George Floyd and Jesus: A Eulogy

Mama

Woman, behold your son

Please somebody

Why have you abandoned me?

Some water or something

I thirst

I’m through

It is finished

I can’t breathe . . .

Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.[1]

Every time I look at the image of George Floyd pinned to the ground, I also see Jesus nailed to the cross. I can’t get it out of my head.

George Floyd wasn’t Jesus Christ. No one is claiming he’s the Savior of all humanity. But if George wasn’t the Son of God, he was a son of God. And gazing upon his murdered body may just help save our humanity.

I’m a Christian. I believe Jesus Christ is the resurrected Son of God, my Savior and Redeemer. But just for a moment, let’s set aside his exalted titles and focus on the man Jesus of Nazareth. Yeshua. A name as common in his time as, say, George is in ours.

By society’s standards, Jesus was an illegitimate child, saved from social pariah status only because a stepfather stepped in. He grew up poor. Everyone around him was poor. His village, Nazareth, was a backwater nothingtown. He was precocious, to be sure, and left an impression when given a chance. But for thirty years, he was just part of the vast sea of humanity, most of whom have lived and died illiterate and voiceless and forgotten.

Jesus never stopped being poor. He certainly knew the Torah, but left no written records. But he’s the most remembered person in all human history because he found his voice:

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach the good news to the poor. He has sent me to declare release to the captives, and the restoring of sight to the blind, to deliver the captives, and to declare the acceptable year of the Lord.[2]

Jesus led a movement focused on good news for the poor. For the imprisoned. For the disabled. For those who are blind to injustice and others’ suffering, and captive to their own privilege. To make this year, finally, acceptable in the sight of God. How long? Not long.

In short, Jesus led the Black Lives Matter movement of his day and time.[3]

Jesus’s people were colonized, marginalized, persecuted, and powerless. Generation after generation they were victims of unrelenting police brutality and systemic political and economic injustice. They had tried every strategy imaginable to free themselves from oppression: revolt, collaboration, imitation, submission.

Jesus got a few folks together and said, none of this will ever make you free. Violence will only beget more violence. You can never do enough to make them think you’re one of them. Rolling over is just a slower way to die.

So how do you free yourself? How do you break the cycle of generations of oppression? You refuse to play their game.

They think the world is about domination. You say it’s about service. They think the world is about status. You say it’s about community. They think the world is driven by fear. You say it’s animated by love. They think you’re nothing. You assert your dignity. Your life matters.

“Whoever strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.”[4] To hit your right cheek, they can either jab with their left or backhand with their right. If the left hand is unclean, as it was for first-century Jews, then only the backhand will do. Who gets backhanded? Inferiors. So stare them in the eye and turn the other cheek. Now their only options are to backhand with the left — again, not an option — or jab with the right. Who gets jabbed? An equal, in a fair fight. You may have more power than me, you say, but you will not humiliate me. My life matters.

“And if someone hopes to sue you and take your tunic, give your outer coat also.”[5] Predatory lenders abound. Whole economies are built on the perpetual indebtedness of the poor. The deck is always stacked. Now some slimy creditor, who has already taken everything you own, drags you to court to literally take the clothes off your back. Stand up straight, take off your last stitch of clothing, and say, “You want to take everything? Here it is.” Even blindfolded Lady Justice will blush — not at your naked assertion of dignity, but at their naked attempt to rob the poor. You may have more power than me, you say, but you will not humiliate me. My life matters.

“And if someone compels you to go a mile, go two miles.”[6] Soldiers have weapons, so they can usually get you to do what they say. But they have rules too, in the name of honor. Roman military regulations say imperial subjects can be compelled to carry soldiers’ packs for only one mile. (How magnanimous!) “Carry my pack for me, peasant.” After a mile of forced marching, at the point of the spear, you keep walking. Another mile later, your back is sore, but that soldier just got court martialed. You may have more power than me, you say, but you will not humiliate me. My life matters.

Jesus was one of history’s most creative protesters. He recognized the everyday sources of systemic oppression that his people experienced under Roman rule. His whole life was lived under the shadow of injustice. Maybe he had been hit on the cheek by some “superior,” or been forced to carry a soldier’s pack. Rather than revolt, collaborate, imitate, or submit, he got creative. He protested. He took to the streets to share the good news of liberation. He inspired people to assert their dignity, to subvert the warped logic of domination and use it against itself. Domination is predicated on humiliation. Jesus told the people to stand up, straighten their backs, and refuse to be humiliated. And to do it with love.

