The Scandal of the Church Weighs on Me.

         What weighs on me more and more, as I get on in years and consider my faith, is the historic, never-ending, and dramatic failure of the visible church. I wonder how I can hang on to Jesus when the rap sheet of his followers is a never-ending story.

         The cultural genocide of Canada’s First Nations that Canadian churches helped organize and lead, the ongoing revelations of clergy abuse especially by Roman Catholic priests and bishops—though Protestants are not guiltless in this either--and the ugly turn to Trumpism by America’s evangelicals are three current realities that weigh on me.

         But historically, there is much, much more. Shall I list all the ways the church has failed? Impossible—there is too much. But consider this brief list of just ten notable historic abuses: 1) Scapegoating Jews (centuries of it, mind you, around dinner table, as well as in villages tiny and empires great). 2) Happy participation in genocides not only of Jews, but of First Nations all around the world. 3) Blessing the slave trade and slave ownership. 4) The Roman Catholic Inquisition. 

Contemporary illustration of the Auto-da-fe held
at Valladolid Spain in 1559.

5) Crusades. 6) Centuries worth of religious wars in Europe. 7) Blessing and promotion of British imperialism for pride, profit, and pink maps (or Dutch imperialism, or Nazism, or Napoleon, or medieval monarchies, or the Roman Empire after Constantine). 8) Anti-science views from Galileo to today’s defenders of creationism and deniers of climate change. 9) A focus on personal salvation in the by-and-by instead of saving the world, now. 10) From at least the time of Constantine, its adulterous affair with the status quo rather than social justice for the last, least, and most marginalized. 

         Most of these tragedies are global or national. But local congregations and leaders and individual members participated in all of these failures. 

         I am no great exception to the rule. When I look back on my own career as a minister and denominational leader, I see many missed opportunities to do the right thing, to take a stand against the status quo, to be more prophetic, to take risks, to be more like Jesus. But I’ll pass on my personal list of ten-most-notable John Suk failures.

         The thing is, how can such an ongoing avalanche of evils inspire faith? Or, perhaps better yet, how can churches (denominations and congregations, members and related non-profits, etc., etc.) have the gall to proselytize, to suggest joining (or staying) might be a good thing, in view of its record? It would be like putting our trust in Volkswagen’s mileage claims or Donald Trump’s claims he didn’t commit adultery. Why doesn’t “once bitten, twice shy” seem to apply to the church? Especially when the church has been prowling about like a carnivore for thousands of years?

         There are traditional approaches to dealing with the scandal of the church. One is to argue that the only church that really matters is the invisible one, holy, Catholic church which is different than the many scattered, sorry, excuses for a church that are written up in history books and located on street corners. 

         But such a focus on the eschatological church (if you even believe in a second coming and all that) is like a magician’s trick, pulling something pretty and fluffy out of a hat after you first stuffed a dirty rag in. It’s sleight of hand. 

         This eschatological approach makes a mockery of Jesus’ teaching for the nascent church of “now,” as represented by the disciples: “A new command I give you. Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” Do we really think Jesus didn’t mean this, didn’t expect such love, here and now, from his followers? Are all of the New Testament's pleas to be perfect, or to give one another the kiss of peace, or to serve one another, or care for one another, or to love neighbours or turn the other cheek there just to mock us?

         Another approach is to weigh the good against the bad, and say, “on balance, the church is great!” But, “on balance,” doesn’t cut it with me. It’s like suggesting that German engineering prowess or philosophical depth or music or strudel somehow justifies or minimizes the horror of what the Nazis did in Germany.

         Others say that, "of course the church will be a failure. We’re all sinners. The church is for sinners, just as it will be besmirched and spoiled by sinners. But at least we are striving to follow Jesus, to climb the ladder of sanctification." But this is merely a poor excuse for a grade of F. "Johny tried, poor kid. He really did. That's good enough." 

         I love my local congregation. I love the people who go to church there. I am, to be truthful, much more frustrated by regional, national, international, institutional, hierarchal, synodical, confessional, creedal, educational manifestations of the church than I am with my local congregation. 

