My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Alternate Easter
What if he did come down from the cross, and what if they believed as they said they would? What then? In what would they be believing? In someone who didn't have to die, in someone whose word and deeds up to that moment had meant nothing? And what could he say to them or do, having come down and avoided death for them? Could he say it all over again, another sermon on a different mount? But he didn't come down, and they didn't believe. It was as it had to be.
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