really look at his story, it’s a story of resistance—and of radical love.
And that makes me wonder: Have we forgotten who we’re celebrating?
This isn’t about guilt. It’s about remembrance. About asking ourselves how we treat the strangers, refugees, and the marginalized today. About how we worship a man who was once all of those things—and whether we’re living like we actually believe him.
So yeah. I still love Easter. I still laugh thinking about Emily’s legendary church fart. And I still believe in resurrection.
But resurrection isn’t just about what happened to Jesus. It’s also about what we allow to happen through us.
And I hope that as we celebrate Easter, we don’t just sit comfortably in our churches and our family dinners—but ask ourselves who Jesus would be today, and whether we’d make room at the table for him.