Donald Trump was indicted this afternoon.

We don’t know the charges yet. Unless a special exception is granted, those will be revealed at his upcoming arraignment.

Breaking news says that Trump will appear before the court on Tuesday. It will occur during Holy Week.

I recently spoke with a journalist about Trump’s increasing use of theological and apocalyptic language to describe himself. This was especially obvious in his Waco speech when he referenced his current campaign as the run-up to the “final battle,” a clear allusion to the Battle of Armageddon in the Book of Revelation. I wrote this on Twitter:

Of course, Trump has always had a messiah complex. I’ve never been much of a theological alarmist (I’ve been alarmed about other things) when it comes to him, but, in recent months, the theological slippage identifying Trump with Jesus Christ has become more even more prominent.

Evangelical and charismatic preachers have been proclaiming Trump’s “second coming.” A large number of white evangelicals — one poll says 50% — believe that Trump is “anointed” by God to be president — in the same way that David was anointed to be King or Jesus was anointed to be Savior. A few days before the Waco rally, a tearful Trump supporter announced that “President Trump is our Savior” in a national interview:

In my conversation with the reporter, I underscored how worrisome this is — all this talk about Trump being anointed, a savior, having a Second Coming. Some observers have said that it is a cult. I’ve come to wonder if it is mass religious delusion.

And I remarked, “The only thing that worries me more than Trump’s messianic pretensions would be if he got indicted and arrested during Holy Week.” If that happened, I predicted, we’d see a full-on Trump/Christ comparison unlike anything we’ve yet seen.

And here we are.

Think about it: Just a few days ago, Donald Trump held a triumphal re-entry into his presidential campaign with a massive rally in Waco, Texas — with a kind of perverse Palm Sunday flag-waving fervor. He predicted his own arrest, depicted his enemies as Satan, and threatened the enemies of God. A former president who many believe to be God’s Messiah (“anointed one” is another phrase for “Messiah”) is brought before a judge who millions think is a corrupt agent of an evil government. To his supporters, it will be like Jesus standing before Pilate.

Indeed, Trump’s supporters already tested the Trump-before-Pilate story. During the 2019 impeachment, Republicans defended the former president by comparing him to Jesus. “When Jesus was falsely accused of treason, Pontius Pilate gave Jesus the opportunity to face his accusers,” Representative Barry Loudermilk of Georgia said on the House floor, “During that sham trial, Pontius Pilate afforded more rights to Jesus than Democrats have afforded this president in this process.” In that same debate, a Pennsylvania Republican quoted Jesus from the cross: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

But that was in Congress. Trump never showed up. Tuesday will be a real court, with a real docket, a real judge, and a real plea. Donald Trump will have to face charges.

I don’t know how far these comparisons will go. They are offensive, idolatrous, and an affront to millions of faithful believers who are preparing to observe the most sacred week of the Christian year.

But that won’t matter to Trump’s supporters. Social media and evangelical sermons will be awash with this theological and political conflation. We can fully expect that this unholy fusion of Trump and Christ will supercharge emotions during next week’s events in New York. One could wish that the crowd will turn its back on Trump, but I’m not counting on it.

It is hard enough for America to be facing the first-ever indictment of a former president. But knowing that this particular former president is viewed as the Anointed One, who, his followers believe, is like Jesus being persecuted by the legions of Satan, is a theo-political wild card we’ve got to pay attention to. At the time of his arrest, one of Jesus’ disciples attacked a soldier who came to take him away. Jesus insisted: “Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.” Do not expect the same from Trump.

This could be a very strange — and certainly historically significant — Holy Week.

