“Post-Candidate Politics”: How Sojourners Gets It Wrong

Sojourners, a Christian social justice magazine and advocacy group, has recently released its election year outreach plan. (And by recently, I mean two months ago.) The kickoff video features a cast of beautiful, wholesome twenty-somethings talking about the issues they care most about: poverty, immigration, human trafficking, the environment. The video’s tagline: “This November, we’re not voting for a candidate or a party – we’re voting for us.”

Sounds like these attractive, starry-eyed young folks have been grossly misinformed about the American political process. They’ve seemingly never taken a high school civics class, read a newspaper, or ever voted before. What are they going to do when they show up on election day and the ballot just has a bunch of names? Of candidates? Who belong to political parties?! What are they going to do when they can’t vote for, say, compassion for low-income immigrant children?

I know Sojourners is trying to sidestep the political circus and focus this election on the people who will be affected by every decision that political leaders make, or fail to make. (Although they also can’t endorse any candidates for office without jeopardizing their 501(c)3 status – not to mention alienating broad swaths of more conservative American evangelicals.) But in the process, Sojourners sidesteps the entire political process, undermining the power – not to mention the desire – of people of faith to make a difference in our government.

Sojourners’ tactic bothers me so much because they are such an important voice within the church, and in our national politics. I’ve signed their petitions. I’ve called my Congressmen when they asked me too. I’ve retweeted! I gave some money last summer when they were spearheading interfaith efforts to preserve programs for the poor in the federal budget negotiations. So it bothers me that they would water down their message this election cycle, the message that Christians have a responsibility to use their political privileges to stand up for “the least of these.”

Judging from Tim King’s note introducing the campaign, it sounds like Sojourner’s leadership has gotten disillusioned over the past year and a half of hyperpartisan gridlock in Washington. Which is understandable. Sojourners has been at the forefront of a coalition of organizations that has been shouting into the abyss for months, trying to stand up for those in need, and it probably seems like no one is listening. I understand why they would be feeling a little disillusioned.

But standing up and speaking truth into the abyss that is our political system is their job. Or, if you prefer, their call. Their mission. They are supposed to tell political leaders a gospel story of hope and resurrection and a love that defies death itself. Their current campaign suggests that they may be having some doubts about that story (and who isn’t?), at least when it comes to American politics. Maybe they’ve started thinking that our political system isn’t redeemable. And if it’s not redeemable, there’s no real point in taking elections very seriously.

King’s message goes even further: “Politics doesn’t begin and end at the voting booth. Politics is all the things we decided to do together. It includes, but is not limited to, the things the government does. That means that being a faithful citizen requires being both a local practitioner and a national advocate for justice. Volunteering, entrepreneurship, being a good neighbor, building strong families, are all ways to build communities and, in a sense, are political acts.”

Sure, volunteering is great. But that’s not an excuse to ignore politics. Because while you’re tutoring kids after school and serving breakfast to homeless people in the morning, there will be some elected official in some office that some voters elected her to, and she will be making decisions – whether to continue the grant program that helps fund that after-school center, perhaps, or whether to keep the transitional housing services going that can get those homeless people off the street.

Jim Wallis’ May 3^rd post “The Idolatry of Politics and the Promise of the Common Good” elaborates on this disenchantment. He writes:

“People of faith, whether they will vote Republican or Democrat, should not be rallying around the king of their party with the kind of blindly uncritical support that the political elites on both sides will urge — all of them eager to protect their access, influence, and income in the present order of things….

“Power is both the means and the end of politics in Washington, but God’s politics are most concerned with the powerless — the least of those among us, who are the most absent in election years and yet the very ones Jesus would always have us ‘voting for.’”

I agree with Wallis that people of faith should not place their political allegiances above their allegiance to God. But this vague admonition to “vote for the least of these” is unhelpful. If we are really taking seriously the charge to vote for the powerless, we still have to, well, pick a candidate. And that candidate is going to belong to a political party. And that candidate will need to ask people for money.

What bugs me the most about Wallis’ blog is that, by warning against “the idolatry of politics,” he seems to suggest that political involvement, and, by extension, public service work, may be dangerous for good Christians. As if it’s better not to care too much than to be “dirtied” by politics – better to remain pure, and a little aloof.

Yes, politics can be dirty and terrible sometimes. But if people of faith want to sincerely take up the cause of the poor, we can’t avoid elections. We just have to struggle through them together, and pray that we are participating as faithfully as possible. (And our political involvement can’t end at the voting booth either, but that’s another post.)

