A Preacher Explains Who Not to Vote For in (Every) Election

            I’m going to tell my readers something you probably didn’t know about me. Forty years ago, in 1975, while taking a year off college, I got on my bike and rode it over to city hall, where I took out nomination papers to run as an independent candidate in that year’s provincial election. I was just nineteen and I was upset. You see none of the parties were willing to support choice in education. I thought I’d run on that one issue, because at that time I believed that Ontario should support private parochial schools, as in British Columbia and Alberta, and as John Tory would in his ill-fated run for Ontario’s premiership a few years ago.

            In any case, back in 1975, I never filled those nomination papers out. I was too busy earning money for college and playing baseball with my friends to get the 100 or so signatures I needed. But since I was a resident of Premier Bill Davis’s riding, in Brampton, Ontario, the press kept an eye on such things. So, the day after I took the nomination papers home, local papers reported it. Next, my phone started ringing—mostly friends, former teachers, and members of my church. I found I liked the attention. I didn’t have a campaign staff, didn’t have money, and didn’t have a prayer running against Bill Davis. But, a bit narcissistically, I basked in the limelight anyway.

The Prime Ministerial Candidates.

            That wasn’t the end of my political dabbling. In 2003, when I was a magazine editor in West Michigan, I wrote an article musing about a possible run for the United States Congress. I was pretty well known in my district because of the magazine. I could have been a credible candidate for the Democratic Party. A couple of people emailed me to say it would be a great idea. Again, I liked that. But the party establishment didn’t bite, and it is just as well, because Republicans had been elected out of that congressional district for about 100 years anyway.

            Now, looking back on those two times I dipped my toe in political waters, with the perspective of many years and hopefully, by now, a little wisdom, I can admit that one of the things that motivated me to even think about running for office—at least a little—was the glare of publicity. I enjoyed my fifteen minutes—or less—of being the centre of attention.

            Now, I can’t speak for politicians in general. Perhaps it isn’t ambition, or ego, or fame that motivates most politicians. Perhaps the politicians we love best are motivated by ideals, by a deep and abiding concern for the common good, and by a desire to serve rather than be served. Some undoubtedly are.

            But what I really hope--and this is the main point I want to make--is that the same holds true for us, the voters. Do we decide our vote on the basis of “me, myself, and I?” Do we vote on the basis of our needs, our wants, and our ambitions—or do we choose to vote on some other, more idealistic basis?

            I find it interesting that almost all the media attention, almost all party promises, almost all campaign ads are about what I will get out of this election—more security, maybe; a job, or day care, or cheaper tuition, or a faster commute, or income splitting, or whatever.

            This trend of focussing campaigns on the voters’ narrowest interests really came into focus during the 1980 Presidential campaign that pitted Ronald Reagan against Jimmy Carter. Ronald Reagan famously asked the electorate, “are you better off now than four years ago?” But it is much the same here. In fact, this past August the Toronto Star asked voters that exact question in a front-page poll.

            People seem to take it for granted that most politicians run for selfish reasons, and that most people vote for selfish reasons. But ultimately, I think a politics rooted in “me, myself, and I” first is going to leave a lot of important issues in the dust--especially for people who want to mirror Jesus' priorities.

            There is a recent trilogy of books and movies that are actually a parable about the “me first,” and “am I better off than four years ago,” style of politics. It’s called The Hunger Games. The movies starred everyone’s favourite Oscar stumbler, Jennifer Lawrence.

            The novels are not high literature, and the movies, though fun, are not classics. Both made a lot of money. The author, Suzanne Collins, pictures a North American country called Panem divided into twelve zones. One zone, the Capital, is home to a society much like ours. It is rich. Its citizens luxuriate in the latest trends, and especially coming up with new and bizarre fashions. The population of the capital is preoccupied with violent stadium games—Ultimate Fighting to the death. And they love gorging on the best food, parties, beautiful homes, and 7-24 entertainment.

            In contrast to Capital, the rest of the districts in Panem exist to support the Capital’s health and wealth. The districts mine minerals and manufacture, grow crops and provide human fodder for capital. And they are sinkholes of poverty. Until, finally, Jennifer Lawrence’s character, Katniss, leads—not always willingly—the districts in an open revolt against the capital.

            The books and movies are an allegory.  Hunger Games is about how the few with power on earth tend to live for themselves, and how the many pay the price.

