This was the plan. We would carry the cross through our small downtown, gathering people from as many congregations as possible. No partisan message would be attached, no secular political figures mentioned—simply to lift up this Christian truth.
Many Americans have prayed, often in agony, about how to resist core elements of the current administration’s agenda. Such prayer has, I hope, been for God to show us ways of Christian witness that are faithful, discerning, and effective.
It became clear to me, however, that some of my energy will need to be spent in cooperation with a wide coalition of people, and I seriously disagree with some of them. But these are people with whom I share a commitment to the Constitution, and thus, for this part of the work, we don’t need to agree about much: the freedom to differ peaceably is the point.
Yet there is more to my witness. I don’t, after all, worship democracy, freedom, or differences for their own sake. I asked myself, what would it look like to do the necessary work in a manner shaped not by some coalition but by the gospel?
Of course, the most obvious thing was to go on quietly doing what has always been my duty: introducing Christianity and intellectual skills to my college students and caring for my family. Those activities are already forms of resistance, because they assert things that are good and true in themselves, sowing seeds that can grow into the virtues of wisdom, courage, and creativity to meet the times.
My students learn that Christianity far predates any national ideology; they begin to appreciate complexity; they practice the courage to argue a claim, along with the humility to change their minds when the evidence calls for it. My children are, I hope, gradually learning curiosity, empathy, and resilience. All these resources are antidotes to authoritarianism. To continue doing this slow work is to shore up institutions and society against destructive forces.
But as important as those simple duties are, it didn’t seem like enough; not when our communities are fragmented and dominant images in our culture celebrate cruelty. Moreover, there is the distinct sense that “Christian” identity may be emotionally equivalent to patriotic white prosperity. I asked myself, what more could be done?
An idea came mid-Lent, during the Eucharist. Was it divinely ordained? Who knows? I describe it here simply to offer one shape Christian political improvisation might take. For me, the resistance that seems the most God-honoring will come directly out of the imagery of the Scriptures and the worship of the church, and it will be shaped by as many Christian voices as possible. It won’t be co-opted by a party, policy, or political coalition, but it may very well stand in opposition to one.
The vision was this: a Good Friday procession of the cross, lifting up the various languages and cultural styles of members of our local community. The theme would be Revelation 5:9: “By your blood you have ransomed for God saints from every tribe and language and people and nation.” We would bear the cross through our community. And our purpose would be to dramatize how Jesus calls us from all people groups and our call to walk with those who suffer. Our hope was to show the heart of the gospel in a way that needed to be seen.
Some people would realize that the practice of a Good Friday procession draws from Latin American liturgical repertoire; some would realize, like James Cone in The Cross and the Lynching Tree, that Jesus’ death performs God’s solidarity with the oppressed. Everyone would be invited to spend a little more time contemplating the suffering of Jesus. Everyone would find themselves praying next to neighbors we don’t see every day.
Surely, anyone who offers leadership in a church, pastors and otherwise, will be thinking of the obvious logistical hurdles. How could you think of organizing an ecumenical, citywide event during Holy Week—with less than four weeks’ notice? This problem did not escape me, and I was prepared for the idea to be dead on arrival. But I had enough conversations with people looking for an outlet for their anguish; who, like me, wanted to do something that felt entirely truthful. It seemed there might just be enough of a hunger, despite the obstacles.
It took a day or two to get confirmation from a few pastors and other friends—enough assurance that this event was wanted and would have some turnout—and then it was full speed ahead. There were the phone calls to the city offices to determine whether we would need a permit and what guidelines we had to keep. The pastors of the churches at the beginning and end of the one-mile downtown route jumped on board; these were a mainly Black Baptist church, and a mainly white Episcopal Church. The pastors of the Hispanic congregations were also excited to take part.
An important question was whether members of non-white congregations were less likely to work jobs that would give them Good Friday off, and whether the event therefore needed to take place on Saturday instead. The practice of praying the Lord’s Prayer in all participants’ languages had come from the local Greek Orthodox church; would those Christians join us, and how to invite without intruding on their already intense Holy Week schedule? In the end, the time that was both most liturgically appropriate and worked best with different churches’ schedules was 1 p.m. on Good Friday. This was settled and fliers made within five days of the first inkling of the idea—exactly three weeks before the event.