I have hope for this election, and I also have hope for our political system. As much dysfunction as there is in Congress right now, I believe that United States can as a nation return civility to our legislative process and our public discourse. Moreover, I believe that working to improve the governing process itself is essential work for Christians, and I wish Sojourners would join in affirming this belief.

Things in Washington seem bad now – many observers and long-serving public officials have said that Congress now is more polarized than it has ever been. But as people of faith, we have hope in outrageous things. We believe in a God who overcomes death itself – I am confident that the United States Congress isn’t too big a challenge for that God.

The Problems with Peacemongering

Thanks to my good friend Renee, who keeps me plugged in to all things Presbyterian (and blogs here), I have just discovered that the PC(USA) is considering becoming a peace church—i.e. officially opposing wars and violence out of principle, regardless of the circumstances. For generations, the Presbyterian Church, like most American mainline denominations, has operated under Just War theory, a theological framework that offers a number of criteria under which fighting is justifiable, in order to make faithful folk feel less terrible about going to war.

Because let’s face it: war is terrible. It destroys countries, depletes natural resources, disrupts governments, and devastates local economies. It stirs up hatred of one group for another, which can perpetuate conflict for generations. It ends lives, violently. In our modern warfare, which takes place less and less on isolated battlefields, it often results in the deaths of women and children and innocent civilians. And the soldiers who come home may face PTSD, substance abuse issues, loss of limb, and other physical and mental health struggles. War is not a good thing.

On the surface, then, “Just War” sounds absurd and somewhat revolting. Why should we try to justify violence of any kind? Of course we should embrace nonviolence! It’s the job of the church to be a witness to peace and justice in the world! And other such platitudes.

On the other hand, a move to become a “peace church” is a total cop-out. It is a more of a witness to our desire for purity than for peace, as if we don’t want the PCUSA to be ‘defiled’ by any association with violence or any appearance to condone war.

But the fact of the matter is, we live in a broken world, and war and violence are a part of that world. We can—and should—lament violence without ending the conversation completely. Rather, I think we have a responsibility to struggle with each new conflict that arises. It is a way to remember what we believe and to renew our commitment to our faith. Besides, the theory defines “just wars” fairly narrowly. I believe that abandoning Just War theory would be a theological overreach, and there are two main problems I’m afraid that the decision would create:

1)    There would essentially be no place in our church for members of the military and their families—and if anyone can teach us about self-sacrifice, it’s them. If anyone needs healing and love, it’s them. Military families should feel welcomed in our congregations, without the tacit understanding that the PC(USA) thinks their whole careers are ‘wrong.’ After all, Jesus didn’t do that. He just healed the centurion’s servant, no questions asked.

2)    There is something politically meaningful in a church opposing a war that it has carefully considered. There is very little meaning in opposing every war, without consideration. If the PC(USA) makes an official declaration opposing a given war, as the Presbytery of Greater Atlanta did recently, it may serve as somewhat of a deterrent to policymakers. But if we oppose the idea of war itself, we are essentially abdicating our ability to have that kind of impact.

Violence is a deplorable part of our world. But I don’t think it is the place of the church to say it is an unforgivable, irredeemable part. We should be working to offer more creative solutions to conflict than military intervention. Opposition to all military intervention, though, is not creative enough. It’s not a plausible solution, and it’s not helpful to military families, policymakers, or those affected by conflict.

Holy Week series, part seven

This is the final part in a Holy Week series. It is taken from an essay I wrote last year, with a few revisions—some parts have been changed to protect the identities of the helplessly Presbyterian. When I wrote this, the violence in Syria had only been going on for a few weeks. It has now escalated tremendously, and has been ongoing for over a year. 

Day 8, Easter Sunday

I wake up wondering if, maybe today, the children won’t die. They will, of course. Pneumonia doesn’t know that it’s Easter and that all things are right with the world. But maybe tomorrow they won’t. Or maybe the next day. Or the day after that.

Holy Week series, part six

This is the sixth part in a Holy Week series. It is taken from an essay I wrote last year, with a few revisions—some parts have been changed to protect the identities of the helplessly Presbyterian. When I wrote this, the violence in Syria had only been going on for a few weeks. It has now escalated tremendously, and has been ongoing for over a year. 

Day 7, Holy Saturday

Today, the world and I are waiting.

