Drew Downs

  • The big mistake in how we talk about regulations

    Since the rise of Ronald Reagan, there has been a way many speak about the rules of national and local government. People will speak of the catch-all of regulations with almost a sneer, as if these attempts to hold one another accountable is a fundamental problem, when it is often the thing that keeps your neighbor from dumping toxic chemicals into your yard.

    In recent months, the conversation has shifted toward Abundance, the idea Ezra Klein and Derek Thompson define in a book with the same name. Abundance, naturally, is the sense of plenty. This is intended to contrast with scarcity; the mindset that fuels austerity.

    For the US, images abundance bring to mind are our most profound: the New Deal, putting a man on the moon, finally achieving civil rights. Scarcity has brought us obsession with tax policy, empty store fronts, and neverending “culture war” issues. In other words, when we treat our environment like there is enough, we can do great things. And the opposite means we never will.

    The bigger talking point in Abundance discourse, however, has been around regulations. Specifically, how we talk about them.

    A regulation is literally just a rule.

    A law. It’s purpose is to keep everything going fairly.

    The problem is what we imply by the word regulation. We often imply that a regulation is “burdensome” or that there are always “too many” of them. These are neither objective nor consistent truths. In essence, the word carries a far more negative tone than it has earned.

    We also tangle up our thoughts about the wider legal system and the development of legal code. This is natural, since the law is what we’re talking about here. But these are often related concepts rather than the most representative challenge.

    We so often hear about the small business owner with no employees struggling to keep up with all of the hardships. But most talk of regulations in news stories revolves around massive corporations wanting to shave costs. We’re talking politics at the state and federal level while thinking of our neighbor punching numbers in a manual counting machine.

    The word regulation has baggage. And most of that baggage is preventing us from seeing the central problem.

    A regulation is a rule. People and systems interact with the rules. And nine out of ten times, when we blame “regulations” it is because a person or a system is preventing us from doing something.

    In other words, it isn’t the law, the regulation, that is the direct problem. It’s the person or the system.

    People are often the problem.

    Consider the U.S. Supreme Court. A half century ago, it declared a constitutional right to abortion. Then it declared there wasn’t one. The law didn’t change. The members of the court changed. Then the mind of the court changed. Then the interpretation changed.

    It isn’t the law, it’s the people.

    This isn’t to say there aren’t bad laws. Oh, there are plenty of those. Poorly constructed or vaguely worded laws provide an undue burden on the courts and the people tasked with understanding their purpose. But that isn’t “regulation” in general. And more often than not, it has been user error that does the most harm.

    This is why the seemingly mundane derision of regulations is problematic. It draws us away from the problem. That more often than not, it isn’t the laws themselves, its the way people use them.

    Regulations and Speed

    In an interview with The New Republic, Kentucky Governor Andy Beshear suggests that “the Democrats need to admit that there are times when we are over-regulated, and we’ve created so many rules that some programs that we believe are essential for the American people simply take too long.” He uses for his example the long-delayed Internet for All program.

    Given the vaguely sinister normality of vilifying the regulatory process and how free we are to respond with the suggestion that we only ever strip away laws which protect us, it’s easy to believe our problem of speed is merely the friction of regulations — and not regulators or systems of regulating. That it is the laws themselves and not people. And certainly not people who intentionally gum up the works.

    When asked about what regulations should be waved, Beshear said this:

    “What we’ve seen in Kentucky is even a permitting process doesn’t have to be adversarial. If you were talking to the companies and groups that you’re working with, we get most of our factories up and running three to six months faster than most states, and we abide by every environmental and workplace safety rule. What we do is work with and communicate with groups that are doing these projects. They know the expectations. If there are ways to find a solution, move something one direction or another, you impact fewer streams, you invoke fewer rules.” [emphasis mine]

    Not only does he not name a regulation, he describes a process that doesn’t change them. A process that, in fact, meets all of them more efficiently than anywhere else. This isn’t about regulations. What he describes instead is a way of making government more efficient by shaping the system itself.

    The system is the issue.

    Beshear is an effective governor because he is better at making things happen. He is connecting people, agencies, local governments, industries, and making things go.

    Now notice where he goes with this:

    “In the Internet for All, it wasn’t that they were going to provide the money, set the rules, and then audit us to make sure that we followed them. It was that we had developed every piece of a plan we had to contract and subcontract before we could even submit the plan to potentially be approved. It was set up as a multiyear process before the construction ever started. And again, it was meant to be transformational. But if you want to actually transform in a way that helps people’s everyday lives, you’ve got to be a little bit impatient.”

    None of this is that bogeyman called Regulations! It is a mindset that pervades much of DC and our state capitals that we attach strings to money. And to get the money, we need to do a thousand things first to prove we’re worthy.