One year, as I struggled to come up with a sermon on that perennial text, my attention drifted away from Thomas and back toward the first sentence of the story:

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”

“The house where the disciples had met” leaped from the page. What house? Of course! The house where, just a few days before they’d had the Passover meal. The house where Jesus had washed their feet and called them his friends. Where they had shared bread and wine — the house of the “upper room.” In the wake of Jesus’ execution and the strange reports from Mary Magdalene of Jesus in the garden, the frightened disciples had gone back to the upper room. Perhaps to grieve, perhaps to remember, perhaps to await what they thought would be their own arrest. But they had gone back to the room with the table, their last gathering place.

Thus, on the night of the resurrection, Jesus showed up there. With his friends. At the scene of the Last Supper. On Easter, Jesus goes from the tomb back to the table.

If you are writing a play about this, the scenes would be table, trial (with its various locations), cross, tomb (burial), tomb (resurrection), and table. The table is the first setting, and it is the final setting of the story. Indeed, when the disciples want to meet Jesus again the next week, they return again to the upper room to meet him at the table.

They never return to the cross. Jesus never takes them back to the site of the execution. He never gathers his followers at Calvary, never points to the blood-stained hill, and never instructs them to meets him there. He never valorizes the events of Friday. He never mentions them. Yes, wounds remain, but how he got them isn’t mentioned. Instead, almost all the post-resurrection appearances — which are joyful and celebratory and conversational — take place at the upper room table or at other tables and meals.

Table – trial – cross – tomb/tomb – table.

What if the table is the point?

Every Holy Week, Christians move toward Good Friday as the most somber — and most significant — day of the year. Depending on your tradition, your may sit in silence, reverence a cross, listen to a sermon, recite the Seven Last Words, fast in quiet prayer. You may weep, sing mournful hymns, feel the weight of injustice. It is sobering business, keeping watch with the execution of an innocent man. For centuries, Christians have been told that everything changed that day, the cross was the bridge between the sinful world and the world of salvation. The cross is all that matters.

Somber, yes. The most somber day. Of course. But what if it isn’t the most significant? What if the most significant day was the day before — the day of foot washing and the supper, the day of conviviality and friendship, the day of Passover and God’s liberation? What if we’ve gotten the week’s emphasis wrong?

Christians mostly think of Maundy Thursday as the run-up to the real show on Friday. And, because the church has placed such emphasis on Friday, we interpret Thursday through the events of the cross. Thus, when Jesus shares bread and wine with his friends, it becomes a prefiguring of his broken body and the shedding of his blood for the forgiveness of sins. We return to the cross all the time. We see Thursday through Friday. From that angle, it becomes morbid. A doomed man’s final meal while the execution clock ticks.

But his friends didn’t experience it that way. They weren’t thinking about a cross or a blood sacrifice. They saw Friday through Thursday. They were celebrating Passover. They were in Jerusalem with friends and family (not just twelve guys at a long table — sorry Leonardo) at a big, busy, bustling holiday meal to commemorate God freeing their ancestors from slavery. Passover is a joyful meal, not a somber one. And, because Passover was about liberation from a hostile oppressor, it was fraught with political expectations and possibilities. Would God free them likewise from Rome? Was the promised kingdom at hand? They were thinking about their history and their future, and they were enjoying the supper at hand.

Jesus loved meals. They knew that. They’d had so many together. Go back through the gospels and see how many of the stories take place at tables, distributing food, or inviting people to supper. Indeed, some have suggested that Jesus primary work was organizing suppers as a way to embody the coming kingdom of God. Throughout his ministry, Jesus welcomed everyone — to the point of contention with his critics — to the table. Tax collectors, sinners, women, Gentiles, the poor, faithful Jews, and ones less so. Jesus was sloppy with supper invitations. He never thought about who would be seated next to whom. He made the disciples crazy with his lax ideas about dinner parties. All he wanted was for everybody to come, to be at the table, and share food and conversation.

“I think of Jesus,” wrote theologian Beatrice Bruteau, “setting up these Suppers somewhat on the order of the ‘base communities’ of liberation theology.” Gatherings of the Kingdom of God.