I wait by working. There are so many things I have to do, and I make sure to keep busy doing them all day. It is important to keep myself occupied because I can feel Easter approaching, and while I can usually get on board with the whole thing about resurrection and hope for the world at least a couple of days a week, today is not one of those days. Tomorrow I am supposed to stand up in front of everyone and say that something amazing happened. Or that it is in the process of happening, or that we all have the opportunity to participate in its happening—seminary folks have roundabout ways of talking about things. But the thing that we are talking about is death. The only part of the Jesus story that I never have any doubts about is the crucifixion. There’s no reason to doubt that. That certainly happened. Everything else is up for grabs.

And what if that is the end of it? What if death does get the last word? What if beauty and love are really just as fragile and fleeting as our bodies? What if young children in developing countries just keep on dying, day after day after day? What if, despite, my greatest efforts, despite my best intentions, I can’t help any of them? What if no one can help them? What if God can’t help them?

I am almost late for the vigil. It’s twilight and the daylight is quickly fading. The cantor leads the procession out to the grounds, then back inside as we light our candles, then over to the chapel where we are sprinkled with water. I am trying to be struck by the beauty of it. I am trying to be swept up in the hopeful expectation as we wait together in community, but I’m not. I feel very alone. I wish I could believe more. I wish my faith were not falling apart in my hands, as it does every year. I wish I could think of something better to do than sit in this little chapel as 21,000 children around the world are dying.

Finally, everyone sits down and stops flaunting their believing at me. The seminary president gives the sermon, taking his cues from Matthew’s account of the Easter story, and he is careful to point out that verse 17, typically translated, “When they saw him they worshipped him, but some doubted,” should really read, “When they saw him they worshipped him, and they doubted.” Which is all I need, just one little conjunction. Although I have been fasting all Lent, my cynicism has been a source of great self-indulgence. I make a mental note to quit it. Today, at least, we feast on hope.

I come, I see him, I worship, and I doubt. I see the love that overcomes death. I have hope in the promise for a renewed world where hatred and destruction are gone and all things are set right. I feel this hope in my bones. And I doubt. But even in my doubt, I worship, and I work. After all, I will never end up with any pottery unless I keep sitting at that wheel, poking at the clay.

Holy Week series, part five

This is the fifth part in a Holy Week series. It is taken from an essay I wrote last year, with a few revisions—some parts have been changed to protect the identities of the helplessly Presbyterian. When I wrote this, the violence in Syria had only been going on for a few weeks. It has now escalated tremendously, and has been ongoing for over a year. 

Day 6, Good Friday

Today, Syrian security forces open fire as tens of thousands of anti-government protesters take to the streets. At least 75 are killed, adding to the 270 dead since protests began in March. The body of a missing North Carolina teenager is found in a river in Maryland. Conflict erupts along the border of Cambodia and Thailand, and at least six soldiers die. Another 10,000 residents are evacuated from nearby villages. Forty people are missing and feared dead after a landslide hits the southern Philippines. Fourteen security personnel die after hundreds of militants attack a checkpoint on the northwest region of the Afghan-Pakistan border. The Fukushima evacuation zone is being widened again, due to unsafe levels of radiation. Six weeks ago, a 9.0-magnitude earthquake rocked Japan, triggering both a tsunami and the worst nuclear catastrophe since Chernobyl. At least 28,000 people died. Mexican officials report finding 26 bodies decomposing in a mass grave in Durango. Over the past four years, 34,612 people have been killed in the drug war. And another 21,000 Marys weep as their children succumb to pneumonia, diarrhea, malaria, measles, malnutrition, and infancy.

 

God is dead.

Holy Week series, part four

This is the forth part in a Holy Week series. It is taken from an essay I wrote last year, with a few revisions—some parts have been changed to protect the identities of the helplessly Presbyterian. When I wrote this, the violence in Syria had only been going on for a few weeks. It has now escalated tremendously, and has been ongoing for over a year. 

Day 5, Maundy Thursday

Taize is more highly attended this week. It is usually just me and fifteen other college students, half of whom have been recruited to sing, read, or recite the prayer after communion scripted by our campus minister. Holy Week brings out the families and older adults that we typically only see on Sunday mornings—or, as the campus crowd calls it, “Big Church.”

The sanctuary is dimly lit, only a few candles and a lamp on the piano. We shuffle in quietly, take our places in the pews and rearrange ourselves so we can get down to the business of being still with God. Today we commemorate the Last Supper, so we take communion. We take communion every week, but today we do it more commemoratively, I guess. Today, we meditate on the fact that no one really understands what’s going on, but it is probably something sacred and very important.

