A Light Essay on the Election

Charles Taliaferro is a beloved philosophy professor at St. Olaf college who focuses on the study of philosophical theology in particular. His classes are the favorite among many on campus and he is known for curating lively discussions in class while accompanied by his friendly sheltie Pip. He has published multiple books focusing on love, aesthetics and theism. Here is his essay dedicated to George Snow and other students.

The term "election" in English is derived from the Latin, electio, meaning "to pick out," and evolved through the Anglo-French term for choosing or choice.  Elections took place in the Ancient Greco-Roman democracies, but what might also be called elections took place among non-democracies in which the elite pick out whom to lead and assign those who are to follow.  In philosophical theology, we study many elections and investiture historical conflicts, the processes by which persons pick out or recognize sages or spiritual - philosophical leaders but, for much of the history of ideas, the term "election" was principally used to refer to the choice that was made eternally by unsurpassable, omnipotent, majestic, cosmic-sustaining POWER to become manifested or incarnated as a vulnerable human being of love who taught non-violence and compassion, a person who healed the sick and then was subject to torture and death by religious and state authorities who feared his life and teaching of love.  You do not need to be a Christian or even like Christianity to appreciate how this vision, at its core, repudiates the hollow glory of state tyranny, opportunistic, organized violence.  So Gandhi, who had awe for the teaching and life of Christ (especially the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount) was a non-Christian Hindu, who nonetheless sought to draw on the core teaching of love that he found in common with world religions.  

What might Gandhi say about the USA election?  I am not sure, but we may gain some insight about how he sought to connect between persons of profound differences.  In 1942, Louis Fischer visited Gandhi's ashram and noticed that the only decoration on the wall was a picture of Jesus with the caption "He is our peace."  Fischer said to Gandhi: "But you are not a Christian."  Gandhi replied: "I am a Christian and a Hindu and a Muslim and a Jew."  Fischer records what he thought when Gandhi said this: "Then you are a better Christian than most Christians."  Again, Gandhi was a non-Christian Hindu, but he so sought to identify with what is good at the core of world religions, he was prepared to fight (through non-violent protest) injustice with any of those committed to compassion and justice. He sought to do something else as well, something more intimate.

During his final fast, not long before his assassination, members of a Hindu death squad burst into Gandhi's quarters.  One man came forward and begged Gandhi to help him.  "I am in hell," he said.  "Why are you in hell, my son."  The man replied: "The Muslims killed my child.  Today, I killed a Muslim boy."  Gandhi replied (slowly; this event is faithfully recorded in the epic 1982 film Gandhi based on the reliable testimony of three persons who were there) "I know a way out of hell.  You must find a young Muslim boy. The same age as your son.  And you must raise him."  Pause.  Pause. Pause. Pause.  "As a Muslim."

Impossible?  Maybe, but what Gandhi required of the man of violence, was for him to renounce violence and instead resort to nurture.  And to so remove himself from his own religion so as to reach out in compassionate love to others.  The man was to remain a Hindu himself, but he was tasked to so nurture another soul so as to purge himself of a hatred for Muslims, for "the other."

Should Democrats seek to find little, young Trump supporters and raise them as Republicans or vice versa?  This might either just contribute to a Saturday Night Live skit or cause a riot, though perhaps not as serious as the riot Gandhi was seeking to dispel in which Hindus and Muslims were committing acts of violence against each other on the streets in Northern India.  But I wonder if there might be something to do that goes half way with Gandhi's proposal.  Perhaps we might take our eyes off of worldly elections and think more cosmically of THE CHOICE we make in our lives to tend to each others' needs, feelings, aspirations, and dreams.  Some of us might feel like that person Gandhi sought to help on that evening during the last months of his life.  If so, there is a way out of hell.  But, if Gandhi is right, it will take time, perseverance, and loving those we might otherwise see as enemies.

Growing Into Newness

We are re-launching the Millennial Quest publishing with a brilliant post by Taylor DeNaples. Stay tuned for more articles in the near future!

