Election 2020: Who are we going to be?

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Early last week, I was scrolling through social media, when I saw a post claiming that if Biden is elected, it will be the ruin of our country. It didn’t take long before I saw another post claiming that Trump, if re-elected, will certainly destroy any sense of civility we have left.

The next day, I was listening to this episode of The New York TimesThe Daily podcast which interviewed people across the country who are buying guns in record numbers in preparation for the riots/unrest/civil war that will certainly ensue if Biden/Trump is elected.

Democrats, Republicans, Independents, Libertarians, the far left, the far right, seniors, millennials, Black, white, Latino, are agitated and terrified. They are fighting with family and life-long friends, making accusations and spreading information and misinformation like it’s their job.

Americans of every persuasion are holding their collective breath and bracing themselves. Well, at least we’ve still got something in common.

Sometimes when I am with a classroom (or a Zoom room) full of students, a situation or comment from a student will trigger a response from me. I will hear myself sharing a treatise on academic integrity, intolerance for bullying, or (most often this year) the benefits and necessity of education. After declaring my passionate beliefs with preacher-like cadence, pacing back and forth in the front of the classroom and wiping my brow with my imaginary handkerchief, I’ll come to my conclusion and say, “and that my friends, was Sermon #479” or whatever number pops into my head at the moment.

All week long, I’ve been feeling one of these sermons percolating in the pit of my gut.

So, class, buckle up.

The election is tomorrow, and we have never been more divided. If you are wringing your hands, pacing your floors, and nervously watching the news, you are not alone. Many in the country are confident that if their candidate is not elected, we will see the end of our country as we know it.

Although we are the United States of America, all I’ve been hearing for the last who knows how long is division. What often begins with an accusation, “Obama is a socialist,” “Hillary is a liar,” “Trump is a racist” or “Biden is old and incoherent,” soon devolves into a lob fest of incendiary language that torches any hope of meaningful conversation. We find ourselves watching it all burn, pointing fingers, slinging insults, and refusing to engage in any kind of meaningful dialogue.

Have we forgotten that “united we stand, divided we fall”?

Where this is playing out most often right now is on social media — where we can lob our bombs from the safety of our homes, our beds, or our cars in one-line statements or retweeted memes and we don’t have to engage in the what could possibly follow. We feel smug sharing these posts, thinking, “There, I said it. That’s how I feel, and I want everyone to know it.” Then, we watch to see how many likes or shares we get and feel offended if anyone would dare to challenge our opinion. But isn’t that one of our freedoms — to have divergent views and to enjoy the freedom to share them? If we don’t want others to respond to our opinions, why are we posting them on a public platform?

In the past several months, as we’ve had heightened anxiety from living within the reach of a sometimes deadly pandemic, as some of our liberties have — for a time — been compromised for the sake of safety, it seems many of us have felt the need to more fully express our opinions than we may have in the past. And while this could be healthy, if we were all willing to civilly discuss issues and platforms, it has often become inflammatory. Peaceful protests have been met with law enforcement in riot gear and counter protestors bearing guns. Often what could have been quiet demonstration, has escalated into violence and death. Speaking aloud your choice for president might get you uninvited to social gatherings, judged by friends and family, and targeted by those who want to silence you. Putting a sign in your yard could get your house vandalized; putting one on your car, could make you the target of road rage.

Right here in Michigan, emotions have climbed so high, that citizens have walked into the capital building carrying automatic weapons in a coordinated act of intimidation, and a small faction was arrested by the FBI for plotting to kidnap the governor.

People aren’t playing around.

I have a theory why — I think we are downright terrified. We’re afraid of the pandemic. We’re afraid of economic crisis. We’re afraid of change. And our fears are being stoked by leaders who would use pointed, fear-inducing language for their own benefit. They aren’t talking about coming together; in fact, their language is tearing us apart. In this climate of fear and suspicion, we lash out defensively often hurting those we care about.

Friends, we are not these people.

I know you. You are caring. You support people even when you don’t agree with them, even when they don’t look like you, even when they speak a different language, and even when they worship differently. You know how to get along, how to compromise, how to work things out. And you can do it without name-calling, without belittling, without bullying, without intimidating.

You are smart. And resourceful. You have brilliant ideas and a multitude of resources. You are resilient and forgiving. You know how to have deep conversations and to hear the hearts of those you love and care about.

We haven’t forgotten what that looks like, have we?

The 2020 Presidential Election is tomorrow. And while we may not know the results for several days, or even weeks, we can decide today how we are going to be in these moments.

Whether or not our candidate wins, we can refuse to engage in wars of words or worse, to take violence to the streets. We can express our emotions among the people who love us and care about us with our voices instead of our keypads. We can celebrate or cry, we can be angry or relieved. We can feel any way that we feel, but at the same time, we can be respectful, dignified, and caring toward the people in our lives.