The pianist offers a quiet, familiar melody. It’s so soft, but I feel it in my bones. I close my eyes. This church is home to me, my home away from home, at least. These people are my family, even the people from Big Church who maybe know my face but probably not my name. Perhaps them most of all, because they’re most like real family—they don’t know you for who you are, or whoever you would like to think you are; they just know that you are there, and they love you for it.

The girl next to me gently nudges me out of my reverie with her elbow. We’re passing the peace now, lighting our candles. I should have been paying attention—closing your eyes during worship is one thing that Presbyterians do not do. We’re also not big into clapping in church, which is tricky since we’re definitely all about singing Black spirituals, in a very self-conscious way. But that is not an issue tonight. Taize music is beautiful in a way that does not demand clapping.

I file out of my pew and set my candle in the bowls of sand in front of the altar. There’s no basket for the little paper candleholders that we use to catch the dripping wax, so I just slip mine off and place it on the steps next to the sand. After communion, I shuffle back to my place. I’m probably supposed to be praying or reflecting or acknowledging the presence of God, but I am distracted. I don’t close my eyes this time.

There is some minor commotion at the front of the sanctuary. Evidently, the Big Church crowd failed to remove their little paper candleholders, so when the wax burned down all the paper caught on fire. A small fireball erupts on the steps in front of the altar. One of our grad students saves the day by frantically burying the flames in sand. We all sit there looking at him, wondering what to do, afraid to break the spell.

Although more afraid of burning to death in a wood-paneled building, of course.

We try as hard as we can to keep him out, but God always seems to find a way in.

Another 21,000 children died today.

Holy Week series, part 3

This is the third part in a Holy Week series. It is taken from an essay I wrote last year, with a few revisions—some parts have been changed to protect the identities of the helplessly Presbyterian. When I wrote this, the violence in Syria had only been going on for a few weeks. It has now escalated tremendously, and has been ongoing for over a year. 

Day 3, Tuesday

I feel Easter approaching. I wouldn’t say that I’m terrified anymore, but I’m not looking forward to it, either.

My church is only a couple blocks away from a seminary, so it always attracts lots of theological types.  One of them joins us for dinner tonight, proclaiming that, even as a little kid, Easter was always his favorite holiday—something about the victory over death and the reconciliation of all things and the whole universe erupting in joy. It annoys the shit out of me. I want to whisper, “Look, it’s okay. I won’t tell Jesus that you liked Christmas better. You were a little kid. There were presents. Jesus was a little kid, and he got presents, too, so I’m sure he’d understand.”

Easter has only been of interest to me for a couple years. It wasn’t until college that I even realized that the resurrection was the centerpiece of the Christian faith. What can I say? I grew up Methodist. We ate donuts in Sunday school and colored on paper plates and listened to each other’s mothers tell us about how much God loved us. That was about as much theology as any of us were concerned with.

I would later come to find out that, while God continued to love me unconditionally, he failed to exist. It was a bit of a let down, I must say, but I wasn’t angry at him or anything. It was an amicable breakup. I mean, at least he still loved me.

When God started existing again, it slowly dawned on me that Easter was kind of a big deal. More to the point, it was a big deal that, try as I might, I could not will myself to believe in. I knew I would lose my everlasting soul if I didn’t believe it, but still. Rise from the dead? How can anyone get on board with that?

And there was fear, and there was trembling, the first Easter.

Things have improved somewhat since then. I can even get on board myself, at least most of the time. At least half the time. At least a couple days a week. My faith just takes so much effort. It’s formless and messy, like a gray lump of clay spinning out of control in the hands of an inexperienced potter.

As irritating as some of these seminary folks can be, they are all much better potters than me. Their faith is beautiful: passionate but well-examined, dynamic but orthodox, challenging but full of warmth and love. I envy them this faith. There is an awful lot of theology floating around the seminary, way more than there ever was in my Sunday school class. And they take this theology very seriously, but they talk about it the way an astronomer talks about the composition of stars or a pianist talks about the acoustics of his instrument. Each has this ineffable love for their subject that cannot be articulated with words. Their words can only describe the technical intricacies, but each expresses their love in some other language—music, math, prayer.

An estimated 21,000 children died again today.

Holy Week series, part 2

This is the second part in a Holy Week series. It is taken from an essay I wrote last year, with a few revisions—some parts have been changed to protect the identities of the helplessly Presbyterian. When I wrote this, the violence in Syria had only been going on for a few weeks. It has now escalated tremendously, and has been ongoing for over a year. 