           

The Hunger Games says that when inequality and lack of fairness gets out of hand, whether within or between countries; when the accident of birth matters more than character or heart or hard work; when my games, pastimes, and entertainment mean more than the welfare of all—in such situations, there will eventually be hell to pay.

            In Psalm 85 the Psalmist—who is a refugee, in Babylon, because the Babylonians have destroyed Israel and sent its people to live in other parts of the empire—the Psalmist is dreaming of a new and better Israel. In his vision, he says that a perfect Israel—a perfect nation—would be a place where “Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet, where righteousness and peace will kiss each other”  (v. 10). An more colloquial  translation might put it that the best society is one where “justice and shalom embrace.”

            What would that look like? Well, in scripture, justice is always measured by how the alien—the foreigner, the refugee—how the alien within our gates or city is treated; by how the orphan and the widow—traditionally the poorest people in Israel—were cared for. And shalom was not only international peace, but a national culture where all debts were supposed to be forgiven every fifty years; where prosperity was not limited to a few; where the rich were required to leave enough in the fields after harvest to feed the poor.  In ancient Israel, justice and shalom embracing was a world where no one had to look out over his or her shoulder in fear, because everyone else was looking over their shoulder, for your best interests.

            Of course, as a parable, The Hunger Games is full of exaggeration to make its point. And unlike the world of Panem, we are also a democracy. And what it is going to take for us to steer clear of environmental apocalypse, even more minorities in jail than there are now, reconciliation between First Nations and the rest of us, between racial minorities and the rest of us; what it is going to take to avoid more terrorism and more military missions; what it is going to take beat climate change and beat poverty and homelessness . . . what it is going to take is citizens like us voting for the embrace of justice and shalom rather than just voting for the party that we think will leave us, personally, better off in four or five years.

            Look, I won’t want to tell anyone how to vote. God knows, all the parties think that it’s your pocket book that is most important to you. But we collectively have an ancient vision rooted in Psalm 85. When you vote, do so in the best interests of the neighbour that we are called by Jesus to love, rather than merely for your private interests. Don't Vote for yourself, but for your neighbor. It’s a radical idea at the root of almost every political ideology out there, from Marxism to Conservatism—and yet it is the one idea we hear far too little about in this election campaign. 

What Do We Make of Vestments?

            This post is about liturgical vestments. Here’s the background. Last week I “covenanted” with my congregation, Lawrence Park Community Church, to be their pastor. I’ve actually been doing that work for three years now, but it took that long to formalize my transfer from the Christian Reformed Church to the United Church of Canada.

            At the covenanting service, the Presbytery representatives—a Presbytery is a group of local churches—wore liturgical vestments—albs and stoles, both red and white.

            I didn’t. I wore a suit.

            It isn’t that I don’t have vestments. More precisely—I have an academic gown. It is forest green, the colour of my school, Wayne State University. It has three chevrons—stripes—on the sleeve signifying the fact that I have an earned doctorate. The stole is gold and grey, the colours of the Speech Communication department I graduated from.

            In the Presbyterian tradition, in particular, preachers used to wear their academic gowns in the pulpit. The practice spread to preachers who were not academics per se. These academic “Genevan” gowns were usually black. They represented a rejection of the Roman Catholic (and Eastern Orthodox) practice of wearing a variety of liturgical vestments.

            However, growing up I don’t recall ever seeing a minister wear liturgical gowns, Genevan or otherwise. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention. That changed when, in seminary, I started attending Church of the Servant CRC in Grand Rapids. I was soon asked to do the children’s sermon each week. One Advent, the worship committee decided I should wear a simple alb with four very attractive, hand made stoles, each embroidered with a symbol that was to be that week’s children’s sermon subject. The kids—as I recall—loved the stoles, and I had one of those stoles for many years after, even though I never used it again, in worship. I outgrew the alb—laterally, that is—and never wore it after seminary.  

            But there were those Presbyterian representatives at my covenanting service, in red and white albs and stoles. What do I make of liturgical vestments now?

            We know, from the Old Testament, that the ancient Israelites wore very elaborate liturgical vestments. The New Testament, on the other hand, doesn’t mention liturgical vestments at all.

