> From this, and this.

To those who say they do not believe in the Resurrection because there have been other mythological tales of ones rising from the dead: I posit that there have been other myths throughout history, if we look, which became actual works when technology caught up to the idea. Surely, there were stories about people coming back from the dead (even on their own, not raised by another), but from what I have discovered in my own research on the subject, Jesus Christ was the only one who had had the science to actually make it happen. Only God in man’s form, only the Son of God had the genius enough to defeat death.

Perhaps we even have the proof, if the Shroud of Turin is the record of the Resurrection itself. Because firstly, the crucified man has all the hallmarks of the crucified Christ. Down to a T. The carbon dating made on it is no good, because there is a facial cloth that has the same pattern as the face on the Shroud, and it is dated to seven centuries before the Shroud was in that carbon dating. No one knows how the faint image got on the cloth. What if it’s actually Jesus’ burial cloth? What would you think, then, about life, the universe, and everything? Would you cling to your doubt like it were going to save you? Or to you that believes: does it make you smug? Because it really comes down, really, to luck why it is you believe as you do.

When you read the stories, and view from the point of view of hindsight, it is easy to think that you would have done better than the one you read about. For instance, when the disciples all scattered when Jesus was captured: maybe you think that you would have stuck by your man, right? How could they run? But you will find yourself, I think, at least as bad as Peter, Christ’s favorite — His favorite denied having anything to do with Him three times. Really, you think you could have done better than the one our man called a rock, upon whom He would build His church? Because to them, it wasn’t just a story. Real life has a way of making cowards of the truly brave, of the best intentioned, of the faithful, of anyone unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or even the right place and time, if you’re the one that reality is making an example of.

I once had a peek at the crucifixion, very near to the actual nailing. It wasn’t full Technicolor, more of a cartoony view, as I usually have, but I saw in my small vision Christ carrying his cross on his way to Golgotha, or up Golgotha, uncertain exactly where on the path he was. He was almost completely facing me. He paused, and he looked at me as I looked at him. I couldn’t see his eyes, or really any detail of his face, and that must have been mercy. A small pause. Then he carried on. And that was it. I can’t imagine that I could have done anything for him, just then, and I got first hand exactly what I was talking about: why the apostles scattered when he was captured. I could just watch. What could I do? And then he moved on.

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The Great Blasphemy