Easter Sunday Brunch With a Skeptic
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| The Daily Signal |
Easter Sunday Brunch With a Skeptic
I came for the ham, not the halo—
pressed shirt, wrinkled faith,
pockets jingling with questions.
The church smells like lilies and liability,
white petals covering a backstage trick:
death, sawn neatly in half.
They say a man got up.
I’ve seen men get up—off barstools, off floors—
getting up is easy.
Staying up—there’s a real miracle.
I sit like a skeptical comma in a sentence of Amen,
watching certainty sprint headlong into belief
with the grace of toddlers meeting furniture.
“On the third day—”
Right. Divine microwave setting.
My mind cross-examines miracles:
“Isn’t it true you’re merely a metaphor in nicer clothes?”
Then the choir swells—
sound rising like sunrise with ambition—
and something in me rises, too,
quiet and inconvenient.
Outside, the world won’t stop starting.
Trees flirt with green,
sunlight spills like it heard good news,
a child drops a chocolate rabbit—it’s gone—
and laughs, because another waits in foil.
And I remember less certainty,
which feels like the start of something honest.
“If death is the end,” the pastor says,
“why does everything keep beginning?”
I laugh—until I don’t.
Because everything does keep beginning.
Morning insists.
Spring persists.
Hope survives like it has a grudge.
What if the grave forgot its final trick?
What if joy is the scandal?
I stand when they stand,
sing words that feel like déjà vu.
“He is risen—”
It hangs there—
a dare I didn’t plan to take.
But something small, stubborn as a seed,
pushes through the concrete of me.
Not proof. Not logic.
Just a quiet certainty slipping in
like light under a door.
And against every clever doubt I own—
I believe it.
Not because it makes sense,
but because everything else
finally does.
God has risen.
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