    Having spent over three decades of direct involvement with the nonprofit sector, I will tell you that the whole industry is built this same way, with these same prejudices, inefficiencies, and overt skepticisms built into every single part of the process. One must prove one is worth the handout. That one is sufficiently poor and suitably talented. We were constantly asked to raise more money with fewer resources each year to receive less grant money from each source. My rural volunteer organization in northern Michigan had to compete at scale with the same organization’s Detroit branch.

    This isn’t law. It’s how we choose to run things. We can choose to do things differently.

    The Neutrality Obstacle

    Beshear finishes his response to the question of regulations by stating:

    “You’ve got to understand that people are hurting now and need help now. But if it takes five years to put a program in place, you may have lost an entire generation that needed that help, that needed that assistance, or that deserves that infrastructure.”

    What Beshear spells out is not a regulation problem, but a systemic one. And the reason we have a systemic problem is that we intentionally and unintentionally use neutrality to block progress. In a literal sense, a non-vote is the same as a no vote on the floor.

    The same takes place in our complicity with the demonization of the regulatory state — particularly accepting the assumption that regulations unnecessarily slow down the process. This obscures the human element. It isn’t that zoning laws are bad or that environmental studies are bad. Our problem is that we are willing to blame regulations rather than fix our relationships.

    Our problem is that we are willing to blame regulations rather than fix our relationships.

    And it is that false neutrality that prevents us from connecting, allowing everyone to blame “the system” for being inefficient. But it isn’t actually the system we’re blaming, let alone reforming.

    the anti-regulatory stance seeks to remove the laws without changing the systems. It therefore doesn’t attempt to increase efficiency within the system. It merely takes cops off the beat.

    Beshear outlines the reform.

    The irony of this interview is that Andy Beshear offers the right solution to the presenting problem. He just stuck it in the wrong package. And, while many believe it is a necessary package, he would get significantly further if he actually said Regulations aren’t the problem, our relationships are. We need to distribute funds smarter and faster, and to build smarter and faster.

    After five decades of demonizing the regulations that protect our water, homes, food, cars, schools, public spaces, national parks, toys, retirement accounts, 401Ks, etc., we’ve gotta start talking like these are the benefits we know them to be.

    This doesn’t mean we don’t take the NIMBY (not in my backyard) problem seriously. But it is to refuse to center our response on the regulations and away from the people and systems which govern them. Too much of the reform in the neoliberal era and our present reformation has obscured the role of politicians who have legislated for inefficiency with a deregulatory mindset and defended the incredible influence of monopolistic corporations.

    What Klein, Thompson, and Beshear all get right is that our mindset needs to shift and our work needs to center on the needs of our communities. We need to be able to move faster and produce. In this way, abundance is absolutely right.

    These same leaders need to recognize that the language of deregulation undercuts the message, blurring it’s purpose. We aren’t at war with legal standards that are generally pretty easy to maintain. The regulation isn’t the bureaucracy. The bureaucracy is the bureaucracy.

    And when we center our minds on that, we can see what most gets in the way of progress tends to be ourselves and one another. In other words, the whole side of the conversation we refuse to talk about.

  • What’s their angle? —for Advent 2A

    For Sunday 
    Advent 2A


    Collect

    Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.

    Amen.

    Reading

    Matthew 3:1-12

    Reflection

    For those of us who have grown up in the church, it is easy to treat the Pharisees and Sadducees as the antagonists of the story. So whenever they show up, we already know to hate them, right? It’s like Gaston in Beauty and the Beast — we boo him when he comes on screen. But that isn’t here yet. That isn’t the point. Nor, dare I say, their role to play. Especially here.

    Even so, why does John call them “Brood of Vipers”? And why does he ask who warned them to flee? Does it even matter, since warning is what John seems to be doing? It feels like he’s rejecting people who could be on Team Messiah! I doubt it is, though.

    There is a gap between the learned and the masses; a chasm that can only be bridged by radical transparency or widespread literacy: developments which would come many centuries later.

    And this seems to be part of the frustration.

    It is as if John is leading a worker’s movement and corporate CEOs and Wall Street traders are showing up to join in. It isn’t about the inclusiveness of the movement so much as the nature of it — and how unlikely it is that these people are all that interested in joining it. Precisely because the message isn’t directed at them. It is for the people that they are actively taking advantage of.

    And why it’s natural for John to assume there’s an angle.

    It seems they still have something to prove. That they are trees that can bear fruit worthy of repentance. Not as a potentiality, but right now.

