On the Lynching of Jesus: Laura Cason

A few weeks ago, our director, Ryan Ford, published a meditation likening the lynching of Ahmaud Arbery to the crucifixion of Jesus. When I read that claim, several things happened at once: my throat tightened, my eyes blurred with tears, and I recognized beyond doubt for the first time in my life that Jesus was lynched. 

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed obvious to me that this was indeed the case. Jesus, a man of color, was brought before a mob of angry, privileged Pharisees on trumped-up charges, given a farcical trial, and then hanged from a tree. As I sat in my room crying, realizing the truth behind Ryan’s words with the newly informed images of Jesus on the cross playing through my mind, I couldn’t help but imagine the faces of countless black men and women in his place, from Ahmaud Arbery and Emmett Till to the nameless thousands of black bodies we see in the imagery from times of Jim Crow and before. 

I began to wonder how it was that something that seemed so obviously true had never been brought up to me before. I grew up in the church, and there has never been a time when I wasn’t a believer, so why had this never been preached to me? Perhaps it is because I have always gone to a majority white church. Most white churches in America have little to say about race, slavery, or inequality of any kind for that matter. This alarming deviation from the call of the Bible to avoid partiality, care for the least of these, and seek justice has been for the most part disregarded by the white church, and even more alarmingly, we have not felt bad for doing so. But I don’t think the church’s unwillingness to call out injustice and the sin of racism can fully account for my blindsided reaction to the phrase “Jesus was lynched.” 

I think my inability to have recognized this truth is even deeper-seated than white Christians’ repulsion for uncomfortable conversation. The narrative of the gospel that most white churches rely on today portrays white congregations as the oppressed population in scripture when, really, they are the oppressors. The reconfiguration of the biblical narrative in this way twists and demeans the profoundly hopeful message of the gospel: the Son of God came down to earth, experienced oppression and rejection, was lynched on the cross, defeated death, and rose again to save all victims of oppression for eternity. I believe this narrative switch can be traced back, at least in part, to the misuse of the Bible by slavers and racists for the first couple of centuries of the United States of America’s existence. Their desire to justify racist action and policy led them to begin a new narrative of the gospel, one that persists today. For example when we look for ourselves in the Bible, we tend to think we are like Peter, ultimately crucified himself, or John the Baptist, rotting in prison before being beheaded; but if historical and political standings are taken into account, we should more readily recognize ourselves as Zacchaeus or Cornelius being called out of sin and down from our place of privilege. We see ourselves as Paul, chosen by God to convert thousands, when in reality we are still Saul, spewing violence and oppression. The gospel continues to be watered down and made digestible for congregations who live in the sin of racism, greed, and lust. This watered-down gospel is for the countless number of conservative and liberal Christians alike whose first god is Mammon, who sit in judgment over their brothers and sisters, who benefit directly and indirectly off the backs of the oppressed. 

The erasure of the oppressed’s place in biblical narratives has led to many of the main failings of the modern-day church in America. One of the most glaring examples of this is the existence of a “white church.” Shifting the narrative to exclude the oppressed peoples of our time forced black Christians to find their own avenues in order to worship. The racial divide amongst churches has existed in more or less official ways since the first Africans were kidnapped and brought to our shore. And while we no longer have actual laws to separate black and white believers, our unwillingness to recognize oppression where it truly exists in the world and to call our fellow believers out of sin continues to enforce the division. It is no wonder we white folk do not know how to bear our brothers’ and sisters’ burdens when we do not worship together, we do not pray together, and we do not even consider them to be our brothers and sisters. The failure to rectify this marginalization even now in 2020 is perhaps the most damning evidence we have that this narrative shift has occurred and still is occurring.   

The gospel is meant to confront oppressors and lead them to repentance; that is the narrative white people should recognize as applicable to their lives. The role of oppressed and rescued belongs to our black and brown counterparts. There is hope for all in the gospel undoubtedly. But we must rearrange the narrative to reflect the truth of our world in order to bear witness to that hope. 

Laura has been an intern at the Wesley Foundation for the past two years. She graduated from LA Tech in 2018 with a degree in Biology. She is loving, fun to be around, and you can always catch her dancing if you watch closely.