Beloved Community
Perhaps you have seen the cartoon published yesterday in The New Yorker that featured a disapproving mother standing over two young children in a disastrously messy room with the caption, “This is not who we are.” Like so many New Yorker illustrations over the years, this one speaks to me in multiple ways that, in turn, make me laugh, wince, worry, and dream.
Last Wednesday night, our family sat down at dinner and had a brief conversation about what had taken place in our nation’s capital earlier that day. I wanted to explain to our children that political disagreements are not always like this. It is possible, I told them, for Republicans and Democrats to disagree passionately about what policy is best for our nation and to carry out their discourse in angry and unwavering yet productive and faithful ways. In the end, I wanted to tell them that the violent mob, which sought to disrupt our democratic process in the pursuit of power, is not who we are. But, of course, this is exactly who we are.
Sam Sanders, an NPR host, wrote an article on Sunday reminding us that, as a nation, what we witnessed at the Capitol is not only a product of recent political division but a fundamental expression of our national identity. He wrote, “We are a country built on fabrication, nostalgia and euphemism. And every time America shows the worst of itself, all the contradictions collapse into the lie I’ve heard nonstop for the last several years: ‘This isn't who we are.’”
Those are disheartening, even damning words, but they touch on a truth I experience on a daily basis: from even before its founding, our country has been built upon, shaped by, and infected with the sin of racism. We can trace that tragic legacy from colonialism through the Civil War, from Jim Crow through welfare reform, from mass incarceration through the violence of the last few years. We want to tell ourselves and our children that this is not who we are—that our shining experiment with democracy is a beacon of hope for all the world to see—but the brightness of our self-perceptions may have blinded us to some of the evil lurking within.
In this time of division, I feel a strong instinctual desire to distance myself from anyone and anything that represents what is wrong with our society. I find comfort in the self-assured belief that I would never do such a thing, that I am several degrees of enlightenment above an angry mob. I reinforce that conviction whenever I read an article, like a meme, or exchange a text message that allows me to sit in judgment of others, comfortably distant from the evil that drives such base displays of irrational self-interest. When I give more than a passing glance at pictures of the crowd, however, I see disturbing similarities that close that self-righteous gap considerably.
I do not mean only the demographic markers—white, male, middle-aged, bearded, southern, Christian—which convey a strong if superficial connection, but I also mean the deeper overlaps that cross the political and philosophical gulf between us. I am accustomed to getting what I want. Very rarely does something beyond my influence stand in the way of what I seek. A product of privilege, I wonder how much would need to be taken from me before I stopped protesting and started rioting, before I stopped engaging in the democratic process and started seeking to undermine it. That terrifying thought calls me up short and makes me wonder how I might instead use my privilege in a way that is faithful to God and to the way of Jesus Christ.
Among the most disturbing aspects of the violence at the Capitol was the prominent display of Christian iconography among the mob. Unlike most of the banners and flags being carried by the insurrectionists, the Jesus flag, the fish banner, and the multiple crosses on display are images we claim as our own. Since the riot, several church leaders have issued statements condemning the appropriation of Christian symbols by a hate-fueled crowd, but I think we miss an opportunity for important self-reflection if we are too quick to label the Christians at the Capitol as fundamentally different from us. Yes, it is difficult to understand how we could claim the same faith, the same Bible, and the same Jesus, but we do. In the days ahead, we must confront not only the ways in which Christianity has been coopted by the alt-right but also the ways in which we have failed to proclaim the Gospel that stands unequivocally opposed to the forces of evil, hatred, racism, greed, and lust for power.
This Monday, most of us are given a particular opportunity to do just that. For most of my life, Martin Luther King Jr. Day has been a day to stay home from school or work, a gift of a day off in the middle of January. Over the last few years, I have begun to feel that that gift should not be wasted. What would it mean for me to honor the life and witness of Dr. King? Surely it is something more than sleeping late, enjoying a big, unhurried breakfast with my family, and staying in my pajamas all day.
Dr. King helped our country see a little more clearly God’s vision for the Beloved Community, a community of justice, freedom, and equal opportunity. And, as King taught us, we cannot see that vision or pursue that Beloved Community until we examine the evils within our country, within our culture, and even within ourselves. We must face the truth and speak the truth before those obstacles to God’s reign in our lives can be removed. Otherwise, because of the inevitable corruption within us that is the product of our sinful nature, we end up forsaking our true religion and worshipping a god—an idol—that we have made in our own image.
This Monday, I plan to write some postcards and letters to people in positions of power and influence to remind them of what the Beloved Community looks like and the truths that we must tell in order to pursue it. I plan to gather virtually with other people from St. Paul’s to read King’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail” and remember that those words were written to people just like me. I do those things not because such acts of righteousness can exorcize the imperfections within me but because a good, hard look at those imperfections reminds me that I want to be a part of something better. Taking an honest inventory of them is one step toward God’s vision for my life and for the world—not of who we are but of who, with God’s help, we can become.
Yours Faithfully,
Evan