  • Winnow — sorting out what is worth keeping

    I struggle with a common affliction. One we might call: “We Might Need That”. It is a disease often inherited, but it can be situational. We can find the evidence in boxes of cables in the garage or the junk drawer that is stuffed with batteries, manuals, and hex wrenches from Ikea projects. It can also be art supplies, yarn, or old pans. Those things we keep moving out of the way so we can get to the things we’ll actually use. But we never get rid of them.

    The central concern of this disease is that we have a thing now that might be useful in the future. And if we get rid of it, then we won’t have it. Most of us who experience these symptoms have had the frustration of replacement. Of going to the store to buy something we used to have. Something that was perfectly fine, but it seemed so ridiculous to hold onto. That second purchase burns.

    Or perhaps we are moved with desire to be useful. To be the person who has it. So when the four-foot HDMI isn’t long enough, we have a six-foot cable on hand. Like Mighty Mouse, we’re saving the day.

    There is an internalized pressure to the idea of being prepared. And one that is named as virtuous. From scouting to the gospels, the idea of being prepared is paramount.

    The Big Sort

    The kind of winnowing John the Baptist describes the Messiah doing is not like this at all, however. He says that the Messiah will come to sort us. And hopefully we’re the wheat.

    The Messiah isn’t afflicted with “We Might Need That.” And this sorting seems very different from the cables in our garage. We might call it “being decisive,” and it is, but I think the better articulation is unattached. Unattached to the “could be” and convicted to support what is: about our lives, our loves, our justice.

    This is a different kind of decision-making.

    When we struggle to throw away old cables, we’re preparing for a hypothetical future.

    God’s focus is on what we are actually doing with our lives — and our neighbors.

  • Giving in Love — Jesus’s Alternative to Fear

    Jesus’s alternative to fear
    Advent 1A  |  Matthew 24:36-44

    Noah, Rapture, “But about that day and hour no one knows” . . . apocalyptic talk of flooding and separating, the Lord coming here and a thief breaking in . . . there is a lot hitting us today and we should take a breath and consider for a second what is all happening here.

    Jesus was leaving the Temple. Holy Week. His disciples were oohing and ahhing over the grandeur of this incredible human achievement to glorify God. And Jesus tells them that it will be destroyed. That a time will come when all things will change. It must be a terrifying moment for them. And one of the things he does here, too, is tell them to notice what is happening. In the verses right before this one, he says: “From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near” (Matthew 24:32). Just like a farmer can smell the rain coming, you can tell when junk is about to get real.

    Pay attention, in other words. Keep your wits about you. This is a kind of urgency Jesus evokes. A sort of necessary attention. But this isn’t the whole lesson. In fact, he seems to shift here and take it in the opposite direction. “But about that day and hour no one knows”. So . . . predict the unpredictable? 

    Live Life

    Notice what is happening, see how things are changing, and prepare for it. But what that preparation looks like is different. This isn’t survivalist stuff. We aren’t doomsday prepping here and planning for the worst, thinking the worst, building up the worst with our selfish hoarding and defeatist attitudes. This isn’t about isolation and canned goods, friends. 

    Jesus offers an odd comparison. Noah. Be like him. And this comparison is odd enough to confuse some people right out of the point. Which we’ll get into in a second. But first, stick with me. Preparation, seeing the signs, take it all seriously. Like Noah. Who listened to God, built the arc, did the work, protected the animals, his family, and kept a righteous mind through the end of the world. He lived.

    The throughline is living. Living as we are called to live while others are losing their minds. While the world has gone crazy. Live a life of love. 

    Hear it? The message to keep at it. You know the way. Jesus has taught you. Keep following when the world goes crazy.

    The Mistake

    Where some have gone wrong with this passage is losing touch with the throughline. Letting go, drifting away, the current takes them in a different direction. They start thinking about Noah, the deluge, the destruction of the world and are drawn to seeing this as God saving Noah from destruction — separation. Which it is. And like Jesus will speak of in chapter 25, the judgement and separation of sheep and goats, of those who serve and those who don’t.

    This different line of thinking led to a nineteenth century theological development we know as the rapture: the belief that God will bring the good people from the earth and sweep them up to heaven for all eternity. And the rest will be left on the earth to be annihilated in a total destruction of reality. This is a great mistake — it reads the text completely backwards.

    Noah is not swept away from the earth, he is preserved on the earth. And those that are taken up, separated in this moment that these folk call the rapture, are the proverbial goats removed from the sheep. We want to be left behind, folks. God’s setting things right is a restoration of justice here.

    Back to the Future

    Let’s bring our original calling back in: we live through the apocalypse. We keep at it. Even when we’re scared. When things look bleak. The darkness grows. We keep loving our neighbors. Proclaiming the Good News of Christ crucified and risen. And meeting Jesus on the streets, in the hungry, the sick, the imprisoned. 

