Republican election "reform"

I have been voting for sixty years, and I am not willing to watch our free, fair, and secure election process get dismantled in pursuit of fixing a problem that does not exist.

Donald Trump lost the 2020 election fair and square, an election for which there is no credible evidence of massive voter fraud or election tampering. The Republicans lost the US Senate in the same election. Republicans won many of the House seats they won, and they won or continued control of many state legislatures, through gerrymandering largely engineered by them.

Every single person who claims interest in improving our elections must be willing to publicly articulate their conviction that the ideal election system allows and encourages every single citizen to vote, and that at the same time assures our nation that our elections are as secure and trustworthy as they can be.

Every single person who works to improve our election system must publicly foreswear any partisan interest in any changes to it.

The person, whether a citizen or an official, a Republican or a Democrat and something else, who cannot state and honor those principles should get out of the way and shut up. They have no business involving themselves in this matter. None.

Our democracy is at stake, and you know it. Fight for it.

Better than planned

In the summer of 1970, I drove east from Oregon to Pennsylvania. Packed in my baggage was my absolute certainty that the next summer I would drive back to settle down in the West for the rest of my life.

I had been a Westerner for only five years—three of them as a theological student in San Anselmo, California, and two as a youth pastor in Medford, Oregon. Compared to my native Iowa— home for my first 22 years—America’s West Coast was exotic to the point of feeling forbidden, a lingering remnant of Eden. My change in geography had begun the creation of a new me.

I’d be in and out of Pittsburgh in twelve months, yet another degree packed in bags stuffed into my little brown Cougar.

In twelve months, I was driving out West again…this time to pick up the things I’d left there and bring them back East, to Pittsburgh, my new home.

Things had not worked out as planned. Partially because of my own shortcomings, getting that degree clearly would require more than a year. I had successfully completed the class work, but the dean discouraged the thesis project I proposed and I fiddled away hours buried in Hebrew Psalms. I took on a new church job in the spring, considerably sapping my waning energy for academics. My new call was fun and challenging—the scholarly work, drudgery.

I had even begun to appreciate Pittsburgh,. I had made friends, and I was discovering and enjoying southwestern Pennsylvania’s natural beauty. The changes in me kick-started by living in the West were being refined and secured in the realities of America’s rust belt.

Then, in the spring of 1973 I met my wife-to-be. In a bar.

Our meeting had been planned. Another woman I’d seen a couple of times decided I would be better suited to her college friend, Maxine. She and I had arranged to meet for a drink at a spot near Duquesne University, where Maxine was taking a graduate class. When I arrived, Maxine was in the booth with my date, whose plan turned out to work perfectly.

Maxine is a native Pittsburgher. Our courtship introduced me to more of Pittsburgh than I had yet discovered. As I fell in love with her, I fell in love with her city, experiencing it through her love for it. We married in April, 1974.

Life and call soon took us further east to the D.C. area, then back west to Illinois, and finally, in 1989, east again to suburban Cleveland. Those who know professional football will appreciate how difficult it was for Maxine to agree to call Cleveland home. But she did, and we are home here forever.

Along our way we bore and raised two precious daughters for whom northeast Ohio is home, as in, “home is where you grew up.” They have not lived here for years, and likely never will again.

We considered relocating in the West for the first year or two of our marriage. But its lure was moderated by our growing sense of satisfaction with where we were. The birth of children and a deep desire for them to be able to know their grandparents and extended families soon quelled thoughts of moving any further than we already were from our roots.

Though the years, Maxine and I have often traveled out West. We have revisited my old haunts in the Bay Area and southwest Oregon, and expanded our shared geography to include other parts of the Pacific Northwest and beyond. In the 1980s we discovered the desert southwest, particularly northern New Mexico’s Ghost Ranch. We will never get enough of that landscape and culture. We once talked—for about five minutes—of moving to Santa Fe.

