How could this happen? I am absolutely gobsmacked, not only that he won but even more that the vote wasn’t particularly close. Even those who support him are a bit surprised. What do we make of this? How did we get here? Who are “we”?
I’m not a political pundit, but I am invested in politics, as every religious leader should directly admit. “Politics,” a word deriving from the Greek polis, or “city,” refers to all the many different ways we structure our societies and negotiate with others for resources and strategize for ways (hopefully) to advance the common good. In that sense, religion is by definition thoroughly political (as all of the ancient Hebrew prophets and also the Christian Gospel writers demonstrate, as well as the liturgical texts in The Book of Common Prayer).
It’s from that perspective that I’m inviting the parish I am privileged to serve to reflect on this moment in American cultural and political history and how we should now live our faith in public. I would have likewise invited this reflection had Ms. Harris won the election, but the invitation now feels laced with urgency, especially as the “common good” seems alarmingly fragile.
Who are we? I keep returning to that question, in large measure because an individual does not a social movement or a political party make. This is often difficult to keep in mind concerning Donald J. Trump, whose sheer force of personality fills a room—or an arena. Quite honestly, I haven’t wanted to suppose that Mr. Trump represents anything other than himself, someone whose public statements and moral character—in all frankness—I find reprehensible.
Never could I have imagined a convicted felon and instigator of insurrection running for President of the United States (much less actually winning), a man who mocks disabled people, advocates violence, and sexually assaults women.
But no, putting my attention there, on one person’s moral failings is a mistake. The election wasn’t about him; it was and still is about our neighbors. Focusing entirely on him risks distracting us from the vital work ahead in a deeply divided country—I mean, the work of trying to understand our neighbors, and in this case, “neighbors” for me refers to those who voted for Mr. Trump.
The week before the election, the New York Times Magazine published an essay on the work of Robert Paxton, a leading historian of fascism, whose award-winning 1972 book on the French collaborators with Nazi Germany analyzed the emergence of Vichy France during World War II.
Paxton was at first reluctant to apply the term “fascism” to the MAGA movement in the Republican Party but now believes we should, though with caveats (the character of this moment in world history is not the same as it was in the 1930s, for example). Whatever else we want to say about “Trumpism,” Paxton said, we need to note carefully that this is a “mass phenomenon” from below, and the “leaders are running to keep ahead of it.” This isn’t really about Donald Trump at all—he’s mostly a convenient means to an end. Paxton’s point about this is quite startling (if not alarming): “Trumpism,” he notes, has a much more solid and broader base of support in the American electorate than either Hitler did in Germany or Mussolini did in Italy.
Paxton also cautions against thinking of fascism as an “ideology” or a kind of “party platform.” That approach obscures the action-oriented character of a movement that is not rooted in any coherent philosophy but instead fills the void in a cultural system that has broken down or failed. This is why, in part, Paxton is still somewhat hesitant about the fascist label, which implies more stability for a cultural moment than likely exists. This, it seems to me, is a large part of what makes understanding my neighbors so challenging: not everyone votes the way they do for the same reason.
While David Brooks urges us to see in this election a resounding No to “liberal elites”—and there is likely some truth to that analysis—I worry that this framing of the outcome reduces our social complexity to a single cause, or even worse, perpetuates what has been a long trend of American anti-intellectualism, as if “education” leads inevitably to tribal betrayal.
As Paxton would suggest, this moment is manifesting a multiplicity of convictions, grievances, aspirations, and motivations, some of which likely stand in opposition to the others even though they all inspired the same vote. The working poor in rural America may feel mostly abandoned by politicians but that’s hardly cause for common cause with high-tech billionaires who want to erase government regulations.
As I sort through all of this (and more) for my work as a parish priest, I keep returning to what has always been the focus of my vocation: the Eucharistic Table. While it’s important to keep saying that “all are welcome, no exceptions” (which I say every single Sunday at the beginning of worship), I now worry in ways I haven’t before about whether this invitation covers over the differences among those who gather at the Table—and some of the differences are clearly deep and profound.
I worry, in other words, about turning the Eucharist into a ritual of avoidance, a kind of shared denial about what keeps us separate and segregated. (This has of course always been the risk concerning racial differences in a white supremacist society as well as the differences of gendered sexuality in a patriarchal world.) If table fellowship amounts to merely a superficial unity, then “church” is not much more than a cultural cliché.
I certainly do not mean that how one votes matters for how we gather at the Table, but I do mean that how one lives matters after we leave the Table. And that’s why the difference between “partisan” and “political,” though subtle, remains so vital.
I believe Eucharistic formation shapes Christian people to stand in solidarity with the poor, advocate for the vulnerable, work for peace with justice, and commit to a lifelong path of ongoing conversion to the Gospel of Jesus Christ—whose body we ourselves become at that Table as Christian people. The Table also reassures us of divine forgiveness when we fail to live as Christian people, and also the never-failing love of God, which is always freely offered regardless of how we live.
More succinctly: Eucharist welcomes everyone and leaves no one unchanged.
Eucharistic fellowship is, apparently, just as complex as American electoral politics. This has likely always been true, but now, perhaps, we know it in a new way.
But who, exactly, are we?