Why love? Because the abuser is blind. The creditor is blind. The soldier is blind. They are caught up in systems of unjust oppression just as much as you are, even if they occupy a higher rung on the ladder and therefore oppress others to gain some modicum of privilege. Your act of creative, assertive, nonviolent resistance may be the only thing to help pull the scales off their eyes. Doesn’t that put the burden on the oppressed? The burden has always been on the oppressed. The only way you will be free is if everyone is free.[7]

“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”[8] This isn’t a license to abuse. The tortured victim isn’t handing out cheap grace. He’s looking down on his oppressors and calling them out. Those soldiers need forgiveness — what they did is wrong. “Doing your duty” won’t cut it. “Following orders” isn’t good enough. “Keeping the peace”? Your victim’s bloodied body suggests otherwise. The soldiers don’t know that this victim is special, that this one is the Messiah. Guess what? Every victim is special. They know he’s a man, a fellow human being. That should be enough.

“Behold your mother!”[9] Look at Mary. Not the one in Christmas cards or heavenly glory. The single unwed pregnant teenager. The refugee taking her infant son to another country to shield him from violence. The one who knows she raised a good boy, but also doesn’t quite understand him. Who prays for his safety when he goes out. She knows he’s doing God’s work, but she also knows it will get him in trouble. They don’t like to be challenged. Part of her isn’t surprised when they kill her boy.

“They killed my boy!”

There is no love like a mother’s, no grief like a mother’s. What can she do, but take his mutilated body and cradle it like she did when he cuddled in her arms, to bathe his broken body with her tears. Before she was Queen of Heaven, Mary was just another Mama Who Buried Her Boy.

Jesus came to town leading a movement. He knew the crowds were fickle. They would forget. They would be distracted. Leadership isn’t celebrity — it’s suffering. He won’t forget. He won’t be distracted. He denounces money and power and politics and business as usual. He’ll destroy property in righteous anger, but never harm human life — he knows what is sacred. “The greatest among you will be your servant.”[10] The world turned upside down.

They don’t want the world to be turned upside down. They like it just fine the way it is, thank you very much. Domination: let’s call it law. Oppression: order sounds so much better. “Law and order” — that has a ring to it. People will go for that.

They come at night. No media. A show of force. After all, he’s unarmed and dangerous. Turns out his friends are there, and one is packing. Weapons brandished. Lawman down! You’re sincere, Brother Peter, this isn’t the way it’s done. We’re here to stop the cycle of violence, not perpetuate it. Come here, Brother Malchus, let’s take a look at that ear. Whole. The way things are supposed to be. But law and order must be served. Can’t have too much healing here, can we? There are government contracts at stake, quotas to be filled. Caesar is a jealous and brutal god.

His back isn’t the first or last to be lashed. He’s not the first or last victim to be mocked. Boys will be boys. Don’t anyone tell — it’s against The Code.

On to the Governor — judge, jury, and executioner. Another day, another victim (or two, or three, hard to keep count when they all look the same). Law and order keep everyone nice and subdued. “What have you done?” Our movement is based on a power you can’t understand. If our revolution worked like your politics, you’d have bloody riots on your hands. I know you’ve got well-honed strategies for that. But you have nothing that can stop a movement based on truth and love. I came here to give you fair warning, to testify of the truth. “What is truth?”[11] Your unjust, oppressive, violent, system is bankrupt. You may have power now, but in the long run power can’t be maintained unless it is built on persuasion, gentleness, humility, kindness, knowledge, and most of all love.[12]

Love is dangerous. It can get you killed. But it’s the only thing that will stop the killing.

They keep inventing new ways to inflict pain, to torture the body. Killing isn’t enough. Domination needs humiliation. Law and order must cow the oppressed into submission. Don’t say anything, don’t step out of line, or it could be you. Actually, it could be you no matter what. Justice is what we say it is. Who’s going to stop us? The guy on the cross? He can’t even save himself.[13]

The cross doesn’t kill you, not directly. Even nails in your hands and feet won’t kill you. No, crucifixion is designed to be a long, slow, drawn-out process. Enough time for you to get a few words out. The end result? Death by asphyxiation.