If our team wins, we can gracefully accept the victory and extend a hand of consolation and even brotherhood to those who feel they’ve lost. If our team loses, we can accept that, too, and extend a hand of congratulation to those who feel they’ve won. We can decide, right now, that regardless of the outcome, we are going to step forward and work hard to re-unite our country, to work for the good of all people, to stand against sickness, violence, injustice, and hate. We can insist that our leaders do better — that they engage in meaningful debate about ideas, philosophies, and strategies, not in assaults on character, family, and humanity.

It’s really not hard. What we have found ourselves doing is juvenile. We can admit that, and we can turn around and go the other way.

We don’t have to have a civil war to change our country. We just have to come together and demand that our leaders serve all of our citizens, not just the ones who wield the most power or have the most money. We just have to choose who we are going to be during difficult times.

Let’s choose wisely, my friends.

And that’s the sermon, folks — sermon #2020.

Go in peace, serve the Lord.

If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all people.

Romans 12:18

Doing Better than This

It happened again this week — that thing that feels like I’ve just walked out of the theater with a friend, we start to discuss what happened in the movie, and it’s like we were watching two different films.

Has this happened to you?

On Tuesday night, I stayed up to watch the presidential debate. As I watched, I came to conclusions about the two candidates and what I perceived to be happening.

The next day, as I scrolled through social media, it appeared that some of my Facebook friends had watched an entirely different debate. The conclusions they came to didn’t match the ones I came to.

How can we be all participants in the same story and interpret it in such different ways?

We talk about this in literature. When we read a text, we always have to consider 1) the actual text — the words on the paper, 2) what the author intended, and 3) the experiences that the reader brings to the text.

In this case, the actual text — the first 2020 Biden/Trump debate — was pretty hard to track. If you watched it live, you might have had a hard time hearing questions and answers because of all the interruptions. You might have honed in on a few words of one participant and either applauded or vilified that candidate. During the actual broadcast, because the participants talked over one another, it would’ve been difficult to weigh each comment and determine if it was an answer to the question, an intentional or unintentional disruption, or a failure to answer the question fully and completely.

Making sense of what happened in the debate isn’t much easier when you read an official transcript, because words in print don’t carry tone, they don’t convey timing, they don’t show facial expressions or eye contact. It would again be easy to isolate one quote from this transcript and hold it up as evidence of a win or a loss, of civility or disrespect.

Weighing and judging each speaker’s intent is also difficult. We can’t peer inside the hearts and minds of Donald Trump or Joe Biden to see whether they actually were trying to discredit their opponent, to avoid answering questions, or to genuinely answer questions. We have clues — word choice, tone, and body language — and we come to our own conclusions about those clues based on the lens we are looking through.

That lens is shaped by our own experience. Someone who votes Republican may see Donald Trump’s performance as strong — Trump didn’t let Biden fully answer many questions at all; he called out Biden’s track record; and he questioned his integrity. A person who votes Democrat might see Biden’s performance as strong — he spoke to the camera, answered the questions, and provided details, although few, about his plans. An expert debater would likely find fault with Trump — he didn’t follow the agreed upon rules, he didn’t wait his turn, he didn’t fully respond to questions, he interrupted his opponent and the moderator. However, the same expert might not have high praise for Biden either — Biden sometimes stumbled over words, had to search for a name, and responded to Trump’s jabs in frustration. Anyone who’s ever been bullied, was likely triggered by Trump’s assault on Biden’s son Hunter, his reference to Elizabeth Warren as Pocahontas, and his continuous interrupting (over 70 times throughout the debate). However, folks who were hoping that someone might take the high road, would have also been disappointed with Biden telling Trump to “shut up” and referring to him as a clown. Certainly many were horrified by Trump’s refusal to denounce white supremacy, but I think some (and not just white supremacists) might have found him strong in that moment — giving his answer boldly and without apology.

Because our country (even more so our world) is made up of people from so many different backgrounds, with myriad life experiences, it makes sense that people would walk away from the debate with varying opinions about what just happened, just like people have varying opinions about American politics in general and specific policies regarding health care, education, law enforcement, or the pandemic. This is America — where we value the freedom to have an opinion and to speak our minds, where we work hard to secure our right to disagree.

In the literature classroom, when I teach literary analysis, in addition to discussing the three texts as above, we ask the question, what is the author doing here? How or why is he or she doing it? Because my students see each piece through their own lens, we don’t have to all come to the same conclusion, but we do have to support our opinion with evidence from the text. I tell my students, “You don’t have to agree with me, but you have to make me believe in the validity of your opinion — you have to make your case.” Maybe Harper Lee is exposing the racism of the South, maybe she’s promoting a system that would put an innocent black man in jail — you can make either point if you back it up with evidence.

