The longer I watch him the more I wonder whether the Cross of Jesus was not the only moment our saving happened, as if such cruelty could solve an inevitable, deadly equation. Perhaps it was only the penultimate moment to resurrections’ triumph— though unheralded, un-choired— the sealing of love’s new first word. But even then it would be hollow without all those other interruptions: the divine impulse making food blossom in their hands on a hillside, a girl’s lifeless eyes fluttering open, Lazarus leaning into the muffled announcement that even time must step aside for love’s insistent force. The shape of all the saving— all the loving— required the alignment of his arms. He extended them in one terrible timeless moment into which he gathered all the other moments and offers all of it time after time resisting confinement, elusive as spirit, expectant. Constant. Be still and see there he goes again.