The West remains exotic and almost forbidden. I have convinced myself that if I had moved back, I would surely have lost my fantasy of its being Eden reconstituted. Home is real, hopefully beautiful, but often disappointing, wherever it is.

Every time I revisit my personal Eden—including our Eden-in-the-desert—I remember the time I thought I could live there.

Out of Town: a two-minute scene

 Out of Town

Ralph and George, two late-middle-aged white men, meet almost daily in the same booth at the local coffee shop to catch up on each other’s activities and the news. Ralph has missed the last three mornings because he had to go “out of town.” He is already in the booth when George comes in and slides into the bench facing his.

GEORGE

Hey, Ralph…sorry I’m late. Got tied up on the phone.

RALPH

That’s okay. I just got here myself. Ordered your coffee.

GEORGE

Thanks…you came back to town just in time for some nice weather.

RALPH

Yeah…I even walked over today.

(Pause)

GEORGE

So, where ya been?

RALPH

Oh, I just had to go help Dave and Sue with some home repair projects. I tell you, these kids don’t know how to fix even the simplest things.

GEORGE

Yeah, I know. How are they? Sue’s expecting, isn’t she?

RALPH

She is. Doing great. It’ll be a boy in May.

GEORGE

A boy! Way to go, grandpa! You’ll like that role.

(Pause)

But what a screwed up world that kid’ll be born into. I am so worried about our future.

RALPH

That’s for sure. You don’t know who you can trust…especially the folks in Washington.

(Both sip coffee.)

GEORGE

Yeah, and after everything we did to get Trump re-elected, Biden and the Dems are about to take over. They’ll ruin everything. I guess Wednesday night sealed it for them. Or Thursday morning. Either way, we’re screwed.

RALPH

Sealed the steal, I’d say. Trump didn’t lose; his election was stolen. That’s for sure.

GEORGE

I guess…but you know that I’m still not sure it was. A lot of things about it are questionable, but not enough to change the outcome. Biden promised the world, and lots of folks bought it. We just have to accept what happened, go on from here, and work hard to get Trump re-elected in four years.

RALPH

Hard to wait four years when we know he won last year. Everyone knows it. Look at all the accusations of fraud and cheating. You just can’t ignore all that!

GEORGE

I’m not ignoring it. But whatever may have happened with the election, you can’t justify what happened at the capitol Wednesday afternoon. That bunch of crazies who thought they would get away with attacking it, destroying stuff, and everything. Plus threatening senators and representatives… even Pence! There have to be other ways to make things right.

RALPH

Like what, George? The swamp is so deep and so dark. We can’t trust what seems to be in plain sight. We can’t get what we need by being nice.

GEORGE

So you think storming the capitol was okay, was right? I hope not.

RALPH

Well, no…not really. But when Trump gave that speech—did you hear it?—it’s not hard to see why people got so riled up. I mean, he’s our last hope of taking America back from the libs, and we aren’t a bit ready to let them take him from us.

GEORGE

So, you do think Wednesday was okay? I know you pretty well, but you’re surprising me.

RALPH

Okay or not, folks heard about the crap coming down in the capitol, marched up right up to it, saw people breaking in to try to stop it…well, it was—it must have been—hard to stand back and watch. Too much at stake…

(Pause. Waitress stops to offer refills, but they wave her off.)

GEORGE

So, Ralph…where have you been the last three days…?

RALPH

Not in D.C., George, if that’s what you are suggesting. I wouldn’t do that. My heart was there, but I wasn’t. Call Dave and ask him…

GEORGE

I won’t call Dave. I have to believe you.

(Blackout)

Forgive us our vexes

 

I offer to Thee prayers for all whom I have in any way grieved, vexed, and oppressed, by word or deed, knowingly or unknowingly, that Thou mayest equally forgive us all our sins, and all our offenses against each other.

I paused at the word “vexed” in this prayer by Thomas à Kempis (c. 1380-1471).

