EASTER BEFORE THE MILLENNIUM: A JOURNEY THROUGH INNOCENCE, GUILT, AND GLORY 

By Abiodun Omotoso 

In the 1980s and 90s, Easter wasn’t just a holiday, it was a deeply spiritual season that tugged at our hearts and molded our consciences from childhood. It came with a sacred rhythm, one we all followed without question, rooted in tradition, myth, and a profound sense of reverence.

As soon as Lent began, a kind of solemn silence settled over our lives. We all, young and old, began to feel this unshakable guilt, an awareness that we had somehow wronged God. It didn’t matter that we were just children; the message was clear: we have all sinned and come short of His glory.

And so, with a seriousness far beyond our years, we joined in the fasting and prayers. Some gave up food till noon, some skipped their favorite meals, and others were dragged along by their parent, but we all participated. It wasn’t out of fear but it was reverence. It was duty. It was love.

You will think we would be glad at the end of this long fast, but Holy Week hit differently. By Good Friday, the sadness was thick in the air. No songs of victory, no celebratory mood. It was mourning, deep and personal mourning for what happened to Jesus. There was this myth that stuck with many of us: you must not eat anything with blood on Good Friday. So, no meat, no fish with visible blood vessels. It was our way of honoring the pain of the cross.

We didn’t just feel bad for Jesus, we were upset with everyone who had a hand in his crucifixion. We cried for Peter who denied him, “What if he had just stood up for Jesus? Maybe they wouldn’t have killed Him.” We were mad at Judas, who we believed thought Jesus would disappear as He always did, and still chose money. And we questioned Pontius Pilate too, “You had the power to release Him, why leave the decision to the people?” And the people! Oh, the people, we imagined them yelling “Crucify him!” and wondered, how could they?

All these thoughts haunted us as kids. It was confusing, heart-wrenching, and deeply spiritual. We couldn’t yet grasp the theology, but we felt the emotions. We carried the burden. Then came Sunday morning and everything changed. As early as dawn, our grandmothers and elders would shout in Yoruba with triumphant joy: “Ó ti jíndè o! Ọba àwọn ọba ti jíndè!” Meaning He has risen! The King of kings has risen!

Just like that, our sadness dissolved into jubilation. Hope came alive again. Some churches would hold early morning resurrection processions, dancing and singing through the streets as early as midnight, lanterns swinging, white garments glowing. The whole community came alive with praise.

But Easter wasn’t complete without Easter Monday, our journey to Galilee. For us, it was more than symbolism. We truly believed Jesus would be there. We would gather our mats, water bottles, and Bible verses, and head to the mountains, excited and expectant.

But each year, we would leave a little disappointed. We didn’t see Him. The gist? “You came late.” Or worse, “Only the righteous saw Him.” Some of us even believed maybe we were too short, or we had secretly sinned again and sinners can’t see Him.

But none of that dulled the magic. We kept coming, year after year, because Easter wasn’t just about seeing Jesus with our eyes, it was about feeling Him in our hearts. It was about a season of reflection, of shared guilt and collective joy, of myths, mysteries, and deep moral lessons. And even though we’ve grown up, those memories remain: pure, powerful, unforgettable.

Happy Easter Celebration to all.