It’s the day after Easter. We’ve experienced the excitement of Holy Week: the triumphal entry and the crowds shouting “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” We’ve sat through the Last Supper, and wondered with worry and confusion at Christ’s words, “This is my body and this is my blood, the cup of the new covenant.” We watched him arrested in the garden of Gethsemane and we’ve followed him to the cross in horror. Our hopes are crushed, and we wait in anguish, our leader, our direction, our light, dead, gone, taken, dead. He’s dead. What now? What do we do now? Then, beyond all expectation, Sunday comes. Sunday comes and with it we have hope. It’s the day after Easter. Christ is risen, indeed, but I’m left behind. On Friday morning, I ask, with Pontius Pilate. “What is truth?” And like Pilate, I have killed the anointed one with my answer.
I don't know what I think about this. It feels true. But I can't quantify it. All I know is that I want to try to polish my writing less, and this is the result of like, fifteen minutes.
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