The Curious Case of the Chocolate Messiah

An Israeli abroad tries to make sense of chocolate eggs, Jesus, and Icelandic spring traditions. Some answers found. Most... deliciously unclear.

When I first moved to Iceland, I expected snow, sagas, and perhaps the odd puffin or two. I did not expect to spend my spring chasing chocolate eggs hidden by invisible rabbits, all in honor of a Jewish man who died, dramatically came back, and somehow became associated with marshmallow chicks.

Let me explain.

Back in Israel, Passover (Pesach) was a well-understood operation. You clean your house like it personally offended you, you eat cardboard disguised as matzah, and you recite a long dinner story about slavery, frogs, and divine wrath while your uncle tries to set the afikoman market value. It’s intense, symbolic, and distinctly low on bunnies.

Then came Iceland. And with it: Páskar, the Icelandic Easter.

At first glance, it’s Christianity’s answer to spring: Jesus, crucified around Passover, resurrected three days later (which, if you're Jewish and counting by sundown rules, already feels suspiciously like creative Talmud math). So far, so theological.

But then... come the eggs. And not the Passover kind. These are colorful, hollow, sugar-filled bombs of cocoa, stuffed with proverb-sized candy messages called mottur (Icelandic sayings). They’re everywhere. Supermarkets, schools, even gas stations sell them in sizes that require structural engineering degrees to carry. Children hunt them. Sometimes in snow. Occasionally in blizzards.

So I asked the obvious question: What do eggs have to do with Jesus? Or, frankly, with anything?

I asked Icelanders. They shrugged. “Spring,” they said. “Rebirth,” they guessed. “Chocolate,” they offered hopefully. Some whispered of ancient fertility rites, Germanic goddesses, and hare-worshipping pagans. One person suggested the eggs were a metaphor for the tomb. I began to suspect no one actually knew.

It turns out, Easter is a glorious mash-up: ancient spring festivals, pagan fertility symbols, and Christian resurrection narratives, all stirred into one pastel-colored celebration that makes no sense and every sense, depending on how much sugar you’ve consumed.

So here I am, a former Israeli, trying to find theological depth in a holiday that features cartoon rabbits and candy riddles. And maybe that’s the real magic: in Iceland, you can honor life, death, rebirth — and still sneak a bite of chocolate before dinner.