What I’ve seen too often lately is a failure to make a case. I see too many people saying what they believe in general terms — “My candidate is the best, yours is the worst!” “My candidate clearly won the debate; yours lost!” — without building a substantial argument based on evidence. I hear sound bytes — “He’ll make America great again!” or “He’ll build back better!” but I don’t see the depth and detail of support that I would require in a high school essay.

More often, I see a devolving into name-calling — “Those left-wing liberals!” or “Those Trumpsters!” — where even long-time friends get down in the mud to fight dirty.

And what does that get us? Dirty clothes, scratched faces, bruised egos, and broken relationships.

I wonder what would happen if we took a different approach. Could we do better than those who spent 90 minutes sparring on stage the other night? Could we step away from our social medial accounts, call each other on the phone, and try a different way?

Could we greet one another? Hi, friend that I usually only interact with on social media? What does your life look like these days? What is important to you? How is your family?

Could we raise questions? How do you feel about health care? Why do you feel that way? What data supports that opinion? How do you imagine we could improve the safety of our communities? Have you seen any research on that? What might we have to sacrifice for that cause?

Could we listen? That’s interesting. I never considered that stance before. Your statistics are convicting. That seems reasonable.

Could we push back respectfully? I can see what you mean about the failures of the Affordable Care Act, how would your suggestions play out in the long-run? I understand your reasons for wanting to ensure Second Amendment rights, how could we keep them while also decreasing incidences of gun violence?

Could we be open to change? How could you and I work together on this? Who else might find these ideas interesting? How can we make our ideas known to governmental leaders?How can we get involved?

Am I too idealistic? Perhaps.

But here’s what I know — it’s very easy to sit on my couch at home slinging one-liners on social media. I can put you in a box pretty quickly, label you according to what I interpret your posts to mean, and dismiss you as being out of your mind. Such behavior keeps me in my lane and keeps you in yours. We continue going our own way, convinced that we are right and the other is wrong. And it’s an angry, lonely existence.

We can do better. We are all capable of examining a text — a debate, a news show, an article, a press conference. We are all able to consider the author’s intent, and to interrogate the lenses through which we view the world. We are all able to research complex issues — educational disparity, income tax law, military funding — and to find evidence that will help us develop an informed opinion. We are all able to pick up a phone and engage in a two-way conversation with other humans. We are able to consider other points of view, to compare them with our own, and to think critically about which views hold the most merit.

Folks, we’ve got to begin doing this hard work. Too much is at stake for us to continue to voice our opinions only on social media. If we really care about the issues we are spouting off about, we need to take action.

Many are right now calling us to vote, and that is of critical importance. And, before we vote — before we check those boxes — let’s spend a little time asking questions, searching for answers, having conversations, and thinking critically.

Let’s not blindly follow a party because we always have or because others say we should. Let’s not be careless with the freedoms and the privileges we’ve been given; let’s do our part to secure them for those who will come behind us.

If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him.

James 1:5

Evolution of a Voter

In the house I grew up in, we didn’t talk politics. I knew who the president was, and I knew I should exercise my civic duty and vote, but other than my fifth grade teacher strongly extolling the merits of then-candidate Jimmy Carter, I didn’t know that people held strong opinions about elections or politics.

I was a white girl in middle America, the world was working pretty well for me, and nobody told me I should feel differently.

When I recently watched Mrs. America, a re-telling of the early failed attempts to ratify the Equal Rights Amendment in the 1970s, I was startled to realize that my family and my community had indeed been political in that they had believed an ideology and pushed to maintain a reality that worked for them, even if they didn’t consciously acknowledge or care to discuss it.

I believed from a young age that “those women” who were fighting for the ERA were bra-burning radicals who were bent on destroying Christian values. They were going to destroy the family as we knew it. No one in my family actually said this out loud, but I know I received that message, because as I watched the series, I was transported back in time to interrogate those beliefs and compare them with what I feel strongly about now.

I’ve been doing that a lot in recent years — interrogating firmly held beliefs. As the president’s nominee for Supreme Court Justice awaits a politically-charged confirmation, I find myself looking back on how I became a one-issue voter and how I walked away from that practice.

I remember voting for the first time as a freshman at Michigan State University in 1984. I walked to the neighboring dorm and cast my vote to re-elect President Reagan. It seemed the obvious choice. I’d watched the footage of him being shot as he was climbing into his vehicle, secret service agents swooping in to move him to safety. He’d survived that and resumed his duties. Why wouldn’t I vote to let him continue doing so? I was 18, what did I know?

I don’t think I voted in 1988. I was registered to vote in Michigan and student teaching in Indiana. I probably assumed the vote would do just fine without me for one cycle. I had more important tasks on my list.