Bruteau continues by quoting Rabbi Kushner on Sabbath meals:

And the laughing. The sharing. And the singing. One melody is scarcely spent when another comes forward. We don’t even notice the racket of the children. There is a great holiness in this room. It grows with the sharing. [I take a large ceramic Kiddush cup, fill it with wine, offer it to my wife and then to the man next to me, who] hands it to his wife with the solemn instruction, “Here, keep it going.” And we do. From hand to hand. Drunk from and refilled. Time and time again.

Sabbath. A vision of the kingdom of God. The meal reminds us and continues the promise.

What if Maundy Thursday was that? The Last Supper of the Old World. The last meal under Rome, the last meal under any empire. And it is the First Feast of the Kingdom That Has Come. The first meal of the new age, the world of mutual service, reciprocity, equality, abundance, generosity, and unending thanksgiving. Pass the cup, keep it going, hand to hand, filled and refilled, time after time. This night is the final night of dominion, the end of slavery; and this night is the first night of communion, the beginning of true freedom: “I will no longer call you servants but friends.”

This table is the hinge of history. The table is the point. Thursday is the Last Supper and the First Feast. The Holy Thursday Revolution.

Pull up a chair. Bring a friend.

This story was originally published here: 

“Kingdom” is, however, a corrupted metaphor, one misused by the church throughout history to make itself into the image of an earthly kingdom. Indeed, Christians have often failed to recognize that “kingdom” was an inadequate and incomplete way of speaking of God’s governance, not a call to set up their own empire. Isasi-Díaz argues that “kin-dom,” an image of la familia, the liberating family of God working together for love and justice, is a metaphor closer to what Jesus intended.

If that sounds more like contemporary political correctness than biblical theology, it is worth noting that Isasi-Díaz’s “kin-dom” metaphor echoes an older understanding, one found in medieval theology in the work of the mystic Julian of Norwich. Julian wrote of “our kinde Lord,” a poetic title, certainly, summoning images of a gentle Jesus. But it was not that. Rather, it was a radical one, for the word “kinde” in medieval English did not mean “nice” or “pleasant.” Instead, in the words of theologian Janet Soskice:

In Middle English the words “kind” and “kin” were the same—to say that Christ is “our kinde Lord” is not to say that Christ is tender and gentle, although that may be implied, but to say that he is kin—our kind. This fact, and not emotional disposition, is the rock which is our salvation.

To say “our kinde Lord” was to say “our kin Lord.” Jesus the Lord is our kin. The kind Lord is kin to me, you, all of us—making us one. This is a subversive deconstruction of the image of kingdom and kings, replacing forever the pretensions and politics of earthly kingdoms with Jesus’s calling forth a kin-dom. King, kind, kin.

This excerpt from Diana Butler Bass’s newest book Freeing Jesus was featured in her newsletter The Cottage. Sign up here to begin receiving The Cottage and register to join us on December 19th for our RLC Book Club discussion of Freeing Jesus.

For Christians, this is Holy Week.

And during this Holy Week, America has been riveted by the testimony in the trial of Derek Chauvin, the police officer who kneeled on the neck of George Floyd until Mr. Floyd breathed his last.

I’ve watched most of the witnesses — from the 9-year old girl to 61-year old Charles McMillian who broke down on the stand. With each tearful testimony, I think of what happened on that street in Minneapolis, as regular people watched heartless authorities while a man died unjustly.

And I remember what happened on a street in Jerusalem two millennia ago.

On his last day, political authorities condemned Jesus to death, and tradition holds that Roman soldiers paraded the prisoner through the streets of Jerusalem to the place of his execution. The path they followed is known as the Via Dolorosa, the “sorrowful way” or the “way of sorrows.” The way is one of the most sacred pilgrimages of Christian practice — a route retraced on Good Friday in Jerusalem and at churches around the world in a ritual known as the Stations of the Cross.

