Why we Need to Learn to Trust the Resurrection Again

TL;DR

Much of progressive Christianity has quietly replaced resurrection faith with optimism about human progress. Weeks like this expose how fragile that hope is. Drawing on Walter Brueggemann, I argue that resurrection is not about the church doing better—but about God acting decisively to create new futures, even in the midst of despair. Trusting the resurrection again isn’t naïve. It’s an act of resistance.

A few months ago, while texting with a clergy friend about the constant pull between despair and hope, I admitted—somewhat sheepishly—

“Honestly, this may sound a little weird, but I’ve really begun to lean into actually believing in the resurrection of Jesus.”

That, I told them, was how I was resisting despair.

Now, to many Christians, that probably sounds either obvious or mildly absurd. Why would I not already trust in the resurrection of Jesus—the central confession of the Christian faith?

The answer, I think, has to do with formation.

I’ve spent much of my adult life shaped by liberal, Mainline, and progressive Christianity writ large—traditions I still care deeply about and remain part of. But within those spaces, hope is often framed less around God’s decisive action and more around our own moral progress, our capacity for reform, or our own ability to “bend the arc” toward justice. Faith, subtly but persistently, becomes dependent on optimism and human effort—on believing that people, systems, and institutions will eventually do the right thing.

The problem is that weeks like this crush that kind of hope.

We just passed another anniversary of January 6th, accompanied by the White House offering a completely distorted retelling of what was, by any honest account, an attempted coup—an effort to overturn a free and fair election, led by or at least affiliated with the then and now president of the United States.

Then there was public talk of using military force to invade Greenland, with little regard for how such an action would implode NATO and unravel nearly eighty years of postwar global order.

And then came the news that ICE killed a woman in Minneapolis. The administration quickly labeled it “domestic terrorism,” claiming the victim had “weaponized her vehicle”—assertions that, on their face, seem preposterous. Rather than restraint, the response appeared to be a doubling down, a demand for submission in the face of public outcry.

It’s heavy.

Even before the Minneapolis story broke, I found myself calling my GOP congressman and saying, “I can’t believe I’m having to say this, but I’d like to leave a message asking that we not to invade Greenland.” And, I began to spiral, at least for a few moments.

I recently re-read Walter Brueggemann’s The Prophetic Imagination, and one of his claims has continued to rattle around in my brain.

Brueggemann insists that the resurrection of Jesus must not be understood as a spiritual or moral development within the church. Resurrection, he argues, is not about people finally behaving better, or communities summoning new resolve.

Resurrection is God’s action.

“The resurrection can only be received and affirmed and celebrated as the new action of God, whose province it is to create new futures for people and to let them be amazed in the midst of despair” (112).

And again:

“The resurrection of Jesus is not to be understood in good liberal fashion as a spiritual development in the church” (113).

That distinction matters.

Because if the resurrection of Jesus was simply meant to be a morality tale about human progress, institutional resilience, or moral momentum, then weeks like this would leave us with very little hope at all.

But if the resurrection of Jesus really happened—and if it is something God does, not something we’re meant to replicate through human action—then it opens up a different horizon entirely.

It means God can create new futures even when history appears closed.
Even when systems are violent.
Even when despair feels not just understandable, but rational.

Brueggemann goes so far as to say that resurrection faith allows us to be “amazed in the midst of despair.”

Not because despair isn’t real.
Not because injustice isn’t dangerous.
But because despair does not get the final word.

And best of all, it changes our role. Rather than straining under our own human efforts and limitations, we then can simply bear witness to the reality that the same power that brought Jesus back from the dead will one day transform our broken planet.

I was reminded of something similar in a book I recently finished by Carmen Joy Imes . She writes, “Every time we pray the Lord’s Prayer—‘Your kingdom come, your will be done’—we’re praying for the end of America and every other national entity on earth. God’s kingdom is the only one that will last” (127).

That line startled me—not because it felt extreme, but because it felt honest. Resurrection faith necessarily relativizes every nation, every empire, every political project. If God is the one who raises the dead and brings new futures into being, then no regime, no ideology, and no historical moment gets to claim ultimacy.

As the character Eleanor Shellstrop from The Good Place might say— “ICE, ya basic.”

Resurrection refuses to let any present order—however powerful—define what is finally possible. I ran into this idea again while finishing Every Valley by Charles King, a book about George Frideric Handel and the people who shaped Messiah. King—who I’m not sure is a person of faith—closes the book with these lines:

“Be not afraid. Dwell among your fears and enemies long enough for them to lose their sting. Take captivity captive. Precisely at the point when all seems lost, rejoice greatly. Arise—and then shine” (257).

And later:

“The things we live through are part of figuring out what we live for” (257).

King suggests that it’s the beauty of Messiah itself—its music, its artistry—that leaves such a lasting impact. Maybe. But I think he misses something deeper.

What continues to grip people is not simply the beauty of the work, but the story it tells—the story of resurrection.

Because resurrection faith isn’t optimism.
It isn’t denial.
And it isn’t the church congratulating itself.

Resurrection faith is a stubborn trust that God is still acting in the world—creating life where we see only endings.

And in weeks like this, that kind of faith isn’t naïve.

It’s resistance.