In 1992, my husband and I bent over the Sunday newspaper the week before the presidential election, sorting through pages of charts to find the candidates and proposals we would be voting on. We read, discussed, and began our tradition of creating a “cheat sheet” to carry with us to the polls. Sorting through a sea of candidates, many of whom we did not know, we made a decision, as professional church workers in a conservative denomination, that we would vote for candidates who were pro-life.

Our decision to reduce complex candidates and platforms down to one issue speaks perhaps to our trust in our denominational leadership and our commitment to our duty as leaders in that denomination. That commitment to duty convinced me that we had to get things ‘right’. We had to vote the right way, parent the right way, lead the right way, and live the right way.

This whole-hearted commitment to being right made me very judgmental of those who I believed to be wrong. I was not afraid to speak out if I thought someone was going the wrong way or to impose my beliefs on others.

For example, I believed Halloween was decidedly anti-Christian. I was sure to let other parents know that if they allowed their children to participate they weren’t being very good parents. (Yeah, I was pretty fun to be around all of October.)

Similarly, I was firm in my pro-life commitment, so when my husband and I joined our church community to stand on the side of the street and hold signs and pray to end abortion, it seemed fitting that our children should join us, too. And, we continued to vote based on that one issue through many local and national elections.

The intention was good — I stand by that. We believe that life begins at conception, and to turn our backs on the unborn seemed unconscionable. But, just like the ideologies around feminism that my family and community held in my childhood, this belief — that voting for candidates who claimed to be pro-life was an imperative of our Christian faith — needed to be interrogated.

For one, just because a political candidate says he or she stands for something, does not mean that policy will be impacted. Some would wave a banner high just to get a vote.

Also, platforms can be misleading. A candidate may say she is pro-life when talking about abortion, but if she is also pro-NRA, is she actually pro-life? If she believes that American citizens have the right to own semi-automatic weapons, the likes of which have been used in many mass shootings in recent years, is she really concerned about the value of life? Many pro-life politicians have failed in recent months to enact legislation to provide life-sustaining relief to those who have been financially devastated by the pandemic and who are desperate for housing, food, and medical care.

What is our definition of pro-life, anyway?

And then there’s the actual issue of abortion.

I was nine months pregnant with my first daughter, when my in-laws joined us at our place to celebrate Thanksgiving. I sat across the table from my father-in-law, digesting turkey and potatoes, when the topic of abortion came up. I was poised for a fight, to stand firmly on my belief that abortion was wrong, but then he complicated the issue for me. He said, “It’s great to want to stop abortion, but once we protect that unborn child, who will be willing to provide for it? Who will care for the mother? Who’s going to fund that? Are we ready to really be pro-life?”

That conversation has stuck with me for almost 28 years. For many of those years, we continued our one-issue voting strategy, believing ourselves to be right.

But here’s the thing with believing you’re right — you often discover that you are wrong.

You might firmly instill in your children the belief that abortion is wrong, that they should save sex for marriage, and that sexual purity is highly valued by the family and the church, and leave no room for scenarios that you never would have expected.

You might discover that someone you love has been sexually assaulted and is afraid to let you know because you might not value them as much — you might find them broken.

Will they come to you? Will they trust you to have compassion? Will they believe that you love them more than your firmly held beliefs? Or will they feel alone?

You might discover that someone you love has had an abortion. Will they feel judged by you (and by God)? Will they find acceptance and grace?

What is our goal as Christians who vote pro-life? If Roe v. Wade is overturned, will the gospel of Christ be advanced? If in trying to achieve that goal, we find ourselves name-calling and shaming those around us, have we demonstrated the love of Christ, whose name we bear?

Is outlawing abortion the only way to value life? Or is it merely relegating the practice to secrecy where it will be unregulated, dangerous, and further demonized?

For most of my life, I have tried to get it right, but what if I admitted that I’ve gotten so much wrong? What if I acknowledged that I am sorely in need of grace?

What if rather than teaching my children that they’d better get it all right, I ensured them that I’d be with them when it inevitably goes wrong.

Several elections back, I stopped being a one-issue candidate. I found myself taking a long look at the complexity of our society, seeing all of its brokenness, examining the faulty options set in front of me, having complicated discussions with people who matter to me, weighing the options thoroughly, and voting as though I cared not only for the unborn, not only for myself, but also for those who have repeatedly and historically been overlooked, mistreated, marginalized, and forgotten.

I can no longer vote for a candidate who waves the pro-life flag with one hand while using the other to give the finger to millions of already-born humans who long for equality, justice, and a chance to breathe freely.

More than one issue is at stake in this election.

I plan to vote as though I know that.

