Freedom on Trail
The courtroom is cold. Echoes bounce off marble. The only sounds are the soft hum of the lights and the Inquisitor’s slow, deliberate footsteps.
He stops, looks directly at the man sitting silently in the defendant’s chair. He doesn’t wear chains — but he is clearly not free.
Then, the Inquisitor speaks:
“Why now? What do you want to accomplish by appearing at this moment? After everything. After centuries of wars in your name, after empires built on your sermons, after we’ve barely stitched together this fragile illusion of peace — you return?”
He pauses, pacing slowly.
“Now people have turned your teachings into a business. A weapon. A brand. Do you see the irony? Standing here in a courtroom built by men who preach about justice while selling it to the next bidder.
And what did you mean by freedom, really? Did you think they would rise to something divine? That they would stare into the terrifying abyss of choice and walk away stronger? You gave them the burden of self-determination. But why?”
He walks closer to him.
“You said ‘let them choose’ — but have you seen what they’ve chosen? Hatred, distraction, illusion. They let screens think for them. They don’t want truth — they want a gentle master.
And let’s not pretend you didn’t know how it ends. You are eternal. You saw every betrayal coming. You knew they’d kill in your name, kneel before money, and pray for peace while building deadly weapons.”
He leans in, eyes hard.
“So I ask again: was it ever freedom they wanted, or just peace? Was it really free will — or a divine experiment?”
He straightens, voice steady.
“And now, after all this, you come back — not to rule, but to remind them, to say ‘Here, the truth again.’ But why would they take truth when lies come dressed in fancy nonsense? With Wi-Fi, soft beds, and endless scrolls?
Why do you think they will choose a chaotic freedom over this fake comfort?”
Christ replies, calmly.
“You speak of chaos as if it were my gift, but I never gave them chaos — I gave them choice.
Freedom wasn’t meant to burden them. It was meant to let them breathe. To live without fear disguised as order.
Freedom was not the end. It was the beginning. A mirror. A compass. A quiet space in the heart where no king, no church, no algorithm could speak louder than their own truth.”
He looks at the Inquisitor — not with judgment, but with deep, painful understanding.
“Yes, they fall. Yes, they run from it. They trade it for comfort, for safety, for silence. But some — some still choose love when hatred is easier. Some still speak truth when lies pay better. And some still forgive — even when the world teaches them to destroy.
You ask if they want peace. I tell you — true peace is not obedience. It is alignment between the soul and the life it dares to live.
You ask if they have free will, even when I know how it ends. Would you rather I had made them puppets? Would you rather they never suffered, never sinned — but never loved either?”
He pauses, voice softening.
“They are still learning. But they were never meant to be perfect — only to be whole.”
This Christ is not naïve. He knows people fail. He knows most would rather sleep than wake up. But he believes in something deeper — in redemption not as a miracle, but as a choice.
The Inquisitor laughs softly, but it hollows.
“Beautiful words. So clean. So noble. You always speak like that — like freedom is a blessing. Like people don’t drown the moment they realize the ocean has no lifeguard.
You said they weren’t meant to be perfect, only whole. But what do you think happens in the meantime, when they are half-made and desperate? Do you think love saves them when they’re starving? When the bills are unpaid and the bullets are real?”
He paces now, quicker.
“You talk of redemption — but who pays for the chaos freedom leaves behind? Who buries children killed in wars started by men who claimed your blessing? Who rebuilds after a fire, when everyone says ‘It was my choice’ and walks away?”
He stops and looks Christ in the eyes.
“We built order for them. We gave them roles. Rules. Punishments. We took away their freedom so they could sleep at night, so they could avoid the burden of choice.
And now, how dare you return and whisper to them of something deeper?”
He leans in, voice almost trembling.
“You will wake them up. And waking people up is the cruelest thing you can do.”
There’s a beat of silence.
The bailiff, the guards, even the stenographer — they’re frozen. Not out of fear, but as if they’ve just heard something they have been waiting their entire lives to hear but never dared believe in.
One guard — young, expression unreadable — lowers his rifle just slightly. The judge at the bench clears his throat but doesn’t speak. You could hear a pin drop. The silence hangs heavy, like the air before a storm.
Christ doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t defend himself. He steps forward — slowly — and looks the Inquisitor in the eye.
“I came not to rule. Only to remind them who they are.”
He takes another step forward. The Inquisitor stiffens. Christ is close now. One more step, and they’re face to face.
“Not perfect. Just free. And from that freedom, love is possible.”
He raises his hand slowly — not threatening, nor dramatic. Just a simple gesture. And he lays it gently on the Inquisitor’s shoulder.
The Inquisitor closes his eyes.
Christ leans forward — and places a kiss on his forehead.
Just like the legend.
The courtroom does not erupt. The judge doesn’t react. The world doesn’t change.
But for a second — just one — the Inquisitor’s mask cracks.
The Inquisitor then barely whispers:
“Why do you make it so hard to hate you.”
He steps back, wipes the kiss away, slow and deliberate. He turns to the courtroom.
“The prisoner is dismissed. He may walk free… if freedom still means anything at all.”
No one stops Christ as he walks to the exit. No applause. No cries of joy.
But one guard, silently, removes his jacket and leaves it folded on his chair. A woman in the audience wipes a tear falling down her cheek. A child, watching from the hall, smiles without knowing why.
Christ reaches the door. He pauses. But doesn’t look back.
He steps outside — into the grey, noisy world that hasn’t changed at all.
After/Thought Literary 