         I don’t see a way around my frustrations either. Go back to calling ourselves “The Way?” Seek a Chuxit for my congregation? Quietism? Withdrawal from the world of politics and institutions and power games and bureaucracies? If I or my congregation tried, we would just have to reinvent a lot of what we left behind if we wanted to carry on or grow or make an impact.

         I don’t know. I guess blog posts don’t always have to have all the answers. 

         This week is Easter. I’m going to preach on Jesus’ words, “unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies it produces many seeds.” I wonder if there is something here, in Jesus' way of choosing death that might be a way forward towards an ecclesial resurrection. Anyone remember Morris West's novel "The Shoes of the Fisherman"? It had some of that "choosing death" in it. It was hokey, too. But still. 

         I don’t know what that would look like here and now. I don’t know what it would mean for the people I love and who love others in my local congregation. 

         I don’t know. But it weighs on me more and more.

Lent in the Time of Trump

I would like to read a poem by Margaret Avison. If you are of a certain age, you studied it in a Can Lit class. Listen. You can follow along via the insert in your bulletin.

For everyone
The swimmer's moment at the whirlpool comes,
But many at that moment will not say
"This is the whirlpool, then."

By their refusal they are saved
From the black pit, and also from contesting
The deadly rapids, and emerging in
The mysterious, and more ample, further waters.

And so their bland-blank faces turn and turn
Pale and forever on the rim of suction
They will not recognize.

Of those who dare the knowledge
Many are whirled into the ominous centre
That, gaping vertical, seals up
For them an eternal boon of privacy,
So that we turn away from their defeat
With a despair, not for their deaths, but for
Ourselves, who cannot penetrate their secret
Nor even guess at the anonymous breadth
Where one or two have won:
(The silver reaches of the estuary).

From: Winter Sun. Toronto: UofT Press. 1962

The “swimmer’s moment,” is a decision point. Such moments might find you on a cliff in Killbear Provincial Park, thirty feet above the water, where you decide, “No, I’m not going to jump after all.” Or, perhaps, more seriously for example, our swimmer’s moment might come to us that day we must decide to either confront an elderly parent about her need to give up her driver’s license, or not.

And naturally, we are anxious about such decision points. We might belly flop. Mom might be very angry and write us out of the will. Fearing trouble, we might choose not to choose, turn our bland-blank faces away from the whirlpool and live forever on the rim of suction, never daring. A grey life.

Avison says, however, that some people do dare, and so win, “The silver reaches of the estuary.”

An estuary is where the river’s fresh water meets the sea. Estuaries, like Chesapeake Bay or the Amazon Delta, are incredibly rich areas of biodiversity. Estuaries are life. The “silver reaches of the estuary” conjures up images of cottages, crabbing, and late evening bonfires on shore. A good, joyous life.

In our text from Hebrews, you could think of Jesus’ decision to set his face for Jerusalem as his swimmer’s moment.

Jesus could have chosen otherwise. He could have turned around and walked with bland-blank face back to Galilee. He might have chosen to take up carpentry, again. But for the joy set before him, for the sake of the silver reaches of his estuary, he dived in and saw his Lenten journey to its end on a cross.

It is hard to know, two thousand years later, what exact joy Jesus aimed for. He spoke of rising from the dead. He almost certainly wanted to demonstrate the power of turning the other cheek, of changing the world through passive resistance.

But whatever exactly would give Jesus the greatest joy, he would achieve incredible things for humanity only at great cost to himself. He was abandoned, whipped, and crucified—because he decided.

In our text Jesus’ story is told so that we will do likewise. The author of Hebrews writes in chapter 12, “let us also lay aside every weight and . . . run with perseverance the race that is set before us,” and then in verse 12, he concludes by saying: Therefore for the joy also set before you, “lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet . . .” Just do it.

And we must, for we live in dangerous times.