Once the basic decisions had been made, other work had to be done—work that might seem purely administrative, but that is ecumenically important. Who would select songs on behalf of the different communities? Who would lead them? Was there enough lay involvement for turnout, or had I relied too much on the advice of pastors, who perhaps hadn’t considered their congregations’ Friday work schedules? Could we use amplification? (No.) But did a bullhorn count as amplification? Could we sing while walking, or would we need to stop for any of the prayers and songs? (Stopping turned out to be the best approach.)
The route for the walk would cross a set of train tracks; was there any way to guarantee that we wouldn’t be stopped by a train, only to have the whole event derailed? Did we need insurance for the event, and which congregation would cover the rider? Since the route didn’t end where it began, vans were arranged to bring participants back to their cars. What cross would we use? (A big wooden one was most appropriate across denominations, but it couldn’t be too heavy.) And, of course, word had to be spread; by now 10 or so congregations were involved, so fliers had to be distributed to these churches and put up around town; announcements had to be made on my university’s campus, chapel credit granted, transportation offered.
Finally, programs had to be printed, so that everyone could join in the songs in their different languages and cultural styles. Since we had no way to predict turnout (Would we have 60, 80?), we printed 65 programs and made a QR code so any additional people could use their phones to follow along in a Google doc.
Good Friday came, and we couldn’t have hoped for anything more beautiful. That very morning, an email came from Norfolk Southern informing me that the railroad company would hold off train traffic during the half-hour I had requested—that could be called a miracle! When we showed up at the Baptist church where we were starting, a crowd began to gather, and I quickly realized that—regulation or not—a bullhorn would have helped. Someone counted 120 people.
Eight participants from the various churches took turns carrying the cross. Prayers were offered by seven pastors—Baptist, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Catholic, Church of God, and non-denominational. Everyone joined in songs in Spanish and English, including African American spirituals. The Lord’s Prayer was prayed in English, Spanish, Malay, Portuguese, and Vietnamese. It was printed in Ukrainian and Japanese, but since the members of our community who speak these languages could not be present—either because their visas had been revoked or because they were afraid they would be targeted if they came to a public event—we kept a moment of silence to pray for these absent friends.
Altogether, it was a powerful time of prayer marked by a focus on the cross of Jesus, a celebration of God’s calling across differences, and a subtle acknowledgment that this value is out of step with our moment in America.
I’ll conclude with the way I explained what we were doing when we began at the Baptist church:
We have gathered here, as Hebrews says, to fix our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God. Let’s keep our eyes on him, who endured such hostility from sinners, so that we may not grow weary or lose heart. Remember that while Jesus died for us, he didn’t substitute for us in a way that guarantees that life will be easy; following Jesus means, as he said, counting the cost and taking up our crosses. And Jesus carries the cross with his people—he is especially near to those who suffer.
Following Jesus also means joining with all the other followers of Jesus in friendship and solidarity. As Paul tells us, “If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it. You are the body of Christ.” So we are here today to pour our love on Jesus, who by his blood has redeemed for God saints from every tribe and language and nation and people. We are the body of Christ.
I want to address an elephant in the room—well, the parking lot. Is what we are doing here political? It’s certainly not partisan, if that’s what you mean. It’s definitely not about trying to get earthly power or control, if that’s what you mean by political.
But the kingdom of God sure is a matter of how we live together, how we recognize each other, how we care for each other and advocate for each other across our differences. How we lift each other up in practical ways. The body of Christ is really meant to share a common life. And frankly I think that’s the truest definition of politics: how we order our common life. So in that sense, maybe what we are doing is political. Maybe it’s a little practice in belonging to each other.
In another way, too, following the cross is political, because it demonstrates that God’s power is made perfect in weakness. Jesus, after being double-crossed, humiliated, and brutally killed by the superpower of his day, came back from the depths. And God highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. What is right, good, and true will win in the end.
As time goes on in this—or, really, any—administration, Christian faithfulness will take all kinds of improvisation. Let’s keep sharing stories of what this could look like “to encourage each other—and all the more, as we see the Day approaching.”
Abigail Woolley Cutter, Ph.D., is assistant professor of theology at King University in Bristol, Tennessee. She enjoys the music and many trails of Appalachia with her husband and two young children.
