Polytechnic United Methodist Church

Easter morning.

He is risen.

Light fills the window again, the cross is no longer in shadow, and what once felt like an ending is revealed as life.

The church goes on.
The story goes on.

Alleluia. 💙

Holy Saturday.

The quiet day.

The day the world holds its breath.

The tower still stands at Polytechnic United Methodist Church, rising over Polytechnic Heights, completed in 1952, steady and familiar.

From the outside, it can look like something ended there.

But it didn’t.

The congregation did not close. It carried on—merging, gathering in a new place, continuing as a people of the United Methodist tradition.

The building continues too, now in the life of Texas Wesleyan University, still teaching, still shaping lives, still part of the neighborhood.

Different place.
Same faith.

And even now, the voices remain—those who remember, those who carry it with them, those who still feel what that place meant.

Spread out.
But not gone.

Holy Saturday reminds us:

What looks still is not finished.
What feels silent is not over.

The church goes on.
The story goes on.

And resurrection is already on its way.

💙

This cross stood in the shadowed stillness of Polytechnic United Methodist Church, the sanctuary draped in black, the rose window darkened, the light intentionally dimmed. Good Friday was never meant to be comfortable. It was meant to be felt.

That space has changed now. The congregation has merged, the building no longer holds its people the way it once did. But this moment—this image—remains.

Good Friday is a remembering.

A remembering that love does not always look like triumph.
A remembering that faith sometimes walks through silence.
A remembering that even in darkness, we stay.

The cross, stripped of decoration, stands as it always has—not as an ending, but as a witness. To suffering. To sacrifice. To a love that did not turn away.

We sit in that quiet.

And we remember.