I’ve just read Thomas Friedman’s new book, Thank You for Being Late. In it the New York Times columnist describes about 101 crises facing the human race. Economic dislocation. Climate change. Failed states. Desertification. Refugees. Terrorism. Overpopulation. Racism. Ineffective schools. Friedman paints a bleak picture of the world facing its cosmic swimmer’s moment, a world he believes our children and grandchildren will suffer in, unless we act, now.

Perhaps, at this point in the sermon, I should describe some of these crises at greater length. They are, after all, living as we do in our Western bubble of ease, hard for us to see. But I won’t, for now. After all, I know you feel the unease and uncertainty that runs without ceasing, like a long-distance marathoner, under the skin of our culture. This very real unease is partly, at least, what is fueling the Trump and alt-right phenomena of our era, the siege mentality that is so much a part of life today. The crises of our day loom over us like Mount Vesuvius over ancient Pompey. Now is our swimmer’s moment.

Will we act? Or will we live in denial, turning away from the whirlpool? And just what is the joy set before us? A safe, just, meaningful future for our children and grandchildren?

If we do act, there are no guarantees. The deadly rapids are a black pit, says Avison. There is no emergency “stop” button for saving the world from impending tragedy. I suppose acting starts with helping force national spending priorities to avert or mitigate the effects of climate change and habitat destruction and failed states; it continues with our choices at work—what we invest in, who we hire, what strategic goals we choose for our companies. Acting now involves what we buy, how we eat, our politics and our conversation at parties and our willingness to generously support organizations tackling some of our society’s deepest fears.

It’s like Jesus heading for Jerusalem, that final time. We must dive in to achieve the silver reaches of the estuary. It takes courage and faith in order to achieve the joy set before us. But turning away is so tempting.

It’s like this. At the turn of the last century, Blondin was a great French tightrope walker. Once, before ten thousand screaming fans, Blondin inched his way from the Canadian side to the American side of the Falls, above the roaring whirlpool in the Niagara River. As he stepped off his tightrope, his fans chanted his name, "Blondin, Blondin, Blondin."

So Blondin raised his hand. He said, "I am going back across the Falls on my tightrope, but this time I will carry someone on my shoulders.  Do you believe me?

The crowd called back, "We believe!  We believe!"

Blondin silenced them again and asked, "Who will be that person?"

And now the crowd was silent. You see, this was their swimmer’s moment at the whirlpool below. At last, one man climbed onto Blondin's shoulders and was carried back across the rope to the other side of the whirlpool, winning the silver reaches of the Canadian side. One man faced his swimmer’s moment and succeeded—but now the crowd really believed and many clamored for their chance to cross.

My dream, for everyone here, for my grandchildren, is that for the sake of the joy set before us, we will, at our society’s swimmer’s moment, choose as Jesus chose.

Jesus—God with us, in a lovely, mysterious way—joined us in life’s struggle to demonstrate to us that we can satisfy our deepest longings and the world’s greatest needs in spite of great risks and dangers. We can act now to emerge in those mysterious and more ample, further waters. We can climb on each other’s shoulders and, step by step, reach the silver reaches of the estuary, the joy set before us.

About Last Tuesday. Trump, the Dispossessed, and Us.

(A sermon preached on November 13 at Lawrence Park Community Church after Donald Trump's election victory.)

         I don’t want to be too melodramatic. But last Tuesday night, when Trump was elected, I was gob smacked. Irene and I had some back-and-forth, agonizing calls with our kids in the States. I went to bed stunned and woke up depressed. I was unable to read commentary about the election for days after. I am afraid of what is next.

         Now, personally, I don't like Trump’s trade, or tax, or foreign policies. I worry about his impending supreme court picks. Still, I also understand that among people of good repute there can be disagreement about such policy matters.

         On the other hand, too many of Trump’s policies and statements are not debatable, but immoral. In spite of the science and the apocalyptic risk he denies global climate change. His hatred of “the other,” or “the stranger,” is xenophobic. It means he wants to ban Muslim immigration and deport millions of non-documented immigrants and has no sympathy for the issues that have ignited the “Black Lives Matter” movement. His statements preferring Jews to blacks as employees or denying that Obama was born in America or is a Christian, his mockery of people with disabilities, and his pathetic and demeaning treatment of women, his goading of supporters to violence against protestors at his rallies—these actions are not just impolitic, they are immoral.