I can’t breathe.

While the soldiers stand there staring at your body like it’s a piece of meat. They wonder what they’re going to eat for dinner.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s room in the movement for all kinds — tax collectors and soldiers and politicians and rich folk too. But they’ve got to come to the movement, or the movement will come to them.

In my church we don’t like to think very much about the crucified Jesus. We focus instead on the resurrected Christ. We like the glow, the glory, the happily ever after story. We don’t much like the mangled, tortured, bloody body hanging limply on the cross. But Jesus doesn’t want us to look away. When Jesus revealed himself after his resurrection, he showed the people the scars in his hands and feet and side.[14] When you look at me, Jesus insists, don’t forget my murdered body on the cross. And don’t forget the violent system that did it.

The resurrected, glorified Christ points us to the crucified Jesus. “Behold the wounds which pierced my side, and also the prints of the nails in my hands and feet.”[15] “These wounds are the wounds with which I was wounded in the house of my friends.”[16] With friends and public servants like these, who needs enemies?

George Floyd was murdered by officers of the law. Jesus was murdered by officers of the law. On the third day, Jesus rose from the grave and offered new life and hope. On the third, and fourth, and fifth, and sixth, and seventh, and eighth days, a movement chanting George’s name rose from the streets offering new life and hope.

The crucified Jesus and the neck-held George unmask the brutality of political-legal regimes predicated more on order than on justice. The peace they keep is built on the violence they inflict. We don’t want to look at the bodies. It’s too ugly. The enormity of the injustice paralyzes us. What can we do? The system is too big. Too deeply entrenched. This is the way the world works. To soothe our consciences, maybe a little reform here, a little more officer training there. Then we can go on with our lives.

But sometimes, every once in a while, the Spirit moves upon the waters. When that happens, we can’t look away. Our gaze is transfixed on George’s body. A body crying for the most basic things every body needs: Mama, water, breath. A body denied those things because it is black in America. George wasn’t the leader of a movement in life. In death, his body is.

God took on a body to lead a nonviolent movement to liberate body and soul. He could have chosen any body. He chose a dark-skinned body. A poor body. A colonized body. An often homeless body. Finally, a tortured and executed body. A body that called for his Mama, wanted a drink, and died for lack of breath.

The most influential person in the history of the world was tortured by law enforcement officers and executed at the hands of a regime that violently oppressed his people for generations. Jesus became Christ because people came to believe that his death meant something for them — that in his death they found new life, and hope, and love. They found courage to build a new kind of society, a community based on peace with justice, and nonviolence, and voluntary sharing of goods, and care for the poor and marginalized, and most of all radical love for everyone.

George Floyd isn’t Jesus Christ. But in his death might we find new life, and hope, and love? Might it give us the courage to finally build a new community in the name of all who have died similar deaths? That’s how George’s life and death will matter.

[1] https://freethoughtblogs.com/singham/2020/06/01/george-floyds-last-words/; John 19:26–30; Matthew 27:46; all biblical references from Thomas A. Wayment, The New Testament: A Translation for Latter-day Saints: A Study Bible (Provo and Salt Lake City, UT: Religious Studies Center and Deseret Book Co., 2019).

[2] Luke 4:18–19.

[3] This is inspired by Albert B. Cleage Jr., The Black Messiah (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, 1989), and the entire tradition of black theology. See especially James H. Cone, A Black Theology of Liberation (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1990 [1970]).

[4] Matthew 5:39. The next three paragraphs are taken from Walter Wink, The Powers That Be: Theology for a New Millennium (New York: Galilee, 1998), 101–111.

[5] Matthew 5:40.

[6] Matthew 5:41.

[7] This is a recurrent theme in Martin Luther King Jr.’s teachings. See Martin Luther King Jr., I Have a Dream: Writings and Speeches that Changed the World, ed. James M. Washington (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1992).

[8] Luke 23:34.

[9] John 19:27.

[10] Matthew 23:11.

[11] John 18:36–38.

[12] Doctrine and Covenants 121:41–42.

[13] Matthew 27:42.

[14] John 20:27; 3 Nephi 11:15.

[15] Doctrine and Covenants 6:37.

[16] Doctrine and Covenants 45:52.