This is a tiny group of terrified people. It was only a week ago when these men marched into the capitol city, waving at the crowds, full of confidence that Jesus would finally overthrow the Roman occupation, re-establish the kingdom of Israel, and bring about a new golden age. Some of these men had already even picked out their seats in his new throne room.
And now, here they are, sneaking through dark streets to huddle behind locked doors, wondering what went wrong.
It’s over. Whatever they hoped for, planned for, is gone, along with the man they loved and trusted and put their faith in as the one who would make all things new and beautiful. And they know that their own lives are in grave danger now. The Romans are rounding up the last of Jesus’s followers, and the Temple officials are working with the occupiers to keep a kind of peace in the city. But their idea of peace depends on midnight raids on sleeping families, fathers snatched off the streets in front of their kids, armed gangs with or without uniforms.
So this locked room is full of horror, of fear, of sickening self-blame and shame, and of useless regrets about what they could have done differently. They had talked about what they would do if the Romans tried to suppress Jesus—Peter swore that he would stand by Jesus all the way—the others all agreed. And then what did they do? Judas sold him to the authorities. Peter denied ever knowing him. The others—all except John and the women, ran away and hid.
They’re in that stage of grief that includes both denial and bargaining. If only I’d…If we’d just…What if we had…And that process, necessary as it is, renders them helpless and immobile. It’s taken all their willpower just to leave their own locked homes and gather here together.
And you know there’s probably anger and even hatred in that room, too. Blame it all on Judas…Or blame each other. Yes, I hid, but you lied three times! Yes, I stood by when they took him away, but you ran all the way out of town. They can’t meet each other’s eyes.
And then, suddenly, Jesus is among them. Has the door burst its locks? Did the landlord let Jesus in? Did Jesus just walk through the wall? No matter. He’s here, he’s whole, he’s alive! And he says, simply, Peace be with you. That is, peace be among you, and peace be within each of you.
He doesn’t blame or shame them, doesn’t yell at them, doesn’t describe his own horrific journey. Their guilt and their imaginations have done all that already. Jesus blesses them with Peace. And he shows them his wounded body. And that’s when they begin to rejoice, when they understand that the resurrection is real. Love has been reborn. Hope lives again. Joy may even be possible.
And suddenly their lives have meaning and purpose again. Jesus blesses them again and then tells them that just as he was sent from the Creator, so now he sends them, the disciples. And then he breathes on them, gives them the power of the Holy Spirit that is God’s astonishing creativity, purpose, and power for each of us and all of us together. He gives them the power to forgive sin. That power has always belonged only to God, and now it’s being given to the most unlikely group possible—people who were grieving helplessly only a few minutes earlier.
Suddenly, this moment is a beginning, no longer just an ending. The disciples don’t yet know what their mission will be. But they know that they have a purpose, and they trust in the creativity of the Holy Spirit. As Martin Luther King Jr. said at the beginning of his mission of love and justice: “I have no idea where this movement is going. I’m called upon to do things I cannot do, and yet I cannot dismiss the calling.”
It feels sometimes as if we’ve been huddled behind a locked door at least since January 20. On the day of the inauguration, Executive Orders, memoranda, and proclamations began flying out of the Oval Office.
Planning a resistance seemed impossible. The attacks were coming from all directions. Who would have believed that our social security numbers would be in the hands of unauthorized amateurs, doing God only knows what with our information? Or that hundreds of young men would be snatched off the streets and sold into slavery in El Salvador, without even a trial? Or that women and people of color would be fired wholesale from government departments, in the name of equality?
Our trusted institutions did not save us.
Laws have not stopped lawless behavior, and the Constitution contains no defense against a gleeful disregard for unconstitutional actions. The judiciary branch granted the president unlimited powers, and the congressional branch rubber-stamped his wishes—even some members of the opposition party went along. Major news organizations complied with his demands for news coverage slanted in his favor, and many even agreed to use the new language he chose: no more gender-neutral pronouns, no using chosen names for trans people, no more indigenous names for landmarks. The Gulf of Mexico became the Gulf of America, and Google Maps immediately changed their maps to comply.
