God's Resurrection Justice

by Barbara K. Lundblad

When I was growing up in Iowa it was illegal to sell margarine. Well, not exactly. Stores could sell margarine as long as it didn’t look like butter. My father was pleased about this because we sold Grade B milk for making butter and we surely didn’t want competition from any pretend–spread! Do you remember how oleomargarine was sold? It came in a plastic bag and looked like a lump of white lard — except for one thing: There was a bright red-orange pellet of coloring in the middle of the bag, and you had to knead it into the lump. My dad barred oleo from our house, but my Grandma Lundblad dared to buy a package now and then. Sometimes when I was staying with her, she let me squeeze the bag. I’d press my fingers into that bright red–range dot until it broke open inside the bag. Then I’d keep squeezing and squeezing until that bright spot of color spread throughout the whole lump, turning it into beautiful yellow almost–butter.

Could Easter be like that? The bright light of resurrection didn’t stay at the tomb. That life-giving light didn’t stay in one place, but spread to Mary Magdalene and the other Mary. "Jesus is not here," the angel told them. "Jesus is going ahead of you to Galilee." The resurrection light transformed them and overcame whatever fear was in their hearts. They couldn’t stay at the tomb even though they might have wanted to reassure themselves by seeing that Jesus’ body wasn’t there. Resurrection couldn’t be contained in that place any more than the stone of the tomb could contain Jesus’ body. The women ran from the tomb with resurrection in their hearts. They couldn’t keep this news to themselves. Fifty days later, the red-orange light of resurrection swept down like tongues of fire on women and men waiting in Jerusalem. The good news of resurrection spread like wild fire from Jerusalem to Judea and Samaria and on to the very ends of the earth.

Resurrection would be only past tense, confined to history — except for one thing: The light of Jesus’ resurrection permeated the lives of ordinary women and men, spreading out through them wherever the story was told. This story wasn’t only about a man who was raised from the dead. This resurrection story was about a particular man named Jesus who was crucified by the Romans as a dangerous criminal. This resurrection story was about a carpenter from Nazareth who was anointed by God’s Spirit to bring good news to people who were poor and freedom to those who were oppressed. This resurrection story began even before Jesus was born, when his mother Mary sang a hymn of praise to God: "You have brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; you have filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty" (Luke 1:52–53). This resurrection story is a story about God’s justice alive in Jesus, more powerful than the forces of death.

A tree
Have you seen the light of resurrection spreading hope where despair had been? Wangari Maathai was born in 1940, the daughter of farmers in the highlands of Mount Kenya. As people grew poorer across her country, they cut down acres of forests for firewood. When she looked around, the landscape was desolate and many women were as depleted as the land. But Wangari Maathai remembered songs she had learned in church as a child. She believed that resurrection wasn’t history; resurrection was alive in her heart and in her beloved Kenya.

In 1977, Maathai founded the Green Belt movement, working with village women whose traditional duties included gathering firewood. Over the past 30 years, they have planted 30 million trees and provided jobs for nearly 10,000 women who planted and sold seedlings. Kenya’s president, Daniel arap Moi, once called her a madwoman and a threat to the security of the country. But after he lost the election in 2002 Maathai was elected to parliament and became assistant environment minister. On the day she found out that she won the Nobel Peace Prize, she took off her jewelry, knelt down in the dirt, and planted a tree. The bright light of resurrection hope had spread throughout Kenya and all the trees of the field clapped for joy!

A protest
Have you seen the light of resurrection interrupting war? A few years ago this magazine published amazing stories of Liberian women who believed that the power of resurrection was stronger than the reality of war. One of these women was Leymah Gbowee, president of the women’s group at Saint Peter’s Lutheran Church in Monrovia. In 2003, she joined with other women, both Christian and Muslim, to found the Women in Peacebuilding Network. The women marched in the streets and held vigils in churches and mosques. They lay down on their bellies on the runway at Monrovia airfield where everyone passing by on the highway could see them. "Some say we are an embarrassment to the government," Gbowee said, "but sun and rain are better than the bullets of war....We believe God’s hands are under us in this effort now. God has turned ears toward us" (LWT, January/ February 2004, "Lutheran Liberian Women Unify for Peace," by Eva Jensen). That is, she believed resurrection had spread beyond Jerusalem, Judea, and Samaria and had reached Liberia. When the sit-ins began, the president ordered men to come with rattans to whip the women. But as their movement grew, he knew that such threats could not stop them: Initially, President Taylor refused to meet with the women, but when the power of their movement became evident, he invited them to a meeting. Dressed in sackcloth and ashes to convey their grief for the nation, the women presented their call for a cease-fire and for good–faith negotiations for peace. They refused chairs and protocols of honor, choosing to sit on the floor as a sign of solidarity with the people. When the president offered them $5,000, they refused it, declaring, "Money cannot buy peace!" (LWT, Jan/Feb 2004)

As one longtime Lutheran missionary reported in a phone call to the United States, "Of course, things are bad in Liberia, but there is hope. The Liberian women are protesting for peace" (www.elca.org/liberia/news/gbowee–gme2004). In 2005, after years of turmoil and violence, a woman named Ellen Johnson–Sirleaf was elected president of Liberia. The bright light of resurrection had interrupted the guns of war.

