While I was reading a bit of Diarmaid MacCulloch’s mammoth history, Christianity, my five-year-old son Moses walked up, pointed to the image of Christ on the cover, and said, “Why does he have a boo-boo?”

“Well,” I said, “remember how Jesus died on a cross? They nailed his hands to the beam. And then they stabbed him here” — pointing to the gash by his ribs — “in the side.”
“Is that him dead?”
“No,” I said, “that’s Jesus resurrected.”
“Did he get rescued?”
“Yes, and then he rescued us.”