I’m a new college grad. I’m in a new city. Moved into a new (for me) house with three new young folks. What an exciting time. I’m so freaking excited.

Young folks like myself seem to be expected to take on newness as “exciting” or “adventurous.” But what about young folks like myself who are teased for being an old spirit, or, as my sister says, “an old man.” Neither am I male nor seventy-five, but yes, I do like oatmeal raisin cookies better than chocolate chip cookies and I don’t like going out past ten and I have been called cute—like the old man from “Up”—and yes, I do call my peers “young folks.” Is this “old soul” of mine the reason I’m not feeling as adventurous as I feel like I should? Is that why I’m feeling uncomfortable in my new surroundings?

I got comfy in my college life. I majored in English and Religion. I found friends who majored in English and Religion. I thought about historical context. I thought about systems. I thought about language. I thought about art and poetry and what makes this world beautiful and I thought about food that was cooked for me and about the papers I was writing and the books I was reading. I thought about theology. I thought a lot about dead white theologians.

There are three popular options for a religion major after undergrad: grad school, social service, or seminary. As one of many religion major millennials who is uninterested in ministry, I opted to work with Lutheran Volunteer Corps for a year—to move to the west side of Milwaukee and try to be a positive part of the change erupting in our country. I studied religion for a deep interest in people and how they orient their lives. What I’m beginning to realize is how hard it can be to translate theory into daily practice where people are real and suffering is real and anger is real.

As I was talking with my new landlord—a pastor at a nearby church that I attended for the first time today—he mentioned that he’d like to write something someday. I asked what kind of thing. He said, something that will make people uncomfortable (just hearing that made me a little uncomfortable for a moment—what does he mean by that?). Something, he said, that will get people who have the privilege of ignoring injustices, because it is not their daily reality, to wake up and do something about it. This requires getting out of being comfortable.

Being comfortable is, in one sense, feeling at home. It’s feeling like you have a safe, comfortable place to rest and rejuvenate from outside—which is so important for a person’s wellbeing. How about for those who don’t feel at home anywhere? For whom it’s unnerving to see a police car as they walk down the street?

I’m living in a daily reality that is new for me in many ways—first time to be the minority in my neighborhood, first time I’m close to injustices happening. I moved into my new house a few days before the shooting and unrest in Milwaukee that reached national news. The following week I listened to people talk about their neighborhood, their worry for their teenage sons, their frustration, their sadness, their powerful words.

I’m uncomfortable thinking about systematic oppression. I’m uncomfortable thinking about my privilege. I’m uncomfortable trying to express anything about racism—what if I say something offensive? But right now if that discomfort is preventing me from thinking and talking and acting on matters of discrimination and oppression based on the color of a person’s skin, then nothing will change. At LVC orientation we heard the phrase “courageous space.” I’m attempting to enter new spaces courageously, though it may be uncomfortable, even frightening.

Perhaps the question isn’t whether or not my lack of excitement for newness is atypical of my peers—everyone experiences discomfort. Rather, the question is how to best react to and use this discomfort. Of course I’m not thrilled and excited about the discomfort of newness. But am I going to shut myself out mentally, emotionally, physically in order to get through? Or am I going to let myself feel it and let the discomfort begin to change my frame of mind in order to address the injustices around me?

We’re all in a time of change and newness. We’re in a world being pulled and torn by tensions too many to count—race, gender, class, socioeconomic disparity, housing, immigration, homelessness, political upset, fill in fill in. The earth is suffocating, it’s crying, it’s burning. And it’s time to accept that discomfort is okay, and necessary, if this place is going to improve. So perhaps it’s not so bad to experience discomfort in this new place—maybe allowing myself-yourself-ourselves to feel the discomfort is exactly what we need right now. If I let myself enter into it and let it shape me—maybe I can go on to change my surroundings.

What am I to do about the way things are? Well, I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s too big for me. But I also know that if I breathe love and trust and understanding, the folks next to me are sharing this air I’m breathing. So while I’m here, I’m going to start making this newness familiar. My plan for the current moment is simply this—go outside, sit on the stoop, meet my new neighbors, and learn something new about their lives.