20 minutes session start.

Recollecting stories…as we were prompted about the stories we’d shared last week, the prompt and even what I said escaped me, but the secondary summary was sufficient for me to recall. The prompt: “Practicing Resurrection”. What did my classmates mention? I am grasping for anything… the totems and titles would have made this remembering process easier, but they came after this material was due.

[A] I remember my own and the given title: “Barbell Jesus”. I am also recalling Esa’s story (if this was his story at all). He was a child, adopted, and watching a documentary on the Discovery channel, a predator hunting and killing a prey. His emotional response were tears. I recall how strange it was that he described how his mother laughed at him, and there was a real dissonance in the moment, and separation first caused by the media. First, his mother likely would have had a different emotional response to being more directly near what was happening. Second, her emotional response was striking to me. Laughter to a child’s tears seemed inappropriate. I then thought about my own emotional responses to certain things, and wondered how I too might have lacked empathy in moments of my own life? The resurrection in this moment was missing, as the prey was consumed. Though, there is a cyclical aspect of being integrated into another being.

[B] My story, wasn’t much of one! Mostly just random connection to fitness, crucifixion, and assumed genetic or cultural heritage. What I will do in this instance is ask ChatGPT to review the following prompt:

Help me to write a story around the topic: “Resurrection”. My resonances with this terms are largely associated with Viking Music by Amon Amarth, that I listen to when exercising. In that place, I have a sense of carrying my war like and strong, courageous, forefathers – though I can’t be sure that my own family members didn’t hide away… I also carry an aspect of the crucifixion of Jesus. Whenever I am in that place, hanging on a pull up bar to train my back and core, there are moments where I feel like the thief on the cross…. these sessions of exercise heavily underlined by moments when I am exercising that I feel “the spirit of God on me”…. a heaviness, almost to the point of passing out.

AI created a powerful, story! Which I will read and attach.
” Resurrection of the Warrior

The weight of the iron was a familiar enemy. His hands, raw and callused, gripped the bar with the same ferocity he had gripped life itself. Each pull, a battle. Each breath, a war cry. His body strained against the gravity of the world, but his mind—his soul—was elsewhere.

It was always like this, when he trained. A ritual. As the cold steel bore down on his flesh, his thoughts shifted into the rhythm of war drums. The music of the North echoed in his ears, the thundering guitar riffs and chanting vocals stirring something deep within him, a connection to ancient ancestors. He could almost hear the roar of Viking ships crashing through stormy seas, the clash of swords in battle, the roar of warriors marching to their doom. His ancestors—brave, fearless—had never known the meaning of surrender. Nor did he.

But today… today something was different.

His muscles burned, his body screamed in agony, but there was something in the air, something thick and oppressive, heavy with power. He clenched his teeth and pulled himself up again. Higher, until his chin met the bar. And as he held himself there, suspended in time and space, he could feel it. A presence.

A spirit.

It wasn’t just the weight of the metal anymore. The moment stretched, and in the darkness of his eyes closed tightly, he could see it—the figure of a warrior, drenched in blood, standing tall, defiant, and unbroken. A Viking. His chest heaving with each breath, but his spirit unyielding. The war cries of the Norsemen faded into a soft murmur, and the voice of a man in pain, on the verge of death, echoed in his mind. The thief. The one who had been crucified beside Jesus. His body hanging by nails, blood pouring out of his body, but his spirit—stronger than death itself.

“Remember me,” the thief whispered to the figure beside him, to the God who was not of this world.

And the God did remember. He didn’t die. He rose.

A flash of lightning cracked the air inside his mind. The spirit of his ancestors, the warriors of old, surged through him. He felt their strength. The strength of warriors who knew they might fall in battle, but would rise again in Valhalla, reborn in glory. They had fought for something larger than themselves—something eternal.