         Still, as the week wore on and I tried to understand, it dawned on me that I’m not the only one who is afraid. A sizeable portion—not all, but a key part of Trump’s support base—belong to a large white American underclass that doesn’t have much by way of prospects. And they are afraid too. I do not approve of this group’s decision to support Trump, but I think we need to understand them and their grievances.

         Who is in this underclass, exactly?

         These are mostly white people who are afraid that the American dream is a fantasy as far as they and their families go. They can’t keep up with the change from a General Motors and US Steel economy to a Microsoft and MacDonald’s economy. They lost their homes, or at least their equity, in the financial crisis. They can’t afford college for their kids. They are stuck in generations-long spiral of poverty. And, believing they have nothing to lose, they chose Trump as their last, best hope for somehow changing the game they keep on losing. I am afraid of Donald Trump for intellectual and moral reasons; but many of the people who voted for Trump are afraid for themselves.

        This week the New York Times ran an article entitled "6 Books to Help Understand Trump's win. Most of these books are about the white underclass and their gripes. I had already read one of them, The Unwinding, by George Packer. It is a book about how white factory workers, tobacco farmers, backwoods people and even politicians have been left behind by big changes in the American economy and social landscape. One chapter is about Newt Gingrich, and how he discovered that as far as these people are concerned, facts don’t matter anymore. So instead, Gingrich suggested that if politicians offer up political venom, true or not, anytime and they will get away with it, a lesson not lost on Trump. Gingrich "gave them mustard gas," writes Packer, "and they used it on every conceivable enemy."

          Strangers in Their Own Land, by Arlie Hochschild explains why many poor white Americans believe that "others [that is, mostly immigrants, blacks, and women] are 'cutting in line' and that the federal government is supporting people on the dole -- 'taking money from the workers and giving it to the idle.'" This is a book about the fear and loathing poor white people have when they imagine even poorer, more marginalized people are taking the jobs and benefits that they don’t have.

         White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America by Nancy Isenberg tells how from America’s earliest days, a white underclass has slowly grown in America’s suburbs and backwaters. Their ancestors came over on the Mayflower as indentured servants, later as slaves, prisoners, or as hated Irish or Hispanic Catholic immigrants. This underclass died for America in its wars, was always available as cheap labor in mines and on farms, and was largely ignored when it came to sharing most of the benefits of America’s economic growth.

         A significant portion of the people who voted Trump experienced a generation or two of good-paying factory jobs but now have to settle for twelve dollars an hour at Walmart. They have been cut off from welfare by Bill Clinton’s reforms. They think the system—free trade, banking, health care, immigration, the one-percenters—it is all stacked against them. They point to the brokers and bankers and CEOs who made out like bandits during the financial meltdown while they lost their homes. They resent the fact that Bush and son ran America, that Trudeau and son run Canada, and that Clinton and his wife nearly ran the United States; it suggests to them that the system is rigged to keep the powerful in power; rigged to keep people like them down.

         This underclass is not a majority. They are a small but not insignificant demographic, enough to turn the tide, and they are full of dread. And they don’t give a damn what Trump says about women or blacks or Hispanics—people they desperately need to make common cause with, but won’t. They don’t care whether he has gone bankrupt or cheated his contractors. They don’t care whether Trump deals with Putin or gropes women or says he’ll nuke the North Koreans. They just want somebody who will finally, finally feel their pain and do something about it—never mind any other historically marginalized group or ethnicity in America.

         So now what? Well, I have an old acquaintance, who wrote, on Facebook: “Don’t worry, God is in control.” To which I responded, “Why blame God or God’s plan? We made this bed, we have to sleep in it. No need to bring God into it.”

         She responded by defriending me.

