Electric Chairs and Radical Hope

If you show people who self-identify as Christian an image of an electric chair and ask them to describe the feelings it stirs up in them, what do you think you’d hear? Fear? Hatred? Maybe they’d find it revolting, barbaric, or disgusting. Some might even have a healthy amount of respect for it, claiming that it’s an appropriately grotesque way to execute the most abhorrent criminals of our society. But I’m guessing that, regardless of political or personal feelings about the death penalty, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who tells you that seeing an electric chair makes them feel warm, fuzzy feelings of love and hope.

And yet, if you show those same people an image of another equally grotesque means of execution, they’ll probably smile as they breathe a slight sigh of relief.

Have you ever paused to think about how powerfully radical a symbol of resistance it is that Christianity has claimed a cross as a symbol of peace, comfort, and hope? A fucking cross! I mean, the lyric in the hymn “Old Rugged Cross” that describes it as an emblem of suffering and shame could not have been a more accurate description of what this symbol meant to people who lived under the oppression of the Roman Empire - the timeframe and context in which most of the New Testament in the Bible takes place. After all, the Romans would regularly leave crosses up to line the roads and paths their subjects and armies would walk on trade routes or conquests, displayed for all to see. They knew the impact such a symbol could have. They knew that the emotional reaction of seeing a cross could be very powerful. Powerful enough to keep a vast empire of conquered peoples’ in check, afraid to defy the systems put in place by rulers.

The cross didn’t become a symbol for Christians until the 4th century AD, but even then, I can’t imagine it was easy for them. I mean, crucifixion had been in place right up until that moment. In fact, it wasn’t until Constantine himself converted to Christianity that the cross was shifted from a means of death to a symbol of hope. And what must that transition have looked like? What must it have felt like? Often, I don’t think I could imagine such a transition.

But then I remember that I, too, have lived through decades that have seen harmful, painful things reclaimed as sources of power. For instance, every year in my home city of Philadelphia, there’s an annual Dyke March. These strong, resilient women proudly proclaim who they are, reclaiming a slur that was once hurled at anyone born female who happened to deviate from the expected gender and sexuality “norms” and “rules” of society. They proudly shout and march down the street carrying banners claiming the strength and honor held within a title that their bullies tried to shame them into silence with in high school. In recent years we’ve seen out and proud gay men taking the hashtag #proudboys as their own, removing at least some of the power instilled by the neo fascist hate group by the same name. Perhaps radical symbols of hope and resilience aren’t as difficult to come by as it sometimes seems.

Obviously it would be ludicrous to claim that there will come a day when people will send heartfelt holiday cards with a picture of an electric chair on the front. I doubt that we’ll see a day when social media comments of “thoughts and prayers” are followed by an emoji of an electric chair. Because, you see, the power of radical hope that the cross holds doesn’t come from a place of simple belligerent defiance of its power to end human life. The hope comes from the belief and faith that bodily death is not the end of the story. The power of the Dyke March comes from the fact that these women know that being called a “dyke” isn’t the end of life as they know it. I guess in that sense the Roman Empire and modern Christians can agree on at least one thing: the impact of the cross as a symbol is one that certainly wields power.