            The New Testament does mention the clothing of a few key figures, a few times. In Matthew 11, for example, Jesus says that John the Baptist, his cousin the wild-eyed prophet, did not wear soft robes like those who lived in royal palaces. Instead, we know from elsewhere that John the Baptist wore clothing made of camel’s hair, which is coarse, and was mostly used in his day as tent cloth. John the Baptist’s clothing was only a little less weird, even then, than the fact that he survived on a diet of locusts and wild honey.

            Ironically, Jesus did wear reasonably soft robes even though he didn’t live in a palace either. His robe was probably made of linen, and we learn in the Gospel of John that it didn’t have any seams. Even if not Herod quality, Jesus' robe would have been expensive and valuable, perhaps on par with a Brooks Brothers business suit now. At his crucifixion the Roman guards were so impressed by it that they decided to gamble each other for the right to own it, rather than cut it up to share.

            In the early church the first apostles, deacons and bishops did not wear vestments. The church was often persecuted, after all, so no one—even those in leadership positions—went out of his or her way to advertise who they were.

            However, at about the time that the Emperor Constantine made Christianity an official religion of the Roman Empire, early in the fourth century, things changed. Now it was quite an honour to be a priest or a bishop. And in short order church officials started wearing clothing—both in and out of church—that advertised their work and rank. But rather than wear vestments like those described in the Old Testament, these early Christian leaders especially modelled their vestments on the secular uniforms of the day. In particular, clergy adopted the fashions—special scarves or stoles, robes, hats and colors of the Roman civil service, army, and judiciary.

            However, as Roman secular fashion changed and evolved, clergy fashion lagged far behind. In fact, the basic alb, chasuble and stole worn by clergy today still harp back to the days of ancient Rome, while the rest of Italian fashion has changed quite a bit!

            Now, before anyone gets the wrong idea, I don’t intend, here, to argue that clergy should or should not wear vestments. For me it’s a personal decision.

            What interests me about the history of vestments is that clergy started wearing them—in imitation of the secular counterparts—in part to advertise their calling, their status, and soon, their wealth. The clergy adopted the clothing of the status quo to make the point that they had arrived. Choosing to wear vestments was, originally, a political act, an act that underlined that the church was now a power to contend with, and that its leaders were people of high status. They were members of one of the three medieval estates—the one that negotiated the relation between heaven and earth. Like the pope in Washington this week, clergy were not to be taken lightly.

            I wonder if that turn, that fundamental change in orientation among clergy was all good. It hardly seems coincidental that once the church no longer was itself persecuted, it soon started persecuting Christians who did not agree with Emperor Constantine and his allies. As soon as the church was legalized by the Roman Empire, Christians decided that pacifism—their historic practice—wasn’t going to work anymore, and so Christians were no longer excommunicated when they joined Rome’s legions. In short, when Constantine legalized the church, the church turned from being a counter cultural, alternative for living the good life into an absolutely status quo institution, one that was used by the Emperor, when convenient, to quash dissent, extend Roman power, and win the hearts of the people for Roman political ends. And the adoption, by clergy, of liturgical vestments whose design mirrored the clothing of ranking Romans was perhaps the most visible sign of these changes.

            Today, at least in the West, unless you are a ranking Catholic prelate, vestments are usually worn only in church. The status that Christianity had as one of Constantine’s levers of power has long dissipated. The pope may draw large crowds in America, but you can be sure that even among the Catholics most practice birth control anyway and can’t understand why women are excluded from ordination. Judging by all the many times the pope has pleaded and prayed for peace and economic fairness and the environment, he isn’t that influential in the secular realm either.

            So it is hard to imagine that wearing vestments in church or on the street—as with a clerical collar, perhaps—is much of a status thing. No, whatever positive value vestments have in the present has to be connected to the way in which they communicate the gospel today.

            I think back to when I was in seminary. Those stoles I wore for just a few weeks during Advent made them a talking point. After church, some of the kids would track me down for a closer look. Parents wanted to see and finger the stoles too. They were really cool. They connected with that day's worship. The arts are one of the best ways to bring fresh attention to the core message of the gospel.

            On the other hand, liturgical vestments that seem to put clergy in a different class, that suggest clergy have some sort of mystic authority—liturgical vestments that are a mish mash of impenetrable symbols and special colours that are rarely, if ever used to communicate the gospel in a fresh and interesting way—such use of liturgical garments seems off-putting to me. It allies the employees of the church as institution with our current cultural suspicion of all institutions. That probably isn’t a good thing. The early church’s use of secular dress before the Constantinian revolution seems wiser to me, and more in keeping with the historic Protestant emphasis on the priesthood of all believers.