         Essentially, this approach to God and to Trump as God’s crooked stick washes our hands of responsibility to do something about his poisoned politics in the USA, or similar poisoned politics when it rises—as it has and threatens to again—in Canada. In this case, faith in God adds up to an excuse to carry on as before, to baptize the status quo, especially if we are doing okay. This adds up to a weak, emasculated Christianity devoid of inspiration, direction, and wisdom.

         So I want to suggest a different approach. One that is less interested in putting God on a throne where God runs things than it is interested in inspiring Christians to be like Christ, here and now. We should not fear as they fear, says Peter, in 1 Peter 3:14. We should, rather, be Christian.

         You see, I think the solution to Trumpism—at least in the long-term—is not so much to fear Trump as it is to pay careful, empathetic, and loving attention to the concerns of all of America’s—and Canada’s—marginalized classes of people, just as Jesus sought out lepers and women of ill repute and tax-collectors for his inner circle. And in fact, the whole point of living in a democracy is that here we—whether rich or poor, influential or not—we all get to make decisions together for the common good, for our neighbor’s good. We should not fear as they fear. We should do justice and love mercy, instead. It is the Christian—and Muslim, and Hindu, and Jewish, and secular humanist—thing to do.

         The way for us to deal with our fear of the consequences of a Trump presidency, or a Mayor Ford victory, or a turn to extremism in any form has to lie in our decision—to use Peter’s words—to refuse to let our tongues speak evil or our lips deceit—no matter what the demagogues like Gingrich are screaming. We should not fear as they fear. Instead, especially for those who have been left outside the circle of our ease and success, we must redouble our efforts to seek peace—shalom—for the whole body politic.

         I can’t tell you what policies, exactly, will achieve this aspirational goal for Canada. If I were to tell you that would make me a Liberal or Conservative or NDP policy wonk instead of a preacher. But the values that drive our policy choices and voting should have roots in Biblical passages such as the one we read today, or the Sermon on the Mount, or the love chapter in 1 Corinthians 13, or Jesus’ claim that what we do for the prisoner or the hungry or those poorly clothed we do to him. We don’t have to put our fear in the driver’s seat, but we could put our compassion—for the poor who live at Jane and Finch, the First Nations in our prisons and on their reserves, for the homeless at the subway entrances, the immigrants who can’t find work that fits their training and abilities—we could put our compassion in our political driver’s seat and let that compassion drive our search for policy. This is, in fact, what you are already doing: by sponsoring a Syrian refugee family, by supporting Kenny’s work with First Nations youth at risk, and by the many other social outreach programs we do. This is good stuff.

         This is a remarkable congregation. But besides charity, we also have real influence to do lasting social good for the whole nation. This is because we are mostly well-educated. We have careers that influence who buys, what they buy, and what values our corporations are run by. We vote—and are at the table when parties pick candidates and we influence their policy. We know our political representatives personally. We hire people. We take on pro bono clients. We run non-profits. Many of us have personal resources to invest in social good and charity and culture. We are, for the most part if not entirely, utterly unlike the dispossessed who voted for Trump—or the dispossessed on the fringes of Canadian society.  We do not need to fear as they fear. Rather than cross our fingers and leave matters to God’s inscrutable plan, we actually can do great things that make a difference for all. We can, with those on the margins, help build a more lasting, more compassionate, more forward looking dominion.

         I still fear what Trump will do, but I am focused on doing what I can. Remember how Leonard Cohen put it? “Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” True. We’re not perfect. We are not all powerful. There is a crack in everything we do. But we can do our part, which is not inconsiderable, to let the light shine in for all Canadians.

         We should not fear as they fear. We should, instead, be like Christ.

Walls: From Scripture to Trump

When Obama won the presidency, eight years ago, I wept. I’m sure some of you who watched the Chicago celebration also wept. My reasons, though, were very personal. I saw his victory as a ray of light for my own family. 