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. (Romans 12:2)

Ready, Changing Course, pt. 3

During the twelve weeks that I was working remotely, my husband and I developed some rhythms to break up the monotony. We walked a mile or so every day at lunch time to get away from our desks, we walked again at the end of the day to get our mail and talk about the events of our day, and we tuned in each night to watch the national and local news.

We’ve watched the numbers of Covid-19 cases continue to rise. We’ve watched reports of businesses closing, of economic stress, of overcrowded hospitals. For weeks, we caught the daily White House Task Force briefings, and then, when the eyes of the nation turned to the deaths of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Brionna Taylor, and Rayshard Brooks, our eyes turned, too. When we heard the nationwide sound of wailing and protest for the sake of Black lives, we leaned in to listen.

The sound was not new to us. We’d been aware of systemic racial injustice for quite some time — not because we heard it on the national news, but because the trajectory of our lives has given us relationships across racial and socioeconomic lines and we have seen the impact of school inequity, racial profiling in policing, red-lining in real estate, inequities in access to health care and quality food, and racist practices in institutional hiring. We haven’t done much about it, if I am going to be honest, other than bear witness and believe that these systems exist, but we have seen the impact on people that we know and care about.

So when thousands across the country took to the streets carrying signs emblazoned with Black Lives Matter, I Can’t Breathe, and Arrest Brionna’s Killers, we were not horrified. We were not surprised. We were looking for ways to support, ways to ally, ways to join their voices. How could we do otherwise? How can we sit quietly watching repeated senseless acts of violence upon people of color, knowing that these blatant killings and attacks are a symptom of a much more insidious disease. Racism in our country runs deep — it has surreptitiously found its ways into our thought lives as all ideologies do, so that even when we believe ourselves to be free of racism, we make judgements about others because of their language, their skin color, their clothing choices, and their hairstyles. We use people of color as it benefits us (for sports, for entertainment, and to prove ourselves to be non-racist), but we rarely come to their defense or speak up on their behalf.

So right now, when Covid-19 is disproportionately impacting communities of color, specifically because of the impact of inadequate access to healthcare, the wealth and educational gaps that keep people of color in service industries and on the front line, and the pre-existing conditions that disproportionately pervade these communities due to centuries old inequities, when even now people of color have to contend with incidents of injustice like the George Floyd killing, we must be moved to action.

So when my husband and I were standing in the kitchen one night in the middle of the stay at home order and he said, “Are you happy doing what you are doing right now?” I reflexively responded that what I really wanted was to be in a school where I could be part of the dialogue during this time that has potential for unprecedented transformation in the lives of communities of color. I felt ready. After a long journey back to health, I felt we were facing the moment I had been preparing for.

He said, “You’re right. Let’s do it. Toss your name in the hat. Let’s see what happens.”

I said, “Really? Even if it means I have to drive to Detroit?”

“Don’t be bound by geography. Apply broadly, and we’ll cross the next bridge when we get to it.”

Oh. My. Word. You’d have thought he had given me the keys to any car I wanted to drive off the lot! If he thought I was ready, then I knew I actually was ready!

I started combing Indeed and district websites like never before. I applied to positions in Ann Arbor, Ypsilanti, the Detroit metro area, and beyond. And though I’d been doing this to some degree for years, this time was different. Within a couple days of submitting applications early in the morning, on my lunch hour, and after work, I started getting phone calls and emails.

I was different. I felt different — healthy, strong, and impassioned like never before. While I had believed for quite some time that my career was over, I was beginning to believe that I might just have another round in me. Not only that, the landscape was different. Due to Covid-19, many teachers have been choosing to leave the profession, take a sabbatical, or move into a different sector — away from classrooms, particularly classrooms in hot zones like Detroit. While before I may have been passed over because my Master’s degree and years of experience put me a little higher on the salary schedule, suddenly I was a prime candidate. While many teachers were ill-equipped to manage the unavoidable transition from in-person to online learning, I have been using online platforms to work with students for the last several years!

As the interviews started, I could hear the skepticism in the voices of those questioning me. What is your experience with urban schools? Why are you interested in this position? How would you build classroom culture among students who are 99% Black? 99% of whom receive free or reduced lunch?

I could hear the subtext, “I can see, even over this video interview, that you are a middle aged white woman. Are you sure you are up to this? Do you know what you are getting into?” But guess what, kids, I’ve heard these questions before, and I was ready for them.

What I wasn’t ready for was learning that many of the schools I was applying to had been operating with long-term substitute teachers in core subject areas, because they could not find highly qualified teachers and they had to fill slots. I wasn’t ready to learn that many of the students in these schools did not have devices or internet in their homes when the stay-at-home order began. I wasn’t prepared to realize that because 5,000 people had died in Detroit and a disproportionate number of them were Black, chances are high that the students in these schools have experienced loss above and beyond the loss of their routine, the daily contact with teachers and friends, and life as we once knew it. They’ve likely lost people they love.