Vex means to irritate, annoy, provoke, and has its origins in Latin to shake, jolt. One source suggests it may be used with reference to trivial matters. It’s a word we rarely say or hear.

To be vexed resides somewhere between being concerned and being enraged. The word rhymes with hex and perplex, giving it an air of mystery unrelated to its etymology. But that works: people can “vex” other people with irritating and inexplicable words and deeds that are more bothersome than threatening.

Why on earth do they do that? It’s so annoying!

Who hasn’t thought that about someone they love, or who loves them?

Vex has a place in our Lenten vocabulary of repentance. We are quick to take offense these days, when sometimes what we are experiencing is simply vexing. Perhaps I am vexed by your attitude would invite more give and take than I am offended by your attitude.

With Thomas à Kempis, let us ask forgiveness for our vexatious words and deeds, and forgive others for theirs, allowing God to equally forgive all sins, minor and major, known and unknown. Doing so heals wounds.

Enough of Dust and Ashes

On Ash Wednesday 2020, I knelt before a priest as his thumb inscribed a black-as-death cross on my forehead. His words captioned my rough cross with the ancient admonition, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

For Ash Wednesday 2021, my church is offering my wife and me a baggie of blessed ashes for in-home use. We may impose them upon one another while that priest and those words are Zoomed to us. If I lived alone, I could impose them upon myself.

I think, Something about self-imposed ashes, or about a couple imposing ashes upon one another, feels emotionally and liturgically crass.

I also think, How could I possibly not remember that I am dust in this, our long season of pandemic? How could I, denied access to my community of faith, not remember that even the best moments of our one life shall in time return to dust?

COVID-19 has imposed dust and ashes upon me forever.

I am wondering what to do this Ash Wednesday. Even if our faith community were meeting in person, would I meet with it? Can I bear yet another Zoom with that congregation that evening?

God! I have had enough of dust and ashes!

I’ve had enough numbers of COVID-19 cases and death, hospitalizations, and ICU capacities. I’ve had enough news of climbing positivity rates, and agonizing, lonely deaths, and symptoms that linger for months.

I’ve had enough of the dust and ashes of economic crisis and emotional trauma and daily family stresses and month-upon-month separations and schools struggling to do their best and masks and controversies and political posturing and the denial that made it all worse.

And, imposing even more upon us than COVID-19 has, are the dust and ashes of our assaults upon ourselves. I have had enough of Black citizens killed by police, of police killed by anarchists, of democracy threatened by self-serving power, of our planet suffocated by greed and indifference, of too many of us captivated by callously-crafted conspiracy theories, and of all of us likely to distrust anyone distanced from us.

Yes, I am encouraged by vaccines and improved treatment methods. But I am angered by their often haphazard and inequitable administration, and I am troubled about what new COVID-19 mutations could portend.

I have had more than enough of dust and ashes stirred up by a virus that clings, sin-like, so close as to take our breath away, forever.

Nevertheless, I confess that I cannot let Ash Wednesday slip by unacknowledged. In the face of the suffering and death COVID-19 and the rest have imposed upon us, my face will bear witness to my trust that the cross triumphs over dust and ashes, including mine. Remembering my dustiness, I will repent of my despair, and trust Jesus. Forever.

An engaging book about antiracism

I recently finished reading an accessible and compelling book about antiracism theory and practice. In How to Be an Antiracist, Ibram X. Kendi invites readers into his personal journey from racist to antiracist thinking and acting. In the process, he challenges common misconceptions among both Whites and Blacks/people of color about the breadth and depth of racism.

What makes this book so engaging is its honest autobiographical nature. Kendi, who is Black, pulls no punches in identifying the way racism influenced him in his youth. He describes the step-by-painful-step process required for him to arrive at the understandings of racism and antiracism he has today. He ends by sharing his personal health threats that parallel the threat to human well-being that racism poses.