            They say the clothes make the man—or woman. I don’t think that’s true in the case of clergy. It is, rather, a caring heart and behavior, as well as the ability to share the Christian story with a modicum of grace and conviction that make the pastor.

Two Elections and One Christian

            As a dual U.S./Canadian citizen, I have two elections to keep track of at the same time. I’ve watched both the Canadian and the American debates on television, and I’m a pretty dedicated political news junkie too. 

            Oh, and I’m a pretty dedicated Christian.

            Now, I know that on the Republican side in the USA, at least, all the candidates claim to be pretty dedicated Christians—more or less. And they tailor their policies to the political agenda of the religious right. But that means they’re trying to take down Planned Parenthood, guilty of multiple barely concealed slurs against Muslims, are trying to marginalize migrants, want to roll the clock back on gay marriage, will sympathize with any Israeli government military move, want more American military moves, and want to teach creation science in the schools, rather than real science. I don’t have much sympathy for the Christian Right and don’t recognize much by way of real Biblical thinking in that camp.

            But, even though I’m a United Church pastor in Canada, I’m not the New Democratic Party at prayer, either. 

            The truth is there is as much diversity among Christians on the issues as there is among people who have never darkened the door of a church. Be that as it may, I am going to have to make up my mind when I go to the polls, soon. So as a Christian, what matters to me? Lots, but here are a few issues I’m thinking about now.

1.         My neighbour’s pocket book. The economy matters, but I’m totally frustrated by the presumption that the election is about whether I’m going to do better with this or that party in power. What matters more is how my neighbour—and especially my poor neighbour, or my homeless neighbour, or my refugee neighbour, or my mentally ill neighbour, is doing. If love is the key moral value in scripture, it is every neighbor that is supposed to be its recipient.

2.         Racism. It doesn’t matter whether you live in the US or in Canada. The number of minorities in jail is the canary in the mine in both places. Our society is racist. Very racist. Remember that when the elderly Greek women were being left out of the food distribution in the early church, the church’s response was to put the Greeks in charge of the money. What would that look like in Canada or the United States?

3.         The environment. Look, long before the Israelites published God’s ten commandments, God is said to have told Adam and Eve to make his beautiful garden grow. It wasn’t enough that Eden was paradise, it had to be improved! Let’s do it. It may already be too late.

4.         Military spending. Take Canada. From its first foreign military exercise, during the Boer War to its latest bombing exercises in the Middle East, too many of our wars, in hindsight, were strategic and moral failures tinged by racism and fuelled by nationalism. We can do better. I’m not saying spend less, or that we ought to be pacifist. Still, it’s time Canada, at least, looked to the North and its coasts, to renewing its historical role as a peacekeeper, and to leading when it comes to humanitarian crises. The truth of Jesus’ warning, “those who live by the sword will die by it,” is coming home to roost.

5.         Infrastructure. The short news cycle makes infrastructure spending over the long haul a no-win political gambit. But shortsighted too. Wise infrastructure spending could also be great for the environment, for our reserves, and for jobs. And I won’t even mention commute times.

6.         Education. The GI Bill after WWII is the right model for higher education. 

7.         Guns. We need to move to a society where the only people who have handguns or machine guns are criminals and law enforcement. American murder rates, in particular, are not only off the charts compared to world rates, they can be lowered significantly.

8.         Israel. It’s a great country. It absolutely needs secure borders. And it also needs to start searching for a solution to its problems with its neighbours that isn’t based on violence and occupation. And sure, that goes for Palestine too.

9.         Refugees. We felt no compunction about helping create the mess they’re running from. It’s time to open our borders wide. Lots of Biblical stuff about loving neighbours and caring for the refugees within our gates to back this up, and nothing on the other side of the scale.

10.          Prisons. They turn too many hard luck cases into hardened criminals. They are full of minorities. They don’t work. We must do better.

            The hardest part of being a Christian, of course, is that no party perfectly aligns with any Christian’s priorities. Going to the polls is always going to be an exercise in compromise. So I’ll compromise. But—at least if you’re not a right-wing Republican—that’s the art of politics.