However, I was excited to learn that several of the agencies I was interviewing with were working to meet the needs of these students. They were delivering devices and personal hot spots — teachers and administrators getting in their own vehicles and driving to student residences across the Detroit metro. Not only that, all of the schools I interviewed with were still providing food to families — five days a week. One school was providing food not only to their own students’ families, but to anyone in the community who pulled into the parking lot to receive it. They were also working hard to secure more devices for the coming school year and making plans (state-mandated) for how to return to school fully in-person, fully online, and a hybrid option that would allow families to choose.

I met dedicated educators who care about kids — inner city kids, kids of color, kids who matter.

And one of these schools made me an offer.

And then another one did.

And I still had my position at Lindamood-Bell.

I had a decision to make, and it wasn’t going to be easy.

But I was ready. More on that next time.

He loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of the steadfast love of the Lord.

Psalm 33:5

Coronavirus Diary 14: Privilege

It’s a beautiful Michigan summer morning, and as I sit behind our home with a view of the woods — thick with bunnies and squirrels and deer and such — I can almost ignore the fact that we’re in the middle of a pandemic, that thousands continue to protest racial violence and inequity across the nation.

I made myself a cup of tea and walked right outside, mindless of the fact that over 2 million in our nation are incarcerated — over 500,000 of whom who have not yet been convicted but are merely awaiting trial (Prison Policy Initiative) — and can’t escape their cells, let alone take a leisurely stroll out the door to enjoy some fresh air.

Back here, next to my lush garden from which I pick lettuce and kale each evening for my dinner salad, I can forget that 1 in 5 households with children aged 12 and under are experiencing food insecurity right now (Brookings).

Sitting in my air conditioned home by the river in the middle of a summer heat wave, I can forget that latest estimates (prior to Covid-19) suggest over 8,000 people were homeless in Michigan alone (United States Interagency Council on Homelessness) with well over half a million nation-wide.

This is what privilege looks like: me, sitting in my backyard on a Sunday morning, having the time to type words on my MacBook Air, listening to the birds, admiring my garden, virtually immune to harm.

Privilege looks like a refrigerator and freezer full of more food than my husband and I can eat in a week, a stockpile of pantry items, and enough toilet paper for the next two months.

Privilege looks like both of us having jobs that we enjoy doing, never having missed a day due to the pandemic, never having missed a paycheck.

Privilege looks like closets and drawers full of clothing and the ability to donate the items we are tired of, that no longer fit, that have a stain we can’t remove, that we never liked in the first place.

Privilege looks like discussions over whether or not we want to run out and pick up a gas grill one day this week, if it’s time we purchased a new car, if we want to get dinner from a restaurant or make it here at home.

Privilege looks like both of us having all the medications we need, the insurance to cover the majority of our medical costs, and high quality practitioners who we are able to see often the same day we call.

Privilege looks like watching Hamilton on Disney + on Friday night, scrolling through home improvement shows on TLC on Saturday afternoon, and bingeing on Netflix on Sunday night.

Privilege looks like a quick stop at Whole Foods on the way home from church, a dash into the library to grab the books I reserved online, and a Zoom call with the family.

Why do I have all of this privilege? Why am I so fortunate? I haven’t made all the right choices. I haven’t utilized all of my resources. I haven’t done my best and worked my hardest.

Sure, I went to school. I got good grades. I’ve pursued jobs in my field. I’ve been a mostly honest, law-abiding citizen. However, I have broken speeding laws, I’ve lied to my friends, I’ve parked in no parking zones, I’ve used work time for personal business, I’ve yelled at my kids and spanked them too hard. I’ve shot off my mouth more times than I care to admit — sometimes at authority, my bosses, my coworkers. And yet, I have a pretty comfortable life.

My missteps have not cost me my privilege. The system works for me. I have the presumption of innocence. I have the benefit of the doubt.

I’m a middle-aged white woman in America, and people assume things about me — that I can be trusted, that I’m reasonable, that I’m responsible.

Not everyone gets that. That’s why it’s a privilege.

And because I have privilege, I have a responsibility to speak up for those who do not.

And not just speak up, but act up — write blogs, upset family and friends with my questions and comments, step into awkward work situations, give money to those who need it, and protest. If I can do more, if my privilege affords me the opportunity to be an agent of change, a worker for justice, I’ve got to do that, too.

Why? Because it’s the right thing to do. And further, it doesn’t cost me my privilege. It costs some time, some comfort, and likely some money, but it doesn’t take away my ability to enjoy my backyard, to move freely in society, to live and breathe without fear that my life will be unexpectedly cut short due to racial violence.

