I’m writing on Election Day with a simple question: How are you holding up?
That I should need to ask is itself a sign of today’s anxiety, that we should be so worried, wound up, and wounded within … even before all the votes are cast, much less counted. I haven’t been this stressed since Mrs. Bradford’s sixth grade social studies class when I was Hubert Humphrey’s campaign manager in our mock election (Nixon won by one vote).
OK. I’m sorry. Now isn’t a time for attempted levity, is it? Even I am a little offended by my rather weak effort. This is a stressful time, fraught with perils real and imagined, and I’ll confess I’ve struggled mightily with the angst of it all and my own anger over the apocalyptic rants tossed out by some of my online Christian friends. What we all seem to share right now is an incredulity that anyone could possibly vote for the person we’re voting against. Not exactly the common ground we need, is it?
So, how are you holding up? And come tomorrow—or weeks from now—when the votes are tallied, how will you cope if the wrong person wins? We’ve all been there before, haven’t we? For me it started in sixth grade.
Last night at Glenn, we had a prayer service in the Little Chapel. I’m grateful to Carol Allums and Brent Huckaby for planning it. The service was simple and lovely—some scripture, a couple of hymns, and prayer, spoken and silent. I needed it—the peace of that place, the quiet, the people sitting around me and, in it all, God’s presence. I was reminded. There’s more. Remember the cross? Remember Easter? No election can overturn God’s victory or Christ’s love, no matter what the shovelers of discord say.
Don’t get me wrong. This election is important. Every election is. And you and I have our voice, our vote, and that’s important, too, and wonderful, really. But come tomorrow, we’ll still be Americans all; we’ll still be neighbors; we’ll still share more than divides us (starting with life itself, the ground beneath our feet, and the sky above). So, how will we live together? Don’t tell me you are a Christian, then spit at your neighbor, literally or figuratively. Your ideology cannot negate what God has already declared of your worst enemy—they are loved with the same love that embraces you and your like-minded friends.
Years ago, a minister friend of mine was appointed to a church known for its seemingly unending turmoil. After a few weeks, a congregation leader asked my friend, “So, what is your vision for our church?” “Well,” my friend said, “I’d just like us to be a little less crazy for a while.” That’s a noble goal, perhaps even a needed prayer.
So, as a start, how about this? Tomorrow, reach across the chasm of 2024 politics to someone on the other side and ask a simple question, “How are you holding up?” Then have a conversation. Let’s tend to the ties that bind.
In Christ,
Mark