Jesus Christ is Lord.

His Reflection on Holiness, Grief, Repentance and the Cost of Silence

No opening joke. No quick smile. Just silence.

The Night Richard Pryor Walked on Stage, and Said It

I am God.

The room buzzed with anticipation, people waiting for the funniest man alive to do what he always did — make them laugh. But he let the silence stretch. He let it breathe. Slowly, the weight of it settled across the crowd. Then he spoke.

Laughter came immediately — because that is what people do when something holy is put in front of them without warning. They shield themselves with humour. They treat seriousness like danger.

He continued, calm at first:

I am here to pick up my son. Has anybody seen him? He is wearing a robe, got a beard… I told him I would pick him up now.

More laughter. But this time it was not clean. It was nervous. The kind of laughter that tries to keep control of the room when something deeper is starting to break through.

Then he stopped. His eyes moved across the front row, searching. Locking onto someone — anyone. And the room felt it.

What was done to my son?

A pause.

What did you people do to my son?!

The air changed and people shifted in their seats. A tension rose — not because the line was clever, but because it struck something human: guilt, history, the ache of wrongdoing that we all carry but rarely name.

His voice rose. It trembled. It shook. He screamed. Not a comedy scream — an agony scream. A cry that seemed to rip through their chests, through time itself, as if he could see what happened.

The lashes tearing flesh. The iron driven into hands. The jeers. The mockery. The stripping bare. The cross. The blood-soaked earth beneath a broken body. And the silence of heaven as the sky turned black.

• • •

He staggered — like grief had weight and it was crushing him from the inside. Then he spoke again, as if trying to find someone, anyone, to make sense of it:

Alright. Let me talk to somebody else that was crucified.

He turned.

Where is he?

No answer. The room stayed silent.

WHERE IS HE!

Then he called for Martin Luther King.

Bring me Martin Luther King! … What did you do to Martin?!

His voice cracked — under the weight of it. Not just the death of one man, but the death of truth-tellers across generations. A world that claims it wants righteousness while killing those who speak it plainly.

Then he called for Kennedy. More silence. More ghosts. More blood crying from the ground.

He stood there staring into a sea of faces — some horrified, some weeping, others too stunned to breathe.

• • •

And then it hit the room — what the story was actually pressing into:

Sin.
Not mistakes. Not missteps.
Sin. Rebellion. Depravity.
The rejection of Love. The betrayal of Holiness.

Not merely that mankind is flawed — but that mankind, left to itself, will repeatedly reject God, silence truth, and crucify the righteous.

And then the deeper grief emerged:

My sons, my daughters — lost… drowning… sinking deeper into darkness… choosing the serpent over the Father.

The weight of it crushed him. He wept. He screamed. He howled with an agony that shook the room.

And then he fell silent. The room froze. Time itself felt like it held its breath. You could hear sniffles. Choked sobs. Hands covering mouths.

Then he lifted his hand. No fire. No brimstone. No wrath. Only sorrow. The deepest, most painful sorrow. And he said:

You are your own.

And he walked away. No speech. No sermon. No explanation. Just grief. The unbearable weight of a Holy, Holy, Holy God — forsaken by His own creation.

The Grace of God — New King James Version