Rather, speaking up — and acting up — for the sake of equity, for the sake of someone else having an opportunity to sit in the cool breeze of a summer morning, sipping tea and watching bunnies frolic in the grass, for the sake of another human being feeding her children and expecting that they will all live into adulthood, that — that just might make me more fully human.

How can I do otherwise?

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,

    for the rights of all who are destitute.

Proverbs 31:8

Finding Common Ground, a re-visit

On Monday, I posted a piece about wearing a face mask during this pandemic. Who could have predicted at the start of this year that such a topic would be polarizing? A simple piece of fabric across the face has come to represent a political position rather than an attempt to stop the spread of disease. We could’ve seen it coming. The piece that follows was written in January of this year, long after many of us had taken our political positions, formed teams, sunk in our heels, and declared war on one another. How long will we allow this go on? How long before we are willing to find some common ground?

January 2020 is the start of a new year and a new decade. It is also a leap year, and, in case you hadn’t noticed, an election year.

It’s been pretty hard not to notice, what with the numerous debates, countless political ads, and the twenty-four hour news cycle.

And, for me, talk of the election and all things political has seeped into daily discourse, family gatherings (much to my mother’s dismay), and, most notably, my social media feeds.

I am happy to say that I have a pretty diverse online community; I’m quite sure it includes representatives from the far right, the moderate right, the moderate left, the far left, and people who claim to not care about politics at all. I don’t block people, even when their posts piss me off, because I want to hear divergent views. I don’t want to live in an echo chamber, so I sometimes see, as I scroll, posts that encourage me, posts that confuse me, posts that irritate me, and posts that make me want to reply in a way that I would likely regret later.

Recently, I saw a post from a friend who said it was all the [insert specific political party]’s fault that [fill in current political issue] was happening. I saw that another friend of mine had replied, so I scrolled on. That friend said that, no, it was actually the [insert opposing party]’s fault because “look at all this evidence”. And so it ensued — a virtual exchange between representatives of two different parties. Now, I will say, that these two individuals, both intelligent and well-read, were able to isolate some key issues and continue their exchange beyond the typical name calling and finger-pointing, but neither granted any space to the other; no allowances were made. Both stood firm in their convictions, unwilling to budge.

When I saw this conversation, I wanted so badly to step in and ally myself with one of the speakers. I placed my cursor over the “write a comment” space, started to type, then, in a moment of sudden good judgment, hit the backspace button and closed the lid on my laptop. (I would like to here record this adult-like behavior since I don’t always make such sound-minded choices.)

I considered those two friends over the next few days. They have known each other for decades. They have fond memories together, but they, at least in this post, had positioned themselves against each other and were unable to find common ground.

I wonder what would’ve happened if they had had the same conversation across the table from one another, over a sandwich and a coffee, looking into one another’s eyes. Would they would have been able to cede some of their firmly-held ground or been willing to step across the line into one another’s territory if only to look around?

It’s hard to know.

Another friend posted about a family gathering at Christmas where a [insert family member here] had come in spouting rhetoric from [insert political figure here], inciting an argument. Both parties continued to engage, firmly arguing their own positions, until one asked the other to leave. They couldn’t be in the same house together — on Christmas — because of their differing political views.

I don’t think these are isolated incidents. Scenes like these are becoming common. It seems that we have allowed ourselves to be drawn into these opposing factions that position us one against the other, heels dug in, fingers pointing. And where do we picture it will end? Do any of us believe — truly believe — that we can shout “the other side” into submission, that we can prove our “rightness” and their “wrong-ness”? Do we think that one side will ever “win”?

Because guys, I’m not seeing anyone winning right now. I’m seeing a lot of anger and posturing, name-calling and accusing, and all kinds of refusal to find a place where we can come together.

And isn’t that what we want? Don’t we want to come together in the United States of America? Don’t we want to live in a “more perfect union”? Don’t we want to embody e pluribus unum, ‘out of many, one’?

Can we accomplish that through finger-pointing, name-calling, and accusation? Not in my experience. I imagine that the longer we glare across the line, attaching blame to those on the other side, the further we get entrenched in our positions, the less willing we are to change.

And change doesn’t have to mean surrender — for anyone! If we could find, in the space between us, just enough room to set up a table, if we could invite one another to sit down, we just might have a beginning.

Of course, we’d have to shift our approach. Instead of trying to cram our own beliefs and opinions down the throats of the others, we’d have to agree to ask one another questions and listen to the responses.

For example, when one side says, “We need to do more to fight climate change,” we could respond by saying, “Oh? Tell me more about that. What kinds of ideas do you have?”

When someone says, “I don’t want anyone to take away my right to own a gun,” we could ask, “Really? Tell me why?”

If someone says, “Women have the right to do what they want with their bodies,” we can say, “I can see you are passionate about this. What’s your story?”

