Easter Thoughts from a Recovering Catholic

Easter gets its name from the Teutonic goddess of spring and the dawn, whose name is spelled Oestre or Eastre (the origin of the word "east" comes from various Germanic, Austro-Hungarian words for dawn that share the root for the word "aurora" which means " to shine"). Modern pagans have generally accepted the spelling "Ostara" which honors this goddess as our word for the Vernal Equinox. The 1974 edition of Webster's New World Dictionary defines Easter thus: "orig., name of pagan vernal festival almost coincident in date with paschal festival of the church; Eastre, dawn goddess; 1. An annual Christian festival celebrating the resurrection of Jesus, held on the first Sunday after the date of the first full moon that occurs on or after March 21." The Vernal Equinox usually falls somewhere between March 19th and 22nd (note that the dictionary only mentions March 21st, as opposed to the date of the actual Equinox), and depending upon when the first full moon on or after the Equinox occurs, Easter falls sometime between late-March and mid-April. (Peg Aloi - http://www.witchvox.com/va/dt_va.html?a=usma&c=holidays&id=1991)

I grew up Catholic, went to a Convent School from age 6 to 18 years. In both home and school there was an atmosphere of control through guilt and shame – very effective – very destructive. It created a deep-seated rage in me that took years of self-discovery and some talented therapists, to dissolve. The Catholic church of my childhood evolved through the ecumenical councils of Pope John XXIII that turned away from the Latin mass to a modern English version. Gone were the wonderful plainchant masses for which I would get up early on a Sunday morning and walk several miles to sit under the organ loft at the back of the church and listen, entranced.

Before that switch a pilgrimage would take place every year from the city of Bath where I grew up, to the ancient town of Glastonbury in the land of the summer sea known as the County of Somerset in England. The pilgrimage culminated in the ruins of the once beautiful Abbey that was destroyed by the bullyboys of King Henry VIII – he of the six wives. Glastonbury is the considered to be the heart of Avalon, the ancient isle of the druid priestesses. Rising over the town is a natural land formation known as Glastonbury Tor. It can be seen for miles and I have climbed it both as a child and as an adult. It has always been a mystical, magical place for me even as a child not knowing the history.

It didn’t matter whether I was there on a ritualized Catholic pilgrimage with hundreds of others, or an individual visit to re-connect with my heritage – the magic is always there. Easter is considered to be the greatest miracle by the Christians – the Son of God rising from the dead. Down through the ages there have been great Kings who were predicted to come again. Arthur is one such legend. He is often referred to as the “once and future king”. It is ironic then that he was supposedly buried in Glastonbury Abby. That myth has long been disproved but the tourist attraction is still there so the “grave” and the plaque that states Arthur is buried here, still stand. Ironic because at Easter the pilgrimage was made to celebrate the King rising from the dead – The Son King, the son OF the king, the once and future king?

It doesn’t really matter which legend you choose to believe – the celebration is of a re-birth – no matter how we treat Mother Earth, the wheel of the year still turns, spring comes again, and the world is re-born – a miracle indeed!