Deep Breaths Religious Mob Lynches Poor, Marginalized Jewish Rabbi for Caring for the Poor:
A Good Friday Reflection As a Black American, I sit with the weight of my ancestors’ trauma — living under systems that criminalize our very being. Empire always uses fear to control bodies and minds. America is no exception: from slavery and segregation to the incarceration of Japanese Americans, the erasure of Indigenous people, the criminalization of Latin American immigrants, and the oppression of LGBTQIA and disabled communities. These are not isolated events. They are part of a pattern. Globally, the story is the same. The Holocaust of the Jewish people, King Leopold’s genocide in the Congo, and the reign of autocratic regimes in South America all illustrate what occurs when empire turns violence into policy. Jesus, born poor in occupied territory, lived under comparable conditions. Crucifixion was Rome’s way of saying fall in line or suffer. Jesus’ ministry of healing, feeding, and freeing people exposed the cruelty of empire. His compassion was confrontational. His love was dangerous. And for that, he was lynched. As he was arrested, tried, and executed in a single day, the crowd chose death over justice. They sanctioned the murder of a man who wanted better for everyone. Headlines might have read: Religious Mob Lynches Poor, Marginalized Jewish Rabbi for Caring for the Poor. But that’s not the whole story. In the crowd were people who resisted in love. Simon of Cyrene helped carry Jesus’ cross. Nicodemus showed up in daylight to honor him. Lazarus stood as living proof that death does not win. And Joseph of Arimathea, facing his own mortality, gave Jesus his own tomb — an act of quiet defiance. The women held vigil. The faithful wept. Some refused to look away. So on this Good Friday, don’t play it safe. Don’t be silent. Remember the cross, the lynching tree, the jail cell, the detention center, the hospital bed ignored, the social service agency shuttered by budget cuts, and the systems that still crucify the innocent. Reclaim the story of a poor, marginalized Jew executed by the state because he dared to love without condition and confront power without fear. This is the cost of prophetic truth. This is the cost of compassion in public. Let the weight of this day settle in. Let it break your heart open, not shut it down. Refuse to look away. Refuse to normalize cruelty. Be like those who stood in the crowd and chose to stay — who carried the cross, who showed up at the tomb, who wept and watched and waited. Their presence was resistance. Their grief was holy. This day does not end in triumph. It ends with silence, unanswered questions, and a body in the grave. Yet, even here, in the shadow of empire, we hold onto each other. We remember, we resist, and we wait. ––Rev. Moya Harris, Director of Racial Justice, Sojourners | 
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