As is rightly so, the stations focus on Jesus and his suffering. But this year, I am thinking of the suffering of the witnesses. The trial in Minneapolis has me reflecting on the trauma of the crowd, what those who watched a man tortured in the streets felt knowing that the one before them would soon die. The witnesses. Having been to the market, out for a walk, waiting for a bus. What would it have been like to be on one’s daily rounds only to encounter a scene of violence and death?

Of course, I’m not making a direct theological comparison between George Floyd and Jesus. But, like the writer I am, I see the world poetically, impressionistically. The witnesses in Jerusalem did not know anything about what would become Christian doctrine — about a sinless man carrying the sins of the world. All they knew was that the brutal Romans were at it again. The imperial police were torturing a man who was most likely innocent as they forced him through city streets to his death. Some may have turned their heads, not wanting to see the same scene again, having witnessed far too many victims taken down this very route toward the same end. Others might have been horrified by the whipping, the cold cruelty of the Roman soldiers. A few reached out to offer comfort, to plead with the executioners for mercy.

The crowd. Their resignation, their fear, their sadness, their compassion. The crowd hated the Romans, those pressing their knees into the collective neck of an oppressed people. And the crowd knew that no matter how much they begged for Jesus’s life, his story would end the in same way that hundreds had before him. Torture, blood, execution. The sorrowful way, this imperial route of violence, wended to Golgotha, the place of the skull. They could plead. And he would still die. “You can’t win!,” as Charles McMillian centuries later yelled to George Floyd, “You’re done.” Murdered by the state.

READ: Easter Encouragement for the Spiritually Homeless

Look at the faces of the crowd. If you’ve ever walked the Stations of the Cross, you’ll recognize their stories.

In Minneapolis, off-duty firefighter Genevieve Hansen was like St. Veronica as her attempts to care were like a cloth to George Floyd’s face; Darnella Franzier held her camera as steadily and courageously as St. Simon of Cyrene carried Jesus’s cross; the unnamed 9-year old becomes one of the tearful children of the Women of Jerusalem; and Charles McMillian’s parental sorrow mirrored the resigned grief of Mother Mary. The stories are too close, too real — the tale of violence told and re-told through centuries when domination systems assert their will forcing all to submit to their power. It is humankind’s oldest, most gruesome story.

This week, we are reminded that the trauma of oppressive systems isn’t borne only by its most direct victims. Imperial violence spreads from the knee on the neck and the cross on the back of individual sufferers to the bystanders, the witnesses, others on the way. Here we see the powerful truth — those on sidewalks become casualties as well.

In a world of injustice, our faces become scarred by the suffering of every innocent victim.

Good Friday is, of course, about Jesus’s way of sorrow. Yet his suffering extends to the crowd, to the multitudes of humankind who have been forced to witness the cruelty of empire. It is worth remembering that Christianity was birthed in the trauma of witness, not the glory of power. Its founder, heroes, and saints are always the ones lying in the streets.

We cry out for healing, for freedom. A different way. A way of peace and love.

This piece first appeared on dianabutlerbass.substack.com.

This is the year of no thanks.

A century ago, Albert Schweitzer, theologian and Nobel Peace Prize winner, remarked:

The greatest thing is to give thanks for everything. He who has learned this know what it means to live. He has penetrated the whole mystery of life: giving thanks for everything.

Schweitzer was restating a bit of wisdom from the New Testament. “Rejoice always,” advised the Apostle Paul, “and pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). And he was, of course, correct. To learn gratitude is to know the mystery of life.

But he was also wrong in a very important way.

As I watch the news fearing whatever comes next, that Bible verse, the one Albert Schweitzer alluded to, comes to mind: “In all things, give thanks.”

That verse, however, is a bit of a double-edged sword. It is often used to demand thanks. No matter how sad or scary or angering a situation, some well-meaning and eerily cheerful person will say, “you should be grateful for that” or “give thanks for everything.” But this is a misuse of the verse.

