The passage put me in mind of an argument I had almost 20 years ago, when an evangelical Christian and I got into the sort of shouting match that one gets into with an evangelical Christian. Posing to him an admittedly far-fetched hypothetical, I asked what he would do should archaeologists and historians unequivocally proved that Christ’s tomb was still occupied on Sunday, and that the resurrection and all that it implies about salvation was nothing but a hoax. He admitted that he would then abandon his faith, to which I replied that he’d never really been a Christian to begin with. I don’t believe that the resurrection happened, holding more stock in the crucifix of Friday rather than the empty cross of Sunday. But I affirm that all which is rational isn’t deserving of faith, that God need not be a fact to be true, and that meaning and belief are not synonymous. My heart tells me that my evangelical interlocutor was one of the most atheistic people I’ve ever met. For the beautiful reality is that God doesn’t need to be real to be sublime; that we can doubt Christ’s existence, but we should never doubt His love.