It is Easter morning and the world is broken. Alleluia.

It is Easter morning and we have been told a lie: The crucifixion of a christ was a necessary injustice. Alleluia.

To some, the Messiah was predicted to be a political leader, a singular hero, liberation through the only means that liberation could come. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. And no one had a blueprint for what would come next.

They identified with Jesus, because Jesus identified with them. Whipped, flogged, slapped in the face, crucified, hung.

We each have our own multifaceted relationship to the rhythms that have shaped us. Some we keep, sometimes improvising and re-creating it as our patterns of life change. Others we discard, knowing that they aren’t right for our souls right now.

When I turned the corner into the quad and saw the trees, my heart broke open in aching grief for my mother, who died two years ago. History incarnated this space and made it sacred, immersing me within this small piece of my mother’s life.

Lord, I stand here. Sit here. Kneel here. Exist in your presence. Lent is coming to a close, and here I am before you, as I am. Learning to worship, even after years of knowing you. I may not know much about you, but I do know you are a God of love.

three daysi searched for youheld my breathdreamt of youdeadyour crown brokenflesh torn open eatenby your friendsalways there was bloodall over my hands

HeyI thought I knew you sufficiently well enoughThen I thought I’d outgrown youAs the corset of the church got too constrictingSo I denied you altogetherBut that was also presumptuous of meFor how can I ever land on one side of a debate as old as history