Election night, Chicago, 2008

My daughter, Mariya, is an Afghani. Her birth family moved to the United States when Russia invaded Afghanistan. She is Caucasian, like most Afghanis, though often mistaken for an Arab, which shouldn’t matter, but does. Her daughter, my granddaughter, Dela, is Afghani-African-American. My daughter-in-law Gillian, is Shona, from Zimbabwe. Her two children, my grandchildren, are African-Americans. I am a dual American-Canadian citizen.

Anyway, when Barack Obama won, I wept because I thought I saw a ray of light when it comes to race-relations. I dared to believe that we were making progress. I believed, hoped, prayed that my grandchildren could live the American dream, that they could be safe on American roads if stopped by the police, that they would be treated as humans in school, not as black kids in need of special discipline, as is too often the case.

That was then . . . by now:

• Donald Trump became the Republican candidate for president. Donald Trump has been sued by the US Justice Department for systematic discrimination against Blacks who wanted to rent his apartments. When Blacks applied, they were told the apartments were no longer available; when whites applied for the same apartment hours later, they were available again. 
• Donald Trump, who once said of his casinos, “Black guys counting my money! I hate it. The only kind of people I want counting my money are short guys that wear yarmulkes every day.” 
• Trump, denounced Mexican immigrants as, quote, “criminals, drug dealers, rapists,” who has demanded that no more Muslims be allowed to enter the USA, who for months refused to distance himself from racist white supremacists. 
• Trump, who insists that rather than take down walls, he wants to build them. 
• Trump, who brags about sexually assaulting women, but denies that he ever did it when nine (and counting) women come forward to say that he assaulted them. 
• Trump who says “an eye for an eye” is his favorite Bible verse (check out Exodus 21:22-25). Jesus, however, said, “You have heard it said ‘eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.’ But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek turn to them the other cheek also” (Matthew 5:38-39).

Well, ganging up on Donald Trump is almost too easy. So easy, in fact, that we don’t pay attention to similar issues and large walls closer to home.

In Canada, for example. One day, last week the paper included a front-page story about a Black man who called 911 because he was robbed on Spadina St., in Toronto. Within minutes there were ten police there—frisking his private parts, going through his luggage, forcing him to raise his hands, scaring him half to death—even though he was the one who called 911. Here in Canada we still struggle with residential schools and their aftermath, missing and murdered indigenous women, high populations of First Nations and Blacks in our prisons, carding, unequal treatment of persons of color in our schools.

On the other hand, there is this lovely video. 

Biologically, we are one. But with respect to race, we all struggle with our personal prejudice, fears, misconceptions, and sometimes the violence of others. I do too.

But listen. When the Christian church was founded, its first leaders insisted on a huge, fundamental change in how people in their era treated other people—people on the fringes. The Apostle Paul put it this way, more or less: In Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith . . . There is no longer Jew or Greek or Black or Arab; there is no longer slave or free or immigrant or First Nations, there is no longer male or female or transgendered or gay, for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. In another place, speaking of how both Jews and gentiles are welcome in the church—and so presumably anyone is welcome, Paul added, “he has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us."

Eight years ago, it was Obama who was our ray of light. Today, as Christians, we need to remember that our religious DNA demands of us that we tear down those walls—sexism, racism, homophobia, xenophobia—it all has to go! Not just for my grandkids, but for Christ’s sake.

Two Two Party Problems: Voting the Issues and Donald Trump

         I’m really interested in politics. Have been all my life. I took out nomination papers to run against Ontario Premier Bill Davis when I was only seventeen. I took out American citizenship so that I could vote for Al Gore (that turned out well). I (privately) considered a run for congress as a Democrat in 2002.

         So here’s what I think now. I’m still interested, but I’m really frustrated. It isn’t just the tone of this year’s Republican race—I don't need to add to the volumes written on this. Rather, it is that our options as voters are so restricted. I have to vote for a Democratic or Republican.

         The trouble with that is that neither party is right on every issue. So, if I’m prolife, but consistently so, so that I’m also for more gun control, less military adventurism, and a better social safety net for the poor—there isn’t anywhere for me to park my vote.

