Collapse has always been inevitable.
Empires rise with violence and fall with vanity. Kingdoms built on the backs of the poor eventually collapse beneath their own weight. The Earth itself groans beneath human arrogance—a world torn open by greed, by border walls, by steel teeth grinding forests to dust. We were warned.
Good Friday is not an ancient ritual. It is a mirror.
Christ’s ordeal was not a singular tragedy of a righteous man betrayed by an empire—it was a prophecy of a pattern. He was arrested because truth is dangerous. He was flogged because innocence exposes power’s cruelty. He was crucified because systems—religious, economic, political—cannot tolerate those who remind us of our humanity.
And yet, two thousand years later, we crucify again.
We crucify children at borders.
We crucify the poor beneath crushing debt.
We crucify animals in cages, factories, and laboratories.
We crucify the Earth itself—stripped, burned, defiled for temporary profit.
We crucify truth—weaponized in media, twisted in politics, sold to the highest bidder.
Good Friday never ended.
Every society that confuses wealth with worth, violence with strength, control with order, nails another generation to the cross. Every tariff that punishes the vulnerable, every war fought for oil, every factory farm hidden from view—all of it is the same wood, the same nails, the same crowd shouting for blood.
Trump’s tariffs, China’s surveillance, the refugee camps from Gaza to Rohingya to the Mexico-US border—these are not modern anomalies. They are the eternal repetition of Good Friday when the powerful wash their hands of responsibility, when governors like Pilate say “I find no fault in him” but kill him anyway to please the crowd.
This is why the story of Easter matters now more than ever.
Because collapse is not the end. Collapse is the beginning of honesty.
When Jesus hung dying, the temple curtain tore. The illusion shattered. The separation between sacred and profane was ripped open. Collapse exposes truth—the truth we hide beneath progress, beneath policy, beneath nationalism.
We are a species at the edge of our Good Friday. The Earth cannot sustain the brutality of industrialized consumption. The poor cannot survive another century of extractive capitalism. Migrants will not stop fleeing burning lands and empty rivers. No border wall, no military budget, no propaganda machine will stop the truth from rising.
But resurrection is possible.
Not in denial. Not in escape. But in radical transformation.
Resurrection begins when we finally step down from empire’s ladder and kneel beside the crucified—the refugee, the animal, the prisoner, the forgotten neighbor. Resurrection happens when we stop asking how to win, and start asking how to heal.
Christianity was never supposed to be about domination. Jesus had no army. He wrote no laws. He established no palace. His life was resistance to systems of control, and his death exposed their emptiness.
Easter is not permission to forget Good Friday—it is a commandment to remember it forever.
Resurrection does not mean rebuilding Rome. It does not mean rebranding capitalism with softer slogans. It does not mean sprinkling charity over systems built to exploit.
It means returning to the soil. It means seeing the divine in every life—human, animal, tree, ocean—and living accordingly.
A Compassiviste world is not naive. It does not pretend we can erase the cross. It asks: Who are you in this story? The betrayer? The bystander? The empire? Or the one willing to suffer alongside the voiceless to create something new?
The call of resurrection is not comfort. It is courage.
The courage to create economies that serve life, not profit.
The courage to open borders that welcome strangers, not weaponize fear.
The courage to end cruelty to animals—not because it is trendy, but because their suffering is the suffering of Christ repeated endlessly.
The courage to heal the Earth—not to save ourselves, but because love does not desecrate its home.
We stand at the tomb of our old world.
Industrial civilization cannot be resurrected. It should not be. The oil fields will dry. The markets will fall. The oceans will rise. Good Friday is upon us.
But Easter is possible—if we choose to rise differently.
Not as conquerors of nature, but as kin within it.
Not as rulers of the weak, but as guardians of the vulnerable.
Not as consumers, but as stewards.
This is what the cross teaches: not submission, but surrender. Not obedience to empire, but devotion to love.
We do not get resurrection without the cross. We do not get healing without collapse.
But after the cross—after all the violence, betrayal, and silence—there remains the empty tomb. There remains the dawn.
Not to return to what was.
But to become what we were always meant to be.
