Let’s get this out the way up front: Jesus did not die so that you could mainline chocolate eggs and stage a pastel-themed scavenger hunt in your backyard. Nor did he rise from the grave so you could Instagram your artisanal hot cross buns next to a vintage ceramic bunny from your grandmother’s cupboard. And yet, here we are.

Every year, Christians the world over mark the crucifixion and alleged resurrection of their saviour with an explosive mashup of piety and marshmallow eggs. Somehow, between Gethsemane and Golgotha, the Messiah got tangled up with Peter Cottontail and a fertility goddess.

If that sounds ridiculous, it’s because it is. But history, like religion, is often less about logic and more about vibes. And the vibes, in this case, are deeply pagan.

So let’s rewind a little. The word Easter itself? Not even Christian. It’s widely believed to be derived from Ēostre, the name of an Anglo-Saxon fertility goddess celebrated at the spring equinox. That’s right. Fertility goddess. Think blooming flowers, fertile fields, and - brace yourself - rabbits. Those fluffy, twitchy, romping little creatures that reproduce with the kind of enthusiasm that would make the Kardashians blush.

Eggs? Another fertility symbol. Long before Jesus was nailed to a Roman cross, ancient Persians were dyeing eggs to celebrate the new life of spring. Eggs symbolised birth, renewal, the cycle of life. Not quite the body and blood of Christ, unless of course you’re really stretching your metaphors… and let's be honest, the Church has never shied away from a good stretch.

So what gives? How did a solemn occasion meant to commemorate a grisly execution end up as a pastel-coloured fertility party?

The answer, as with most things involving power structures and organized religion, is branding. When early Christian missionaries were out converting the so-called "heathens" of Europe, they ran into a bit of a problem: people already had their own very popular spring festivals. They had rituals. They had goddesses. They had traditions. You can’t just walk into a pagan village and say, “Hey, stop the maypole dancing, we’ve got this dead carpenter we’d like you to worship.”

So they compromised. Or, more accurately, they absorbed. Syncretism is the polite word. Colonisation is the more honest one.

Over time, Christian celebrations were grafted onto existing pagan festivals. Think of it as a religious rebrand. The marketing department at Early Christianity Inc. thought: why fight springtime joy when you can Jesus-wash it and call it holy? nd lo, Easter was born: part resurrection, part rabbit, all contradiction.

Of course, modern Christians are largely unaware of - or studiously ignoring - this Frankenstein’s monster of a holiday. They march their kids into church dressed like miniature hedge fund managers, sit through a sermon, then send them into the garden to chase after foil-covered fertility symbols.

Do they question the absurdity? Rarely. It’s tradition, they say. Family time. A teachable moment about the resurrection of the Lord, delivered between mouthfuls of Cadbury Creme Egg.

And here’s the thing: that’s fine. I’m not here to cancel Easter. But can we please, for once, be honest about what we’re doing?

Because pretending that this holiday is somehow a pure, unbroken line to the tomb in Jerusalem is, frankly, delusional. Jesus didn’t rise from the dead and say, “Go forth and establish brunch specials.” There is no gospel verse where Mary Magdalene arrives at the tomb to find it empty except for a rabbit and a basket of marshmallow chicks.

So maybe it’s time we stop pretending this is a sacred event and admit it’s a mashup. A remix. A celebration of spring, of hope, of new beginnings, and yes, of ancient rituals involving rabbits and eggs and possibly even some light orgiastic merrymaking (depending on how far back you want to go). It’s a pagan-Christian fusion festival, with all the historical nuance of a Coachella line-up curated by the Council of Nicaea.

And yet, there’s something beautiful in that mess. Something profoundly human in our instinct to layer the sacred and the profane, to mix mourning with celebration, to bring light into the shadow of death. It’s chaotic. It’s incoherent. It’s... us.

But if you’re going to participate, at least know what you’re doing. Don’t spout off about “the true meaning of Easter” while tying ribbons to your child’s bunny ears. Don’t call it blasphemy when someone suggests maybe, just maybe, this thing has older roots than the New Testament.

And above all, please, please stop trying to squeeze a crucified Middle Eastern man into a Hallmark card full of bunnies. He’s suffered enough.

So the next time someone asks, “What does Jesus have to do with chocolate eggs?” smile sweetly and say, “Absolutely nothing. But I hear Ēostre loved a good spring festival.”

Let them sit with that. And then hand them a mimosa. It is Easter, after all. Ryan Fortune is a writer, thinker and builder of AI-powered web applications. He can be contacted via his email: ryanfortunecomms@gmail.com0