Today, as the cosmos unfurls its celestial mosaic across the heavens, we witness the most profound reawakening in human narrative. The crucified carpenter emerges from death's prison, shattering three days of silence that had hung heavy as stone in the hearts of the faithful.
Those in power who ordered His execution were just frightened men hiding behind their titles. They remind us of those shadowy figures who live in castles built of lies, always fearing truth's approach. Their cruelty came from weakness, not strength. Their harsh actions were the desperate struggles of men whose false kingdoms begin to crumble when faced with honesty.
Jesus arrived not as a random spark but as a deliberate flame lit against humanity’s longest night.
Times were harsh for people then—a world away from our modern comforts. The much fabled rivers of milk and honey were parched riverbeds of struggle and survival in those ancient days. Life was a grinding millstone that wore down body and spirit alike; where disease prowled like wolves among sheep without shepherds, where hunger was not an occasional visitor but a permanent resident in most homes. The Roman Empire's gleaming marble facades concealed the rust of oppression that corroded daily life. In Galilee's dusty streets, desperation hung in the air like the desert heat, suffocating hope before it could draw breath.
I once stood in the vast deserts of Rajasthan, where the horizon shimmers with possibility and deception in equal measure. There, under the merciless sun, I witnessed how desperation births delusion—how thirst conjures phantom lakes that vanish upon approach, how need creates illusions that dissolve when touched. The ancient world was such a desert of the soul, where people chased mirages of salvation promised by false prophets and hollow empires. They followed deceptive horizons of hope that forever eluded their grasp, only to find their hands filled with sand, their throats still parched with longing for something real and sustaining.
The weak may build their gallows from fear, but they cannot stop the dawn.
Every time someone so special as Jesus has had to walk this earth, it has been when humans found themselves at crossroads of darkness, when the moral compass of society pointed nowhere true. Just as lightning naturally seeks the tallest point during storms, cosmic wisdom incarnates precisely when humanity's thirst for direction becomes most acute. Jesus arrived not as a random spark but as a deliberate flame lit against humanity's longest night, a lighthouse built exactly where ships most frequently crashed against the rocks of despair.
I believe He was born of a virgin, exactly as the Bible tells us—a divine entrance into our world that defied nature's ordinary patterns. This miracle birth was not merely symbolic but profoundly literal, a cosmic declaration that what was beginning here transcended the normal boundaries of creation itself. The virgin birth stands as the first note in a divine symphony that would culminate in resurrection, bookending a life where the impossible became manifest through divine intervention.
His words fell like rain on cracked soil—simple yet profound truths that gave life where before there was only existence. To the poor whose backs bent under imperial taxation, to women whose voices went unheard, to the sick whose suffering was seen as divine punishment, Jesus offered not just comfort but dignity—that rarest currency in a world that traded primarily in pain. He saw the invisible, touched the untouchable, spoke to the silenced. In a society stratified like geological layers, He moved between worlds as water moves through rock—slowly but inevitably changing everything it touches.
His words fell like rain on cracked soil—simple yet profound truths that gave life where before there was only existence.
The resurrection stands not merely as proof of divine power, but as reality's bold answer to those who mistake short-lived authority for lasting truth. When power is built upon lies as thin as morning mist, even a gentle breeze of honesty threatens to destroy it all. The rulers recognized in Jesus that most dangerous thing—a mirror showing such clear truth that reflected not what men wish to see, but what they truly are.
In His triumph over death, we find the eternal pattern: that truth, though briefly buried, has a strength that no tomb can contain. The weak may build their gallows from fear, but they cannot stop the dawn.
Two millennia since that first Easter morning, Jesus's teachings have spread across continents and generations, inspiring a global community that now numbers 2.6 billion believers across this planet's intricate canvas. His teachings have traveled like seeds upon the wind, taking root in hearts from the African savannas to European cathedrals, from Kashmir's terraced paddy hills that wind endlessly around the mountains to the shadow of the Statue of Liberty in New York. Each soul touched becomes a prism through which His light breaks into new colors, creating a rainbow of faith that goes beyond boundaries drawn by nations and generations.
We are stardust made conscious, sharing atoms that once burned in distant suns and now pulse through living hearts.
I was born in a Hindu family, raised in that special open-mindedness that defines our tradition—where every faith finds its place in our grand mix of mutual respect. We were taught to see divinity not as something owned but as something shared, to recognize that all paths leading upward eventually meet at the top. Yet I think differently than most of my brothers, sisters, and those who identify beyond those boundaries. To me, every soul that has lived on this earth before me is my ancestor, woven into the vast cosmic web of human experience that connects us all.
I believe all the great achievements and miracles attributed to every prophet who has walked this earth—achievements that have qualitatively improved the lives and transformed the moral direction of our human family—to be true without exception. And with equal conviction, I reject the dark distortions and cruel misinterpretations that some have attached to these holy messengers like barnacles on a sacred vessel. The prophets themselves stand blameless; it is in the shadowed corridors of human interpretation where truth becomes twisted, where divine messages meant to unite become weapons to divide. When sacred texts become battlegrounds for power rather than gardens of wisdom, the fault lies not with the sower but with those who harvest for their own glory. I harbor no conflict, no doubt about any of these divine messengers. Their divinely-inspired journeys resonate with me not as distant legends but as the living heritage of my own spiritual lineage. For in the deepest sense, these prophets are not merely historical figures—they are the ancestral voices whose wisdom flows through the bloodstream of all humanity.
Every soul that has lived on this earth before me is my ancestor, woven into the vast cosmic web of human experience.
I am of the same Mother Earth that cradled them; I am shaped from the same cosmic clay, breathed into being by the same divine breath. We are stardust made conscious, sharing atoms that once burned in distant suns and now pulse through living hearts. Within each atom of our being pulses the divine rhythm, that primordial vibration of consciousness – Prana – the very breath of God animating the universe through us. In this understanding, the usual boundaries that divide us—religion, race, time itself—melt away like a Kashmiri winter's final snow before the spring warmth of our common divinity.
Jesus was my ancestor. He lit up dark places, healed broken things, and changed this world the way starlight transforms darkness—not by conquering it, but by revealing the beauty already there. His radical message of love and forgiveness echoed through centuries, challenging every generation to recognize the divine spark in even the most overlooked people. He taught that real power comes not from controlling others but from serving them, that true strength shows itself in being vulnerable, and that the greatest change begins in the quiet spaces of transformed hearts.
Easter arrives annually as nature itself mirrors the resurrection story—when dormant life bursts forth in spring's renewal. The timing of this holiest celebration, aligned with ancient cycles of rebirth, reminds us that Easter's message transcends any single tradition. It speaks to humanity's universal experience of hope reborn after despair, of light returning after darkness, of life emerging from apparent death. In gardens and hillsides throughout the northern hemisphere, as flowers push through soil and trees bud with new leaves, the natural world offers its own testament to resurrection's promise.
Truth, though briefly buried, has a strength that no tomb can contain.
Our words will always fall short when trying to describe God. Like children trying to hold the ocean in their hands, we make up words that can never contain the infinite. Our languages—these beautiful, limited tools of human expression—dissolve like salt in water when they touch the divine. Perhaps this is meant to be, for in our language limits lies our greatest lesson: that the sacred always remains beyond our ability to define it, asking not for understanding but surrender, not for explanation but connection.
As sunrise breaks across the world today, millions celebrate in many ways, each following their own tradition yet united in their human search for meaning, connection, and growth beyond themselves. And in this shared seeking, we fulfill the truest promise of resurrection: that life continues, that love endures, and that no force of control or ignorance can ever truly put out the light of human dignity that burns forever in every heart.
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