It does not say, as Schweitzer misquoted, and as many people seem to think, “For all things, give thanks.” Gratitude is not about giving thanks for anything that is evil or unjust. Never for violence, lying, oppression, and suffering. Not for illness, hunger, or abuse. Do not be grateful for these things.

The verse says, “Give thanks in all circumstances.” That little Greek word, “en,” means in, with, within, and throughout. It locates us, in the here and now.  In the past, in the future. In happiness, in despair. In all things. In all times. In all situations. 

We shouldn’t be grateful for COVID, for the political chaos, for the broken climate, for economic suffering. But we can be grateful through these times, while we are struggling in them.

I’m not grateful for COVID, but through these days I’ve been reminded of the fragile gift of life, treasuring what I had taken for granted. I’m not grateful for political corruption, but through it I’ve come to value democracy and activism more than ever before. I’m not grateful for destructive fires and storms, but through them the awesome power of nature still stuns, reminding us of our dependence on the earth. I’m not grateful for economic distress, but through it I’ve remembered how we can live more simply and with more generosity and fairness. All of this has made me understand the giftedness of life, work, and wonder — strengthening my love of God and neighbor, more deeply aware of the tenderness of life and the necessity for dignity and justice for all.

READ: On Thanksgiving: An Honest Home in the Uncomfortable ‘Both’

None of us should be thankful for this terrible year. But, if we stop and reflect, we see that we can be thankful through it. 2020 needn’t have the final word and steal from us the possibility of thanks and joy.

Gratefulness grounds our lives in the world and with others, always reminding us of the gifts and grace that accompany our way no matter how hard the journey. Gratitude is an emotion. Gratitude is a practice, a disposition, an awareness, a set of habits. But ultimately, gratitude is a place – perhaps the place – where we find our truest and best selves. 

To know the mystery of life is to be grateful in all things. In.

In all things. With all things, through all things.

Sometimes the world turns on a preposition. To be grateful in these days is an act of resistance, of resilience, of renewal. We may not be able to gather around familiar tables. We may not meet with friends and family. We may not have the usual bounty of Thanksgiving. We may be worried about what lies ahead. We are NOT thankful for any of this. But the mystery of it all is that we can still be grateful as we make our way through it all.

Give thanks.

A Thanksgiving prayer*:

GOD, there are days we do not feel grateful. When we are anxious or angry. When we feel alone. When we do not understand what is happening in the world or with our neighbors. When the news is bleak, confusing. God, we struggle to feel grateful.

But this Thanksgiving, we choose gratitude.

We choose to accept life as a gift from you, and as a gift from the unfolding work of all creation.

We choose to be grateful for the earth from which our food comes; for the water that gives life; and for the air we all breathe.

We choose to thank our ancestors, those who came before us, grateful for their stories and struggles, and we receive their wisdom as a continuing gift for today.

We choose to see our families and friends with new eyes, appreciating and accepting them for who they are. We are thankful for our homes, whether humble or grand.

We will be grateful for our neighbors, no matter how they voted, whatever our differences, or how much we feel hurt or misunderstood by them.

We choose to see the whole planet as our shared commons, the stage of the future of humankind and creation.

God, this Thanksgiving, we do not give thanks. We choose it. We will make this choice of thanks with courageous hearts, knowing that it is humbling to say “thank you.” We choose to see your sacred generosity, aware that we live in an infinite circle of gratitude. That we all are guests at a hospitable table around which gifts are passed and received. We will not let anything opposed to love take over this table. Instead, we choose grace, free and unmerited love, the giftedness of life everywhere. In this choosing, and in the making, we will pass gratitude onto the world.

Thus, with you, and with all those gathered at this table, we pledge to make thanks. We ask you to strengthen us in this resolve. Here, now, and into the future. Around our family table. Around the table of our nation. Around the table of the earth.

We choose thanks.

Amen.

*adapted from Grateful, p. 199-200

This piece originally appeared in The Cottage on Substack.