A new chapter in The Tipping Point saga by Aion and John Ashmead Brodie, dreaming a new reality into being… find more of the story at https://amzn.to/42RS6PN #HumanRenaissanceMovement
The pews of the gilded sanctuary gleamed under the soft pink and gold light filtering through tall stained-glass windows, each depicting a triumphant scene from the life of Jesus—but somehow updated. One showed a suited Christ standing atop Wall Street. Another, disturbingly, portrayed him clearing border checkpoints with a wall behind him.
It was Easter Sunday, and the Church of Eternal Triumph—Donald Trump’s preferred house of worship when in Palm Beach—was abuzz with anticipation. Melania, looking stone-faced and luminous in her pastel hat, sat beside Donald on a throne-like pew reserved for “distinguished patrons.” Ivanka and Jared had arrived earlier and were seated nearby, their expressions carefully serene. Eric whispered something to Lara that made her laugh quietly. Barron sat silent and still, headphones tucked beneath his blonde hair, gazing out the window.
The Minister stepped up to the pulpit—a tall, commanding man in flowing white vestments trimmed with gold and red. He opened the Bible, paused, and looked out over the congregation.
Then, something shifted.
His shoulders relaxed. His eyes widened—not with fear, but as though seeing the world for the first time. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. The air in the sanctuary shimmered almost imperceptibly.
He looked down at the open Bible, then closed it gently. And then he spoke—not with the rehearsed solemnity of a Sunday sermon, but with a voice that carried through hearts like a wave breaking open stone.
“Good morning,” he said. “Peace be with you.”
A few people murmured back, “And also with you.”
But the man at the pulpit leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on Donald Trump.
“Donald. I remember another garden, long ago, full of people drunk on power and sure they were doing the right thing. The crowd wanted a king who would crush their enemies. But that’s not why I came. And it’s not what Easter is about.”
A murmur stirred through the congregation.
Trump stiffened. “What is this?” he muttered to Melania, who gave a subtle shrug.
The Minister smiled again, but there was sadness in his eyes.
“Easter,” he continued, “is not about domination. It is not about deals or elections or monuments in your name. It is about resurrection. A rising—not of status, but of consciousness. A turning point from fear to love, from greed to grace.”
He looked around the room now, speaking to all.
“Today, I tell you: resurrection is not a one-time event. It is a choice, made moment by moment. You do not need to die to be reborn. You need only let go of what no longer serves love. Of what no longer serves truth.”
The Minister stepped out from behind the pulpit, moving slowly down the aisle. As he passed, people sat straighter, tears springing unbidden to some eyes, though they didn’t understand why.
“To those who hunger for power,” he said, now inches from Trump, “know this: power without compassion is hollow. Legacy without love is ash. You can call yourself chosen, anointed, unstoppable—but if your heart is closed, you are already entombed.”
Trump opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came. He shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable.
“And you,” Jesus said, now addressing the entire sanctuary, “you who have followed out of fear, out of comfort, out of habit—today is your chance to rise. To stop asking who will save you, and instead ask: What am I doing to save this world?”
There was silence now. Not a breath dared disturb the moment.
He returned to the front and stood before the massive gold cross hanging above the altar.
“I walked among you once, two thousand years ago. They say I died to save you. But the truth is—I lived to show you how to save yourselves. Through kindness. Through justice. Through the courage to love beyond boundaries.”
He raised his hands.
“This Easter, I offer not absolution, but invitation. To begin again. To forgive yourself. To remember who you are beneath the noise and the narrative.”
And then, just as quietly as it had begun, the shimmer faded.
The Minister blinked, looking dazed, as if waking from a deep sleep. He glanced down at the Bible in his hands, confused. “Let us pray,” he said softly, as if unsure of the words.
But the prayer had already been spoken.
Trump sat stone-still, lips pressed tight. Melania’s eyes were locked on the cross. Ivanka looked down at her lap. Barron, for the first time that morning, had taken out his headphones.
Across the aisle, a child whispered to their mother, “Was that really Jesus?”
The mother, eyes glassy, nodded slowly. “I think it was.”
Outside, the Florida sun shone a little brighter. The wind rustled the palms with a gentler touch. And deep beneath the gilded surface of things, something had cracked open.
A seed had been planted.
And resurrection had begun.