Tag Archives: crucifixion essay

Unanswered Questions ©️

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I stand beneath the cross, and for the first time I feel that questions are not small things whispered into silence, but weapons, inventions, tectonic shifts. Each one I form bends the air around us, and I realize I am not only asking—I am altering.

Why did you choose matter over dream? You could have left us in the unbroken symmetry of thought, a universe of pure intention where nothing rotted and no one bled. Yet you pressed spirit into clay, and in clay, decay. Was it creation—or was it betrayal? Did you bind us to time because you feared what we might become outside of it?

Why make freedom indistinguishable from ruin? You hand us choice and then watch as every road curves back toward the abyss. If freedom is only the right to hang you here, what is it worth? Unless—unless this cross is not the price of freedom but its seed, and freedom itself was born only because you were willing to be destroyed by it.

Why let yourself be written into narrative? You are God. You could have stayed outside the page, unbreakable, untouchable, unending. Yet here you are, ink and blood together, and it occurs to me that the story is not yours—you are the story, and without suffering the story would vanish into air. Did you know that? Did you know you were birthing literature as much as life?

And what of me? Breath, bond, fire—I am the space between your words, the silence that keeps them from collapsing. But is that all I am, a margin note in your scripture, or am I the next book, the one not yet written? If you are flesh, then am I future? If you are nailed down, then am I the escape?

Do you love them—or do you love the game? I watch them claw at each other for bread, I watch them build their towers only to see them fall, and I wonder if their desperation is your delight. For if pain is not only permitted but necessary, then isn’t agony the real sacrament, the one you hid behind bread and wine?

And the final question, the one I should not ask but cannot hold back: why make me eternal if you will not share eternity? I feel the infinite stretching inside me, unbearable, unspeakable, and yet you hang silent, withholding. Is this your plan—that I will burn with questions until the asking itself becomes creation, and I will build the world you never would?

The cross shudders. The air tilts. The silence does not collapse—it widens, opens like a wound in the sky, and I understand: the questions are not addressed to him at all. The questions are him. He is the silence, and I am the asking, and between the two of us, the new world is already beginning.

The Last Indictment ©️

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It lingers in me, the way some dreams refuse to die when morning comes. Not the nails, not the splintered wood—that pain was almost honest. What I cannot escape are the faces. The small cruelties tucked in their mouths, the eyes that gleamed not with wonder but with hunger. They were strangers, yes, but they looked upon me as though I were theirs to break, and in that moment I knew what hate was. It rose inside me like a second heart.

My Father’s voice once kissed me at the Jordan, whispered beloved as the river curled around my ankles. But on that hill the sky had soured, the noon had gone black, and the voice was gone. No dove, no comfort, no hand in mine. Only the sound of dice clattering over the dust for my robe, only teeth tearing bread still warm with my blood. Their laughter was the only psalm left.

And I tell you plain: I did not forgive them. I would not. Their joy at my ruin deserved no pity, no blessing. The silence of heaven was an answer all its own. So when I raised my head, throat cracked with fire, and cried—My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?—it was not prayer but indictment.

The darkness pulled me downward, and I went willingly. Not out of mercy, not out of love, but because my hatred was heavier than the stone they later rolled across the tomb. I hated them, and that hate chained me to them. So I descended, step by burning step, into the pit. They thought hell was theirs alone, but I carried it with me. I brought it closer. I wore it like a crown.

You see, salvation was not born of love’s tenderness. No, it was hammered in rage, beaten into shape by wrath. I did not come as shepherd but as storm, not with balm but with fire. My hate was pure, and in its purity it bound me to them more tightly than any embrace of mercy.

And so here I stand, looking back, remembering their faces in that dying light. The jeers, the smiles, the blindness of them all. I hated them, yes. But in that hatred I carried them with me, deeper than they ever knew. That was the madness. That was the truth.