         Or, if I’m fiscally conservative, and want lower taxes and a balanced budget; but socially progressive, so that I favour choice, gay marriage, and getting out of the drone business—there isn’t anywhere for me to park my vote.

         The two-party system is blunt instrument when it comes to making discerning choices. But consider these two further issues:

         First, there is the problem of how limited voting options actually gives legislators way too much freedom to wreak havoc on lower-case issues. It works like this. During every election parties attempt to focus the discussion on the one or two key themes they think will be winners for them. For example, Bill Clinton’s team famously went with, “It’s the economy, stupid,” in 1992. Severely restricting its messaging (or going negative) is cost-effective, memorable, motivational in a way that drives policy wonks crazy.

         Why? Because ultimately, in single-theme elections, there is no electoral accountability on issues further down most people’s list of key issues. Take me, for example. Some of the issues I care about are racism, climate change, gerrymandering, refugees, immigration reform, and campaign spending. The trouble is, no election is ever going to be fought on these issues when the advertising machine is telling us the election is about the economy, or terrorism, or Washington culture. That means, on the lower priority issues not in the spotlight, politicians actually have carte blanche to do what they want without fear of repercussions. They may be swayed, for example, by special interests or big donors or strong armed congressional leadership on these issues knowing that voters will never hold them to account anyway.

         What’s the solution for problem one? Being a dual citizen of Canada and the USA, I might suggest a viable third party as a way to spice up the options. But the truth is, there really isn’t that much difference between Canada’s Liberals and New Democrats, especially after the Liberals moved left to crowd the New Democrats out of the natural territory.

         Another solution might be major electoral reform. The Liberal party has promised some form of proportional representation before the next Federal election in Canada. The Fair Vote organization (www.fairvote.org) in the USA promotes similar policies.

         But second, the two party system harbours another deeper genetic defect that is extremely worrisome. When only two parties are leading the charge, the assumption most people will make, I think, is that the rhetoric in both parties is going to have the establishment’s stamp of approval. That is, most of us in a two-party system figure that both parties are necessarily going to be thoughtful, rational options.

         But what happens when one of the parties comes unstuck, because a smaller group within it, or a unique set of historical conditions pushes it to extremes of policy or even rhetoric? That seems to be the situation in the Republican party right now. Trump continues to lead, in spite of his hateful policy proposals and scapegoating everyone from Muslims, Mexicans, women to McCain and Obama (who may or may not have been born in the USA, apparently).

         What happens is that more and more people will think that Trump's policy proposals and scapegoating must be within the realm of thoughtful, rational politics, because after all, he’s one of those party’s leading candidates for president. What happens when Trump can’t be dismissed from the race is that his rhetoric is “baptized,” even if unwittingly, by his participation in that party’s electoral process. What happens is that you create the conditions necessary to subvert the very principles of equality, and the right to pursue life, liberty and happiness that the United States has usually pursued since its creation. 

         Solutions here? A crushing electoral defeat of Trump, should he become the candidate, might suggest that his universe of discourse has no future in America. I’d like that. I also guess  that such a defeat is highly likely should Trump be nominated (though never certain). However, given that most Americans reliably vote for the same party election after election, and that party messaging will try hard to divert attention away from issues that won’t play well for them (like Trump’s excessive rhetoric), the prospects for a truly crushing electoral defeat seems low. Furthermore, the historical circumstances line up for Trump too, since terrorists, and the immigrants largely produced by fallout from America’s wars abroad (or drug wars at home), are not going away anytime soon. And if nothing else, the history of the Jews, or even of America’s Salem witches, suggests that what people everywhere really want when they’re afraid is a scapegoat. Trump is offering scapegoats up wholesale.

         So ultimately, I fear that win or lose, Trump's rhetoric will have a much stronger toehold in America’s conscience than before. Trump is the needle and the damage is done. After this year it will take a long time for electoral rhetoric to move in a more humane direction.

         Which means, I suppose, that if we don’t like what Trump is saying, we better get out there and say our piece too—wherever we can, whenever, as loudly and as civilly as we can manage.