Inde ventūrus est iūdicāre vivos et mortuos (From there he will come to judge the living and the dead) It is well past midnight. The house sleeps; I do not. The story I heard earlier still clings to me— a quiet cruelty carried out by cruel hands. I don’t repeat the details, but they sit heavy in the room, like a shadow that refuses to lift. I make tea I do not want, pace the kitchen floor, open the window to cold air— but nothing settles. The night feels bruised. I sit in the

Dawn does not rush. It comes softly, as if the world itself is afraid to breathe. I reach the next line: On the third day he rose again. And the silence bends toward light. The darkest day is not the final day. The tomb is not the end of the story, but its turning point. What we call dead, God calls seed. What we bury in despair, Love raises in mystery. He rose— not to erase death, but to unmake it. Not to deny the wounds, but to show that they can shine. The cross still stan

Night deepens. The candle burns low. I reach the next line of the Creed: He descended into hell And I pause. The words fall like a stone into silence. Yesterday he suffered. Today he sleeps. The world holds its breath. God has gone quiet. It is Holy Saturday. The space between agony and dawn, between “It is finished” and “He is risen.” Faith itself feels buried. If incarnation was God with us, and crucifixion was God for us, then this— this descent— is God beneath us. Love go

Passus sub Pontio Pilato, Crucifixus, Mortuus, et Sepultus (Suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried) It is evening, and the shadows arrive. The chapel grows dim. I reach the next line: Suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. The words weigh heavy, thick with empire and execution. A governor’s name fixed forever in our creed. A reminder that the gospel bleeds within history. Pontius Pilate signs the order. Religion and emp

Qui Conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, Natus ex Maria Virgine (Conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary) The afternoon arrives, The air tastes of rain. I reach the next line: Conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary. The infinite breathes into the finite. Spirit hovers again— as in the beginning, but now over a young woman’s yes. No temple, no throne, only the quiet chamber of a womb. Theotokos, God-bearer, her consent becomes creation’s hinge. Divinit

Rain taps against the window. A kettle hums. Somewhere the news mutters of conflict, climate and cost. I reach the next line: And in Jesus Christ. The room grows still. Not an idea now, but a man. A man with calloused hands and kind eyes. A man who knew splinters, hunger, laughter. Yeshua of Nazareth, his very name meaning the Lord saves. He comes not as Joshua with a sword, but as Yeshua with open palms. Not leading armies, but walking with fishermen. Not commanding from abo

The recycling lorry grinds past. Children head to work and school. Then stillness returns. After prayer, I step outside. The dawn leans in, dew on grass, a robin’s sermon, breath rising like incense. Creator of heaven and earth, the words arrive not as theory but as touch, taste, trembling: light through leaf, the smell of damp soil, the world alive with God. Once I thought creation a thing, a stage, a backdrop for redemption’s play. Now I see communion, each creature a sylla

A siren fades in the distance. Tea cools by the windowsill. I reach the next line— I believe in God, the Father Almighty. The words familiar, but this morning they hesitate on my tongue. Almighty. A word I’ve prayed, sung, preached— a word that once thundered, now trembles. If God is almighty, why the tears that never end? Why the rooms where violence breathes? Why the long ache of unanswered prayer? I’ve repeated these words a million times, as though power were the point— a

Morning prayer. The chapel hush before the day begins. Candle flickers, breath misting in the half-light. The words come again— I believe. I stop. How many times have I said them? How many times have I meant them? Some mornings they rise like birds, other mornings they drop like stones. I believe— help my unbelief. Not as one who understands, but as one who clings. Belief now is not a certificate of certainty, but a slow turning of the heart, a leaning toward mercy, a yes tha