A name
Have you seen the bright fire of resurrection bringing justice to the world? The story of the Liberian women is very moving, but does their story have anything to do with us? We might say, "Jesus’ resurrection has nothing to do with war. Jesus died and rose to forgive my sins and to give me new life." Did you hear those words my and me? They’re not bad words. Resurrection is good news for me — but resurrection is never a private word. Resurrection means not only my forgiveness or new life for me but life and liberation for everyone. German theologian Dorothee Söelle put it this way: "We link resurrection with liberation because our deepest need is not personal immortality but a life before death for everyone" (Choosing Life, Fortress, 1981). Like that bright red–orange dot in the middle of the margarine bag, resurrection cannot be contained nor privatized.

What would be different if we believed that the bright burning light of resurrection means life before death for everyone? I teach at Union Seminary in New York City. In our city, homeless people are buried on Hart’s Island, our potter’s field. One of our students, Amy, wanted to honor these homeless men, women, and children who were buried without names and without religious services. She also wanted to honor homeless people before they died. So she began meeting with people from Picture the Homeless, an organization dedicated to bringing the stories and faces of homeless people into the light of day.

For months Amy met with people from Picture the Homeless to plan a worship service for our chapel. Some couldn’t read, so she helped them memorize their parts. When the day came for the service, all the parts were led by homeless people and everyone was a bit nervous. Would they remember their lines? Would they sing on key? Would their clothes be good enough? Dawn led the opening litany. John led everyone in singing a gospel song. Ken stood up, leaned on his cane, and read the story of the rich man and Lazarus. Then he gave an impromptu sermon that wasn’t part of the planning!

At the end of the service, all of us were invited to write the name of a homeless person we knew on a purple sticky note. A white sheet had been stretched between two tall candle stands at the front of the chapel. That sheet was covered with anonymous names — John Doe, Jane Doe, and Baby Doe. Those names were sprinkled at random all over the sheet. Slowly, we began to place our names on the sheet. But there was a problem: It’s very hard to get something to stick on a sheet hanging between two candle stands!

The names kept falling to the floor. I watched as Dawn got up from her seat. She picked up each name that fell and stuck it back on the sheet. Someone helped her by holding a hand behind the sheet to provide a firm backing. Dawn picked up the names one by one and placed them on the sheet until all the anonymous printing was covered. Only then did we see that the printing was not random at all.

The sticky notes spelled out the words: WE ARE HERE. We are here, even though you pass us by. We are here, though we may be buried in mass graves. A year later, religious services were held at Hart’s Island, and many who were in the chapel that day began to call homeless people by name.

A call
Have you seen justification and justice joined together in the resurrection light? Most of us who are Lutheran Christians know the word "justification." It’s a very important word, drawn primarily from the writings of St. Paul. We are justified by God’s grace as a gift — not through our own works (Romans 3:23–24). It’s not hard to hold justification and resurrection together because it is through Jesus’ death and resurrection that we are justified — made right — with God. But the connection between resurrection and justice may be harder for us to see.

Martin Luther King Jr. understood this deep connection between Jesus’ resurrection and justice. This month marks the 40th anniversary of his death on April 4, 1968. His passion for racial justice extended to his growing concern for all people who were poor. Out of that commitment, he came to Memphis to support garbage collectors who were striking for fair wages and better working conditions. For King, resurrection had everything to do with life before death for everyone. On the night before he died, King called us to sing our resurrection songs with justice in the verses, as author James M. Washington recorded in A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches of Martin Luther King Jr. (Harper Collins, 1986): It’s all right to talk about "long white robes over yonder," in all of its symbolism. But ultimately people want some suits and dresses and shoes to wear down here. It’s all right to talk about "streets flowing with milk and honey," but God has commanded us to be concerned about the slums down here, and his children who can’t eat three square meals a day.

King believed that resurrection was not past history. The bright burning light of resurrection had been passed down through women and men who believed that Jesus Christ lived in them. King knew that his call was the same call that shaped Jesus, God’s Beloved One: to bring good news to the poor and freedom to those who are oppressed. Justice and justification were joined together in the life of Jesus. What God has joined together, let no one put asunder.

So let us sing a resurrection song, joining with King in his final chorus on this earth. "I’ve seen the promised land," he said. "I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we, as a people will get to the promised land…. I’m not worried about anything…. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." Though I wasn’t there that night, I do believe his face was shining with the bright, burning light of resurrection.

The Rev. Barbara K. Lundblad is the Joe R. Engle associate professor of preaching at Union Theological Seminary in New York City. An ordained ELCA minister, she served for 16 years as a parish pastor in New York.