On this annual observance of “flag day” in the United States—which will also witness many dozens of “No Kings” protest marches around the country—the only banner I’m keen to hoist bears the symbol of the Cross for the sake of justice and love.
To be clear, I will indeed take part in a “No Kings” public gathering today (and I will wear my clergy collar), and that’s because of an unswerving conviction: the Christian Gospel is never partisan but is always political.
That is hardly a popular opinion, especially when one hears the Gospel preached in a way that rubs against the grain of one’s partisan commitments. It is precisely that discomfort that generated the longstanding advice to include politics along with religion and sex among the topics we should avoid discussing in polite company, especially at dinner parties. (I have always found that cautionary advice amusing—apart from religion, sex, and politics, what else is there to talk about?)
It is fairly common in modern Western society (especially among the economically comfortable, one should note) to hear people insist that “religion” should be free of “politics,” and they usually expect or at least hope that Sunday morning worship will provide a respite from political discourse. This is, in my view, and quite simply, impossible. If we were to remove every reference to anything “political” from the Bible, I doubt we would have even a single coherent paragraph remaining.
It’s worth remembering that the English word “politics” comes from the ancient Greek word polis, or “city-state” (think “metropolis”). The connection here is this: people in groups need to navigate and negotiate how they are going to live, work, play, and also pray together in some way that is good for all involved—and that’s the shared work of politics.
How do we get food from the farmer’s field to your table? Who pays the physician when she takes care of your sick child? Where can I let my dog run free and get exercise without disturbing others? What should we do with people who are violent or threaten the safety of our neighbors? All of these questions and many more like them are political questions, and people of faith quite rightly turn to religion for help in answering them—or they should.
Biblical writers are remarkably consistent about the political implications of religious faith. At this particular moment in American cultural history, there are two overall biblical postures that seem especially worth noting in that regard. The first is the constant biblical refrain to care for the “orphan, the widow, and the stranger.” From the Mosaic Law—“cursed is anyone who deprives the alien, the orphan, and the widow of justice” (Deut. 27:19)—to the prophets, who declare God’s judgment on those who oppress the widow, the orphan, the alien, and the poor (Zech. 7:9-10, as one example among many), there is no biblical room for compromise on this; as people of faith, we are obligated to care for the most vulnerable among us, and that is by definition a political concern.
The second biblical posture likewise runs consistently throughout both the Hebrew and Christian texts of the Bible, but with a bit more subtlety: expanding the circle of God’s people outward to include ever more diversity. It feels much more comfortable, of course, to be in community with those who are just like us, and also safer in times of uncertainty. But ancient Hebrew prophets like Isaiah imagine all the nations streaming to God’s holy mountain (Is. 2:2, among others), and Christian writers like Paul insist that the Body of Christ consists of many diverse members (1 Cor. 12:12, as just one example). Diversifying the people of God is actually the work of God and a divine gift, and certainly not a “problem” or something to “manage.”
The hard part, of course, is taking those broad biblical convictions with us into the public square—and into the halls of Congress or just our local city council meeting. As people of faith from various backgrounds, we will quite naturally disagree with each about how to put our faith into practice, but our faith does demand that we struggle and wrestle with precisely that challenge.
This current moment in the history of the United States sharpens the political challenge among people of faith, and in some instances, quite severely. Many of us are deeply concerned about the erosion of our democratic institutions, the demonization of minority groups (whether because of race, country of origin, language, sexuality, or gender, or a combination of all of these), and what seems like the heavy hand of authoritarian power. The political stakes are extraordinarily high in these areas regardless of one’s partisan affiliation.
The Presiding Bishop of The Episcopal Church, Sean Rowe, just issued a letter on precisely the challenges of this moment, noting directly the Christian responsibility to be engaged politically for the sake of the common good. Bishop Rowe frames the letter with that clear purpose in view as he reflects on “how we Episcopalians can respond to what is unfolding around us as followers of the Risen Christ whose first allegiance is to the kingdom of God, not to any nation or political party.”
Writing while the U.S. military was being deployed in Los Angeles, Bishop Rowe articulated more specifically how the Gospel should shape our political engagement: “The violence on television is not our only risk. We are also seeing federal budget proposals that would shift resources from the poor to the wealthy; due process being denied to immigrants; and the defunding of essential public health, social service, and foreign aid programs that have long fulfilled the Gospel mandate to care for the vulnerable, children, and those who are hungry and sick.”
He concludes the letter by noting ways that The Episcopal Church will be taking a stand against certain public policies for the sake of the Gospel. “In short,” he writes, “we are practicing institutional resistance rooted not in partisan allegiance, but in Christian conviction.”
That sense of “conviction” emerges not only from the Bible but also the Book of Common Prayer and our Eucharistic Table Fellowship. I strongly suspect that putting that faithful conviction into practice will grow more, not less challenging in the weeks and months ahead. All the more reason to recall explicitly and frequently not only the Baptismal promise to “strive for justice and peace among all people, and to respect the dignity of every human being” (BCP, p. 305), but also the Pauline vision of living that promise with faith, and with hope, and most especially with love (1 Cor. 13:13).
I remain so grateful to be doing the work of a parish priest at this particular historical moment, and with a parish community eager to discern together how to chart a path forward for the sake of the thriving of all. I am convinced that the world’s religious traditions were created for just such a time as this.