When another says, “We have to do what’s best for this country,” we can say, “What do you picture that looking like?”

What might happen? What kinds of conversations could we have if we just opened up some space and agreed to step inside of it, leaving our need to be right and our firmly held convictions behind?

Might we be able to see that we are indeed united on many issues — caring for our parents, providing for our children, reaching out to those in need? Could we be surprised to find that everyone on that other side doesn’t meet all our preconceived notions? Is it possible that in the space we find ourselves standing, we might see new possibilities that we’d never before imagined?

I’m just saying, it might be worth a try. Of course, we might decide that it feels safer to stay in our own yards, fists clenched, jaws set, unwilling to compromise the beliefs we hold so dear.

What were they again — those beliefs you hold so dear? What were the causes you were willing to fight with an old friend about? What issues kept you away from the Christmas gathering? What might you gain by clinging so tightly to them?

It could be a really long year if we stay in our trenches flinging grenades at one another.

Can’t we find enough common ground to stand together on? Can’t we reconcile with one another? Don’t we have enough grace for that?

If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”

Romans 12:18

Celebrating Freedom? a re-visit

I wrote this piece last year on the Fourth of July, when one of the biggest concerns of our nation was the fact that children were being held in detention centers at the border. As of June 8, 2020, according this New York Times article, 124 children were still in being held in our country’s three family detention centers. A federal judge has ordered that they all be released by July 17 due to the danger of the coronavirus running rampant through these centers. These children won’t be able to celebrate this weekend. They are not alone — many Americans are still waiting for true freedom. As we celebrate differently this year, may we also think differently. What are we willing to do to ensure liberty and justice for all?

Donned in red, white, and blue many of us this weekend will find our way to picnics and gatherings; we’ll light sparklers and watch fireworks. It’s a national holiday to celebrate independence — freedom from tyranny, freedom to vote, and freedom to speak our minds.

What a privilege we have to live in a country that is free — that for hundreds of years has been a destination for those fleeing oppression, longing for liberty, hoping for a better life.

So, it seems a bit ironic to me that as we celebrate our freedom, hundreds of children whose parents dared to walk a road toward what they hoped would be a better life, are held in crowded rooms, clutching tinfoil blankets, unsure of when they will see their families again.

It seems impossible that in the land of the free and the home of the brave, children going to school, families attending church, or friends going to a concert can be gunned down in moments by an assailant with a semi-automatic weapon; that kindergartners learn how to Run, Hide, or Fight; and that whole webpages, programs, and organizations exist for the sole purpose of training people how to respond in the event of a violent attack.

One hundred fifty-six years after the end of slavery and fifty-five years after the Civil Rights Act outlawing discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, or national origin, African Americans are 75% more likely to face a charge carrying a mandatory minimum sentence than white offenders committing the same crime (University of Michigan School of Law), Muslims are subject to travel restrictions and hate crimes, and women receive 80% of the pay men receive for comparable jobs (AAUW). Injustice persists for Native Americans, Hispanics, Jews, and members of the LGBTQ community.

Aren’t all men (and women and children) created equal and endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights?

In the United States, where someone is sexually assaulted every 92 seconds and 1 out of 6 women will be the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime (RAINN), where 84% of women and 43% of men experience sexual harassment in the workplace (NPR), who, I ask, is free?

Is this what our ancestors fought for? Is this their more perfect union?

Did they fight to give us the freedom to lock up children away from their families?

Did they consider only white Christian men to be created equal? not people of color, women, or children? Do we?

Did they ensure the right to bear arms so citizens could freely gun down innocents as they live their daily lives?

Did they include among our unalienable rights the freedom to take the innocence and safety of others?

Is that what freedom looks like?

Or can we do better? Is it possible to live in a society where all can experience the same freedoms? Or is that simply an American dream?

As we light our grills and watch our fireworks, can we pause to consider the high price that was paid for American freedom and the high price that some are still paying? Can we think about what we’d be willing to sacrifice to offer safe haven to the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free?

Can’t we find a way to provide life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness to all inside our borders? Wouldn’t doing so ensure domestic tranquility? provide for the common defense? promote the general welfare? ensure the blessings of liberty?

Wasn’t that the hope in creating one nation, under God — the God who created all men, women, and children, who loves all people?

The God who commanded that we not only “love the Lord our God with all our hearts, souls, and minds” but also “love our neighbor as ourselves”? The God who, when asked “who is my neighbor?” told a story of mercy to strangers and perceived enemies (Luke 10:25-37)?

The God who told us to “seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow” (Isaiah 1:17)?

The God who requires us “to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with our God” (Micah 6:8)?

Aren’t we free to do just that?

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.”

Galatians 5:1