Many of us have been feeling helpless against the onslaught of outrage. We’ve been reacting like people in the first moments of a natural catastrophe. Find and hold our loved ones, get to someplace safe, try to protect ourselves from more damage. And we’ve been reacting that way because this is a catastrophe.
But what follows those first acts of animal survival is a miracle that Rebecca Solnit describes in A Paradise Built in Hell. I’ve talked before about this wonderful book. She writes about how survivors tend to create spontaneous communities of mutual concern and care—after the 1906 earthquake and fire in San Francisco; after a monstrous explosion in Halifax harbor that destroyed a large portion of the town; and after Hurricane Katrina, in spite of what we were told then. Strangers share their resources to make “stone soup.” People who still had homes open them to those who have nowhere to sleep. Barriers of race, class, and gender dissolve as people live and work and rest side by side. Young people watch out for the safety of their elders and babies, and forage for food, water, and diapers.
And in this catastrophe, it has felt in the last couple of weeks as though the spirit of America has reawakened. Yes, some newspapers complied with the president’s demands. But others did not. Yes, some corporations dumped their DEI programs, but others proudly refused to comply, and boycotts have already had an effect on those that gave in.
Millions turned out to march in the streets on April 5 and again on Easter Saturday. Universities such as Harvard and the University of Washington are refusing to comply with cruel and illegal mandates. The media have begun to report what’s really going on, and even some conservative commentators are turning against the president. There are currently dozens of lawsuits against the president. Senators and congresspeople are beginning to resist his bullying and threats. Rogue park rangers have been duplicating and preserving information that was about to be destroyed by the DOGE gang. The park rangers are also showing up at rallies and marches to help de-escalate potential troublemakers.
A movement has arisen to demand justice for Kilmar Abrego Garcia—a man originally from El Salvador who came to America as a legal refugee. He has a wife and kids, and a good job. He was kidnapped and shipped to El Salvador by ICE officers, with no hearings, no court orders. But there is public outrage on his behalf, and on behalf of the many other men and women who were sentenced to slavery without even a trial. Congresspeople have been traveling to El Salvador to meet with Garcia and with others who were snatched without hearings, and the media are reporting more and more of their stories—even on Fox News.
Last weekend I was inspired by a spontaneous mini-demonstration in support of the larger protest that was happening a few miles away. As I drove down 65th NE, I saw a young woman standing on the sidewalk with a political sign for passing drivers to see. Then a couple of blocks later, there was an elder couple sitting in lawn chairs on the sidewalk, holding up their own signs and smiling joyfully. And their joy was contagious.
Many people have remarked on what feels like a renewed sense of purpose and love and joy. And there is a determination to protect and save and work for what we cherish: diversity, equity, inclusion, and accessibility; simple kindness, and concrete actions toward resolving injustices; respect and honor. Love. Justice.
Love is in the room with us. Peace is within us. We are beginning to feel that resistance is really possible, that hatred and envy and greed and contempt do not get to win, even in our own hearts.
So what can we do with this renewed energy of hope? Here’s a start. Several weeks ago, our own Dave Mampel created a Zoom and text group called Coping with the Coup, that has since grown into a large crowd. These people exchange ideas and experiences about how to resist, and they’re a terrific source of inspiration and support for what you can do to the best of your own ability. If you’re interested in participating in the group, or even just seeing what’s going on, talk with Dave.
We can also participate in the 5 Calls app at 5calls.org, which makes it easy for you to call your congresspeople on five issues that concern you, daily. It takes only a few minutes. The app matches you with your senators and representatives, sets up the calls, provides you with a list of concerns to choose from, and gives you a script for each call. What could be easier?
We can participate in large marches and demonstrations, or we can stage our own small demonstrations in our neighborhoods, like those people along 65th NE.
So our time for grieving and shame is over. The Holy Spirit, the breath of creativity and hope and active love and justice—is among us. It has been among us all along, but we’re beginning to be able to see and feel it again. It shows us the wounded bodies and broken lives of the victims of this catastrophe, and then says to us: As God has sent Jesus to you, so the love he embodied sends you.
And we say with Martin Luther King Jr.: “We have no idea where this movement is going. We are called upon to do things we cannot do, and yet we cannot dismiss the calling.”
AMEN