Kendi’s words helped me accept that no matter where I am on my own journey toward being “an antiracist,” it is okay to be there and it is also necessary for me to be ready to move to a more comprehensive knowledge of racism and a more public practice of antiracism.

How to Be an Antiracist is not an easy book, and it certainly has raised some controversy. But if you are struggling with even the vaguest sense that you want to know more about racism and how you can do something about it, it may move you in the right direction. None of us is perfect, and none of us ever will be…but we can still learn and grow morally and ethically. How to Be an Antiracist may encourage you do just that.

—————

Afterword…I’ve had a lot of thoughts about the days just prior to the inaugurations of President Biden and Vice President Harris, about that day itself, and about the first few days of the new administration. I suspect most Americans have been trying to absorb it all, and that is a good thing.

I do hope all of us will be careful to base our thinking upon fact and truth, and to resist any temptation to accept something as truth just because we like it or agree with it. I hope we will commit to not passing on as truth information that has not or cannot be tested and verified. Government of, by, and for the people absolutely depends upon our mutual integrity. Without that, democracy dies.

Eric comes home, Biden is inaugurated

There are two reasons I am looking forward to this new week.

First, my friend, Eric, is to be released from prison (on parole) on Tuesday morning at 8:30. I have known and been visiting Eric for some 20 years. He is more than ready to re-enter society and become a contributing member of it. He has a good job, a good place to live, and a good support system. I am thrilled to be able to talk and be with him on the outside. I am grateful to everyone in and outside of the corrections system who helped him get to this point, and give him enormous credit for all he has done to prepare for Tuesday morning. Continue, if you will, to keep Eric in your thoughts and your prayers.

Second, on Wednesday, Joe Biden will be inaugurated as President of the United States, and I am very happy about that. His election and inauguration bring to mind three personal memories about presidents and presidential inaugurations.

1. Sometime when I was quite young and Dwight Eisenhower was our president, our family attended a football game at the University of Iowa. During the game, the announcer said that it was Ike’s birthday, and wished him a Happy Birthday. Most of the crowd applauded and cheered, but there were a few audible boos mixed in. I remember my dad saying that the boos were inappropriate because, no matter how you felt about Ike, he was our president and deserving of our good wishes on his birthday. Dad “liked Ike,” so I suppose you could say that was an easy thing for him to say, but I think he really believed what he had said.

America was quite different then.

2. On January 20, 1965, I marched with my college band in the inaugural parade for Lyndon Johnson. (I did not witness a moment of the inauguration itself.) That evening, before we left downtown D.C. to begin our rail trip back to Iowa, I retrieved the sign pictured above from a light pole, maybe on Pennsylvania Avenue, maybe not. No one seemed to notice or mind then, and I hope it’s too long ago for me to be prosecuted for theft. Note that the sign only closed the street for 24 hours. Enough time in those days for security, I guess, and only a few years after Kennedy’s assassination.

America was quite different then.

3. On January 20, 1981, I attended Ronald Reagan’s inauguration. We lived in suburban D.C. at the time, and my parents were big Reagan fans. Dad was able to get tickets to the Inauguration, I believe through their congressman. They got tickets for Maxine and me, too, and even though I was by then in quite a different place then they politically, I was thrilled just to be able to attend with them. It could be the only chance in my life to experience the event itself in person. Seeing Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan up there together, and experiencing the continuity of our government, no matter how contested, is forever in my memory. I do not remember anything special about security, although surely we had to be checked in by someone, someplace.

America was quite different then.

We cannot go back to any earlier time, and our current divisions and battles cannot be wished away. We cannot and will not “come together” just because Joe Biden invites us to. But I do hope we might be able at least to keep a respectful distance apart this week if for no other reason than that we love our country more than we love our political parties or affiliations. Just for a few days, please. It’s the least, or perhaps the most, we can do.

American can be quite different than it ever has been, or than it is now—different, and much better for everyone.