The political lesson we can all learn during Holy Week

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Crucifixion
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Christians often commit one of two contrasting mistakes when thinking about the relationship of Christianity to political life, which distort our understanding of both. Some think that Christianity should be wholly separate from politics. “Religion and politics don’t mix,” so the reasoning goes, and, therefore, we need a “wall of separation between church and state.” In this way of thinking, religion belongs to the realm of private devotion — politics to public action. Because not everyone shares the same (private) religious faith, its expression has no proper place in a pluralist political system.

In contrast, others think that Christianity is nothing other than a revolutionary political agenda and that some variation of its tenets should be imposed upon society. This way of thinking reduces the Gospel to a plan of political, economic and social action whose purpose is to overthrow earthly political oppression. Christianity, in this vision, is measured by its relative success at changing systems of power.

Both of these mistaken theories of the association of faith and politics are contrary to the political messages that emerge from Holy Week and Easter Week. In this and a subsequent column, I propose a vision of Christian political identity that is informed, first, by the events and teachings of Jesus leading up to the agony in the garden and, second, by the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ. Considered together, these two weeks illustrate that Christian faith leads to a paradoxical vision of politics. Christianity rejects both privatization and politicization of faith. And it is precisely in its refusal to be privatized or politicized that the Christian faith has radical implications for all politics.

A universal and transcendent kingdom

The most enduring image of the beginning of Holy Week on Palm Sunday is Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey, greeted by throngs of admirers who think that he has come to bring political redemption from the oppression of Roman tyranny. And, indeed, every mark of the entrance is deliberately imbued with political claims, both by Jesus himself and the evangelists who recount the events. Jesus tells his disciples to appropriate the donkey, telling its owner that “the Master has need of it and will send it back here at once” (Mk 11:3). The requisition of a method of transportation (or other personal property) in exceptional situations is a prerogative of political officers. By commandeering the donkey, Jesus asserts the entitlement of a king over the conditional use of the property of his subjects. This bold symbolism is unambiguous: Jesus declares royal authority.

But by the construction of the narrative, the evangelists tell us that this is not the expression of local authority come merely to replace the politics of the Roman empire. Rather, quoting the prophet Zechariah, Matthew tells us that the kingdom being inaugurated by Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem is universal in scope. “Behold: your king is coming to you … riding on a donkey,” proclaims the prophet. “His dominion will be from sea to sea, and … to the ends of the earth” (Zec 9:9, 10; cf. Mt 21:5). Jesus’ kingdom is neither identified with nor limited to any fixed place or time. Rather, it is a world-encompassing kingdom, enfolding all of creation in its benevolent rule. “This gospel of the kingdom will be preached throughout the world as a witness to all nations, and then the end will come,” declares Jesus later in Holy Week (Mt 24:14).

As such, this kingdom transcends and relativizes all particularities of time and place. None are excluded from this kingdom, and thus none shall be rejected because of any national, ethnic or cultural identity. But neither shall any member of this kingdom allow such identification to supersede the new kingdom inaugurated by Jesus. By transcending all politics in space and time, Jesus’ kingdom subordinates them to himself. Personal identities are not surrendered, but they are relativized by this transcendent kingdom.

This is a radical call. But to what? What are the characteristics of this universally transcendent kingdom? The answer is found in what we now call “the Last Supper.”

A kingdom of humility and service

Images of kings and coronations are usually associated with power and domination. This is illustrated by the expectation of at least some of the people who hailed Jesus when he entered Jerusalem. They anticipated a king who would lead a violent revolt over Roman tyrants and their local lackeys, replacing one form of oppressive rule with another. Their realization that this was not the kind of kingdom that Jesus inaugurated led to their subsequent demand that he be crucified, and that the murderous insurrectionist Barabbas be released from prison to take Jesus’ place. This crowd wanted a guerilla leader to execute a violent revolution. They wanted someone to establish a politics of dominance that would only have been a mirror image of Roman despotism.

But this was not the kind of kingdom that Jesus came to institute, nor the kind of reign he would exercise. Rather than assert authority over his opponents and adversaries, Jesus knelt on the floor and washed their feet. Now, of course, these men were his apostles. But one of them would deny knowing him, and another would betray him. Neither of these men was excluded, however, from the radical act of humility that Jesus exhibited in washing their feet. Thus, he told his disciples (loyal, inconstant and treacherous alike) that his kingdom would be ruled by service. In a radical reversal of every expectation of earthly rule, the king washes the feet of his subjects.

Jesus does not reject politics in his refusal to take up arms. Rather, in the washing of his disciples’ feet, he ushers in a new kind of politics. Jesus converts our political gaze from domination to service. He teaches us that political life is about ordering one’s own life for the benefit of the other. Later, theologians would call this the “common good” rooted in the “solidarity” of all people. When we consent to the authority of this king, we subordinate our own interests for the benefit of the whole. And we are a witness to the transcendent peace that can be achieved by such selfless service. When all individual lives are ordered to the good of service, the good of the individual is also served.

While not exhaustive by any means, this glimpse at some key events of Holy Week shows us that following Christ has profound political implications. Those implications are best understood neither as rejecting political life nor reducing Christian faith to a political movement. Rather, Holy Week show us that transitory earthly politics are rooted in domination and power, while the transcendent politics of Jesus’ kingdom are rooted in humility and service. This lays the foundation for the politics of Easter Week, which contain more surprises for the way we think about political life.

Kenneth Craycraft is a columnist for Our Sunday Visitor and an associate professor of moral theology at Mount St. Mary’s Seminary and School of Theology in Cincinnati. Follow him on Twitter @krcraycraft.

Kenneth Craycraft

Kenneth Craycraft, an OSV columnist, is a professor of moral theology at Mount St. Mary's Seminary and School of Theology in Cincinnati and author of “Citizens Yet Strangers: Living Authentically Catholic in a Divided America" (OSV Books).