Christ in the Freezer On the day of the Port Arthur massacre On a not-so-good Sunday the twenty-eighth of April we raise the last of this year’s hot cross buns well past their use-by date, the rows of Easter hosts brought from body bags, lying cryogenic on the racks. We break them off in multiples for the netball kids in an echoing galley turning dark with a television irradiating news in a language we are yet to learn. Muted now we watch the crawler on the screen adding to the numbers covering the landscape. I hand out the revived offerings…