The true Resurrection is based not on the mythical lie of the

Host: The night had the stillness of a cathedral after prayer — the kind of quiet that hums not with absence, but with reverence. Outside, the moon hung above the city, pale and watchful, casting long silver streaks across the abandoned square. Inside a church, dimly lit by candles, two figures sat near the altar — not worshipers, but witnesses to something deeper, something older than religion itself.

Host: Jack leaned forward in the pew, elbows on his knees, his eyes shadowed beneath the flickering light. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands folded loosely, her face calm but alive, as if the silence itself were speaking through her. Between them, the air trembled with something unspoken — faith, perhaps, or the longing for it.

Jeeny: “Rene Girard once said, ‘The true Resurrection is based not on the mythical lie of the guilty victim who deserves to die, but on the rectification of that lie, which comes from the true God and which reopens channels of communication mankind itself had closed through self-imprisonment in its own violent cultures.’”

Jack: “Heavy words.” His voice was low, steady. “He’s talking about the whole human condition in a single breath — the violence, the guilt, the way we make our own sacrifices just to feel clean again.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Girard saw that we built our civilizations on blood and blame — that we made a myth out of murder. The scapegoat mechanism — one victim carrying the sins of the crowd. It’s the oldest story we know.”

Jack: “And the most convenient one. We make someone else responsible, call it justice, then move on. We’ve been doing that since Cain looked at Abel and saw a reflection he couldn’t bear.”

Host: The candles flickered, throwing shadows that danced across the stained glass, turning the faces of saints into specters. Outside, a faint wind moved through the trees, carrying with it the echo of centuries of confession.

Jeeny: “But Girard wasn’t condemning faith, Jack — he was redeeming it. He said the true Resurrection is not about a God who demands death, but one who undoes it — who exposes the lie that anyone deserves to die for peace to exist.”

Jack: “You mean He breaks the pattern — the endless cycle of vengeance that keeps us trapped.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The Resurrection, in Girard’s view, isn’t just divine — it’s anthropological. It’s humanity finally hearing the voice that says, ‘You don’t have to kill anymore.’”

Jack: “And yet, we still do. Wars, politics, social media — same ritual, new altars. We may not crucify with nails anymore, but we crucify with words.”

Jeeny: “Because we still believe the myth — that peace can only come through elimination. We haven’t learned the deeper truth: that forgiveness isn’t weakness; it’s the only form of revolt that doesn’t repeat the crime.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice echoed faintly in the cavernous space, the sound curling upward into the vaulted ceiling like a rising prayer. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes glinting with that mixture of anger and longing that comes when truth begins to scrape at the walls of old certainties.

Jack: “You talk about forgiveness like it’s easy. But what about the real monsters? The ones who create the suffering — who thrive on it? How do you forgive them without betraying the victims?”

Jeeny: “You don’t forgive the act, Jack. You forgive the blindness. Girard would say that even the monster is caught in the same mechanism — a product of fear and imitation, trapped in the lie that violence restores order.”

Jack: “So, what, evil is just confusion now?”

Jeeny: “No. Evil is the lie we believe so deeply that we forget it’s a lie. It’s when imitation becomes identity — when we stop seeing each other as people and start seeing threats instead. That’s the self-imprisonment he spoke about — the world closing itself off from the divine voice that calls us back to empathy.”

Host: The flames swayed, sending ripples of gold across the stone floor. The air seemed heavier now — not oppressive, but pregnant with meaning. Jack looked up toward the crucifix, his gaze unflinching.

Jack: “So the true Resurrection — it’s not about escaping death. It’s about undoing the need for death in the first place.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s about exposure — the moment humanity sees its own reflection and realizes it doesn’t need another victim to feel safe. That’s what Christ did, in Girard’s terms — He broke the cycle by letting Himself be the last scapegoat, the one who reveals the mechanism by submitting to it and forgiving anyway.”

Jack: “He turned the mirror back on us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The Resurrection is the moment when that mirror stops showing fear and starts showing truth — that love doesn’t need a body count.”

Host: The silence that followed was almost holy. The world outside seemed to lean closer, listening to two mortals grapple with what it means to be redeemed without denying how broken they still were.

Jack: “Funny. I spent years thinking religion was just another form of control — a way to keep the crowd quiet. But Girard makes it sound like rebellion — the only kind that actually frees anyone.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Forgiveness is the most dangerous revolution there is. It kills the cycle instead of the person.”

Jack: after a long pause “Do you think humanity will ever learn it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not all at once. But even if one person steps out of the circle — refuses to strike back — the world tilts a little closer to resurrection.”

Host: A single candle guttered out, its smoke curling like a ghost’s sigh toward the ceiling. Jack reached out instinctively and relit it, his hand steady, his eyes distant, as though performing an old ritual whose meaning he finally understood.

Jack: “Then maybe that’s all resurrection really is — one person relighting what someone else let go out.”

Jeeny: “Yes. One act of courage at a time.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the church bathed in quiet light, the candles flickering, two small figures holding vigil against the darkness of the world. Outside, the wind softened, carrying the faint sound of bells — not mournful this time, but hopeful, as if the universe itself had exhaled.

And as the scene faded, only one truth remained, shimmering between faith and philosophy:

The Resurrection is not an event to be remembered,
but a revelation to be repeated —
every time we choose to love instead of blame.