Easter Sunday Musings

It’s Easter today, which means the flock is flocking to various services, sunrise or otherwise, the Shroud of Turin is being pranced around once again with the purported image of a suffering Christ on a piece of cloth dated back to the 1200’s but claimed to be the shroud that held his dead body. Obviously, still mired in controversy, that one. And I ponder just how this resurrection business works, as I sip coffee in a café now lightly populated and far more enjoyable since the pious are in church. So, it seems to work like this: Jesus is crucified, dies on the cross, is buried in some hillside, rises from the dead following three days of entombment, saunters around for 40 days seen by a few townspeople or passers-by, drunk or otherwise and disappears forever, presumably off in the netherworld with his holy father to sit by his right hand. At this point the fable seems to end and I’m not aware that Jesus, the son, has any other role after having played out the “dying for our sins” card, which I’ve never really understood. Then there is the issue of who did or did not anoint the crucified and dead son. Did Joseph not ask Pilate for Jesus’ body, wrapping it in spices and oils and that crazy shroud? So, why the visit from Mary Magdalene to the tomb in order to anoint the already anointed body? She’s the one who discovered Jesus was missing and must have concluded he was resurrected, an obvious conclusion for the local harlot and prostitute to come to. Of course, back in those days who really believed a whore such as the likes of Mary Magdalene? Apparently everyone, since her report of the tomb’s stone out of place and the hero gone from sight is the cornerstone core concept of Christian belief. Without the resurrection gig there is no Christianity. I could go on and on with more ridiculous absurdities that populate this tale, there being far more holes in this story than in Jesus’ purportedly crucified body. But, I would much rather spend Easter Sunday at the coffee shop sticking to my book of short stories by Lydia Davis, whose tales are much more creative, original and thoughtful. I shouldn't need to identify who's who between Mary Magdalene and Lydia Davis.