By Darryl Tippens

It was the women’s hats—those petite pillboxes and glorious half-hats crowned with floral clusters in pastels and whites and the softest creams—that gave it away every Easter. The men wore shiny new Oxfords and freshly pressed trousers, their bright ties catching the light. In every direction, our attire proclaimed: This is Easter! Outside, nature was saying the same thing, urgently, in every color it had. 

The preacher tried to say otherwise: “Every Sunday commemorates the Resurrection,” he said. Christians gather on the first day of every week—“the Lord’s Day”—not Saturday, for a reason. He had a point. Though we still use the pagan name “Sunday” (the day of the sun god) for the first day of the week, other languages reveal the truth. They call it Domingo, Dominica, Dimanche—all meaning “the Lord’s Day,” that is, the day of the Lord’s Resurrection (Rev. 1:10). By this logic, every Sunday service, fifty-two times a year, is a celebration of the Resurrection. Since antiquity, Christians have begun each new week celebrating new life, new hope, new beginnings. I didn’t disagree, but something about that reasoning felt incomplete.

As a child sitting in church each spring, I sensed something different. A special beauty had emerged. The congregation’s dress fairly shouted what the pulpit downplayed. I knew this truth through my senses, in the air and in my soul. This awareness crystallized one Palm Sunday when I was almost thirteen. I chose to be baptized on that April morning at the beginning of Holy Week. I woke early, polished my worn-out shoes, and put on my new shirt. According to my church, it was just another Sunday—but not for me. Something profound was happening, whether the preacher acknowledged it or not. It was spring. Easter was near. It was a time for new beginnings.

I didn’t need theological arguments. Outside my bedroom window, forsythia blazed yellow against the grey morning. In our peach orchard, blossoms had broken open overnight. Redbuds stood in the park across the street like small fires of pink and violet. Daffodils and crocuses had pushed up through the dark garden soil as if it were time to show off. The air smelled of recent rain and of something about to happen. These were not random occurrences—they were resurrection made visible. My senses told me the truth.

I ultimately embraced a “both-and” approach to Easter. Yes, every Sunday honors the Resurrection. But Christ rose on one particular spring morning outside Jerusalem during Passover season—not in August or October or January. That historical specificity matters. The church has never forgotten the indissoluble bond between Passover and Resurrection. Passover comes only once a year, just like spring comes only once a year. Though there may be fifty-two celebrations of Resurrection each year, Easter Sunday—Pascha, the Christian Passover—is unique. It carries special meaning deep within its ancient Hebrew roots.

Denominations disagree on observing special days—and always have. The Western and Eastern churches follow different calendars, yielding different Easter dates. Some churches, like mine, like the Puritans who settled New England, were skittish about special observances. This anxiety goes back even to the first Christians. The Apostle Paul addressed the question with sensitivity: “Some judge one day better than another, while others judge all days alike,” he wrote. “Let all be fully convinced in their own minds” (Romans 14:5). Whatever your view,  Paul wrote, just honor the Lord. We can do that, whether Easter comes once a year or every week.

The church of my childhood has evolved. Many congregations now embrace Christmas and Easter. Some even make an effort to practice Advent and Lent—a shift that validates what I always sensed as a boy. Looking back, my early love of Easter as a child aligns closely with how I observe it today. When I recall that vibrant sea of feathered, ribboned, and flowered hats rising from the pews, I know that Easter dwelt deep in the heart of those church folk, no matter what the preacher said—just as it dwelt in mine. The hats and the crocuses spoke a truth the official teaching couldn’t diminish.

Darryl Tippens is retired University Distinguished Scholar at Abilene Christian University