My oldest announced at dinner the other night that she wants to go to church on Easter, then followed her announcement with which church she’d like to attend.

Grace. That’s her name.

I’m surrounded and enveloped by it. I’m curious and passionate about it. Yet I’ve rarely found it at church.

I swallowed hard and said, “Okay, we’ll see,” which my children usually correctly interpret as “Yes.” But I murmured to Mark how I just don’t want to go at all and how it fills me with dread to even think about it.

Easter doesn’t give me all the happy thrills I once associated with it: music and new clothes and savory foods and all the churchy things.

This year, Easter feels even more commercialized and less about new life to me. {Of course, what holiday isn’t commercialized?} On that end, things aren’t really any different. The Easter Bunny has always brought baskets of goodies to our girls.

But in years past, there was always more. Expectation, perhaps. The sense that something new and lasting would transpire because of Easter. Truth be told, at the end of each Easter Day, my emotions had been stirred, but my heart remained the same.

Is it possible that religion has its own way of commercializing Easter, and I bought what it sold just as I bought Easter dresses and shoes?

Just as the stores stock up on chocolate creme eggs once a year, churches treat Easter like a once-a-year production. Perhaps candy is appropriate on Easter because the Gospel is made to feel like a fairy tale.

I can’t recall a single Easter Sunday on which I attended church and left scandalized by grace. Was it the lack of transformation in my own heart? Maybe.

But I dare say I’ve never heard a message in which the pastor dove head-first into the muddy waters of grace. The kind of grace that says Jesus is sitting at the right hand of God, acting as the mediator between our filth and His holiness, and that we are completely and utterly dependent on Him alone, and not any of our own attempts at goodness. The kind of grace that climbs down with us in the shit of our own making just to prove how much He loves us. The kind of grace that throws a party at the prodigal’s return instead of enforcing consequences for bad behavior. The kind of grace that multiplies with every evil thought, unkind word and rotten deed. The kind of grace that doesn’t simply argue “God’s not dead,” but looks me square in the eyes and says, “Because He’s alive, you can be too!” The kind of grace that simultaneously screams and whispers, “You are worthy.”

That kind of grace is the Grace that changes lives. I’ve experienced it. And I’ve watched the spark of life appear in other people’s eyes as they experienced it.

I don’t want grace with conditions. I don’t want to spend Easter listening to a proclamation of grace that’s watered down with subtle rules and behavior modifications. I want to know that Jesus lives for and loves the worst of us ~ the ones who can’t lift their heads because the weight of guilt is too great, the ones who bear the burdens of failure, the ones who suffer in silent shame, the ones whom the religious people stone and discard. I want to know there’s room at the Table, and we are all invited with our questions and doubts and fears and wonderings and wanderings.

I want radical grace that’s free and pure and gritty and mysterious and holy and scandalous and unadulterated, and I want to drown in it so that it has to breathe life back into me, resuscitating me from unconsciousness. I want such a grace because Easter is ultimately about God making all things new. Anything less is an overproduced, misleading version of the resurrection story…a fairy tale that leaves its audience feeling cheapened and cheated.

I’ll go to church Sunday. Yes, I dread it based on prior experience. However, I have the slightest hope that the Spirit that moves like a rushing wind will blow away any fairy tale gospel and usher in grace that kisses every forehead, hugs every heart, and whispers “You are loved” in every ear.