This was going to be a Facebook post. One that was written in my head in the shower this morning. So, fair warning.
I have very intentionally steered away from writing explicitly about anything religious or Christian on this blog. The reason: I don’t believe that I need to. I am naming my understanding of the mystery of Love with every reflection, every story, every truth told, and that does not need to be done with words like God, salvation, or theology. But it’s Easter, and I’m going to depart from that for one post. Bear with me, dear reader, it’s not what you think.
Whether you are a Christian or not, you know the story. Jesus, the Son of God, born into poverty and powerlessness, drew quite a following as the tale goes. The powers that be didn’t like that, so they murdered him – with “reason” of course. He threatened their power, so he had to go. So Jesus is killed on a cross, then buried in a stone tomb, only to be resurrected three (?) days later. And this is where I want to pick up the story.
It’s morning and Jesus is alive in an unusual turn of events. Out of death, life arises and to whom does it appear? Surely an all-powerful God would choose to reveal the greatest miracle on earth to a human being of stature and renown. After all, how else would the headline break at the right time and on the right station if the story was not told to the right reporter? Isn’t that who we look to for the most up-to-date news, the people with the most power? And yet. In every gospel account, it is women who are the first to see Jesus. It is women who are charged with the great and awesome responsibility to tell the world what they have witnessed. Women who are told to tell their truth to those with power.
It’s quite possible that we are not able to fully grasp what this means. Women may (still) be the less privileged gender in modern society, but it is nothing compared to the power dynamic in Jesus’s day. To make a modern-day analogy, perhaps we can look at…Black Americans. Immigrants. Youth. Latinx Americans. Refugees. Muslims. The LGBTQ community. Any non-white member of the community. And, yeah, still, women.
The century is different, but the story is still the same. Someone in power takes advantage of someone with less power. Maybe they even crucify them. But out of the darkness, something arises. Something brimming with light: a fire. And who is the first to witness that light? Who are the people that see the resurrected truth? Who is asked or compelled to tell others what they have imagined the world could be, if only?
Black Americans. Because Black Lives Matter.
Immigrants. Because this country “belongs” to no one.
Youth. Because children should be safe from gun violence.
Latinx Americans. Because there needn’t be a wall to divide us.
Women. Because #metoo.
Refugees. Because every human deserves safety.
Muslims. Because the distorted beliefs of one do not determine the heart of another.
LGBTQ+ folks. Because love is love is love and identity is not a “choice.”
So on this Easter, a day where we celebrate the resurrection of Love, I pose a question. We already know who was at the grave to see the risen hope. They speak the truth every single day.
To whom will we listen?