Day 2, Monday

Another 21,000 children under age five died again today. Statistically,

nineteen percent of these deaths were due to pneumonia;

seventeen percent due to diarrheal diseases;

eight percent due to malaria;

four percent due to measles (Wait, measles? People still get measles?);

thirty-seven percent due to something evasively categorized as “neonatal causes,” which makes it sound as though infancy is a fatal condition;

and half were related in some way to malnutrition.

Holy Week series, part 1

This is taken mostly from an essay I wrote last year, with a few revisions—some parts have been changed to protect the identities of the helplessly Presbyterian. When I wrote this, the violence in Syria had only been going on for a few weeks. It has now escalated tremendously, and has been ongoing for over a year.

Day 1, Palm Sunday

I love Palm Sunday. There is a funny procession outside in the courtyard, with toddlers beating on little shoebox drums they made the hour before in Sunday school. We wave branches, we smile awkwardly. We are so white. But it is a beautiful morning, and after we stop adoring all the little babies, we file into the sanctuary.

And then Jesus immediately dies.

For most of the year, the lectionary seems to be fishing for Scriptures—you know when you get to 1 Kings or Numbers that they’ve just run out of all the good passages. But there’s a bunch of stuff you’ve got to cram in during Holy Week, and I forget that Palm Sunday is also Passion Sunday. The triumphal entry and the crucifixion happen one right after the other. So we have a cute little parade of four-year-olds, and then we hear the rest of the story—the betrayal, the trial, the insults, the agony, the last shaky breath.

I am distracted, but I make a mental note to feel guilty later. It’s just that, this week is going to be busy. I have so many things to do. Important things. Maybe not saving-the-world important, but important to me, anyway. And it’s not as if he’s not coming back. We know how this story ends. Every year, without fail, he goes into his death throes, makes a big show out of it, and everyone stands around awkwardly, waiting, not knowing what we’re supposed to do. Cry? Yell? Call the authorities? Write a letter? Organize a protest? No matter what, we will feel out of place, forced to referee a confusing tragedy that doesn’t seem to really concern us.

In the end, we opt to stay quiet, and everyone files out of the sanctuary in an orderly fashion. In Syria, gunmen open fire at a funeral for an anti-government protester, and three people are killed. An estimated 21,000 children under the age of five also died today, mostly from treatable and preventable causes.

I made a blog*

Welcome! If you are reading this, you probably know me in real life, but for any of you who don’t: I am a twenty-something who just graduated from college in Texas and moved to Washington, DC for my First Real Job. I’m really into dogs and bluegrass and changing the world. I have a serious diet soda habit. When I grow up, I want to be some kind of mix between Natalie Maines and Leslie Knope.

My faith is also a big part of my life, and I decided to start a blog because, 1) I enjoy writing, and 2) I tend to read a bunch of books and articles by progressive evangelicals that are at once compelling and insufferable. A more apt title for this blog may have been “Emerging Church Stuff I Found Irritating This Week.”

But there is also a lot of interesting, exciting work going on right now. There are a lot of people thinking about how we can create more loving communities, how we can be more radically compassionate, how we can pursue justice more faithfully. And with this little corner of the internet, I hope to contribute to that dialogue.

So why “Waiting for Morning”? The name of this blog comes from Psalm 130:

Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord;

Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy.

If you, Lord, kept a record of sins, Lord, who could stand?

But with you there is forgiveness, so that we can, with reverence, serve you.

I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope.

I wait for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning.

Israel, put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption.

He himself will redeem Israel from all their sins. (New International Version**)

This psalm is particularly meaningful to me because much of my faith journey has been about waiting—waiting for answers to questions, waiting for my faith to grow, waiting to figure out what to do next with my life.

And, of course, waiting is at the core of Christian belief. Even as we attempt to live faithfully in this world, we have hope in the promise of a new kind of world. We await the coming of a Kingdom, a world that is healed and whole and overflowing with love. We may be living in a dark, broken world right now, but we trust that one day the light of morning will shine through the darkness. So, rather than give in to despair and disillusionment, we keep waiting.

But we are not just passively waiting for Jesus to come down and change things all at once. We are fidgety. We are active, working to share the love of God in this world, even as we yearn and hope for things to be different.

So if you liked the mumbo jumbo I laid down right there, this blog may just be for you! It will be a lot of stuff about faith and justice and God and church-y nonsense, as well as a little about DC life, probably quite a few pictures of my dog, and maybe an occasional clip of me learning to play the mandolin. So get excited for that.

*From now on, this post is going to live in the “About” section.

**Yeah, I still read the NIV. What of it?

DISCLAIMER: The ideas expressed in this blog are my own opinions. They are not endorsements of any company, individual, organization, political party, or product.