    The dark motifs are unsettling and confuse us. They distract us. But this is why we read the gospels over and over and learn the story they tell together. 

    One of my favorite throughlines in the gospel is this: Jesus calls these ordinary people, fishermen, a doctor, a tax collector, people from all walks of life. Just not the Torah scholars — the ones trained from adolescence. The ones born into the sect that is expected to go to school, to train, to become this thing they might not be any good at. Jesus wanted to make regular people into disciples. 

    He drew these people close and he shared his power with them: to heal and exorcize demons. They proclaimed the Good News and did wondrous deeds. And everything is amazing. For a time. When everything felt good. When everything felt easy. That’s when Jesus raised the stakes. When Jesus was challenged by the Pharisees. And Jesus told them that he was going to be crucified. He disappeared up a mountain for a day with three disciples.

    When things were easy, the disciples followed Jesus easily. When things got hard, they fell apart. The gospel story shows us that they knew how to do it. They just lost their heads. That’s why it fell apart. Not because it got hard, but because they stopped doing the work when it got hard.

    Now, Jesus is giving his disciples a chance to see their own experience differently. To not be taken up by the destruction of everything they hold dear and separated from the love of God by hatred and fear and rejection of the core tenants of Jesus’s Way of Love. These are the stakes. What’s on offer.

    We can choose to live.

    This is the story of Jesus’s apocalyptic talk. This is where he will go over the next chapter, offering dark parables which twist our expectations. We need to protect the most precious part of our lives: the will to love. It is more precious than anything we own. More precious than our homes, our culture, our ways of life. It is the thing we are commanded to do and is the heart of the gospel and God’s very substance: love. If we don’t do that, then what are we even doing here?

    It feels like an alternative, like a different path from the rest of the world. It is, of course. And why Jesus tells us that others will fear it and families will divide over it. Because they would rather preserve life than preserve love. They would sacrifice the Way of Love to preserve their way of life: possessions, wealth, family, and lifestyle. Power, too. Place. Sense of superiority. All of it over love.

    Jesus was speaking to people who sacrificed the Way of Love to go to war with Rome, who were further brutalized by oppression. And we could be in a similar danger of hearing this as a lesson of accepting oppression rather than opposing it. But this, friends, is again forgetting the lessons, losing touch with the throughline. Not fight vs. flight, but a third way. Standing up in Jesus’s Way of Love in light of the dark moment.

    It is loving when the world tries to pull the hate out of us. 

    It is hoping when the world tries to make us give up.

    And giving when the world tries to get us to hoard what we’ve got. Fearing there is no future, no hope, no love to trust, to stake our future upon. To give everything away. Not in love, but fear.

    Righteous living is the alternative.

    To giving up. Giving in. We can live through this time with gratitude for all that God is doing, even when it looks dark. Giving back! Loving neighbors! Joyously!

    We must look for the good when evil forces would blind us, confuse us with fear. It’s there. In the gift-giving and the pledging and the serving and the singing and playing and creating and the talking and the crying and all of the ways we show up for one another. 

    This morning, someone is dying. Someone is grieving. Someone is caring for them, comforting them. And we are praying. And love is there with them, around them, and here, with us, around us. 

    Love is our work. It is our living. Our way. It is the ground of our being. Our everything. We don’t trade that in for fear. For hatred. For retaliation and abuse. To trade good for evil, joy for hatred and pain. That is the world’s worst transaction. Friends, we mustn’t be swindled, conned by someone who doesn’t even know what love is! Who’d trade it for a bag of beans.

    We walk in love as God loves us. And that is what it means to live. To let go of fear and hatred and be people of light. People of hope. People of love.

    And we give generously to this cause so we might all do the same. That we can continue to encourage one another, to live, to be, to love. Here. Always. To the end of our days. And so others can keep the love going. To the end of their days. And beyond. For everything we give. For love we give. Everything for love.

  • Apocalyptic Urgency—for Advent 1A

    For Sunday 
    Advent 1A


    Collect

    Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.

    Amen.

    Reading

    Matthew 24:36-44

    Reflection

    I’ll admit, I don’t like when Jesus gets pushy and cryptic, like he’s rushing us out the door and isn’t quite ready to tell us where we’re really going. It’s an odd feeling: part “trust me” and part “you should already know this.” But this is what we get for the first week of Advent each year.

    The name of the game this week is urgency. Jesus wants us to take these things seriously and urgently. Like, don’t sleep on this — make the change you need to make now. Don’t wait.

    Historical critical scholars will tell you that there was a kind of historical urgency in the writing, and a big part of it had to do with revolts against Rome and Rome’s devastating retaliation that destroyed the Temple. They will speak of the belief of early followers that took this talk most literally, so they metaphorically packed their bags so they could be ready to head out with Jesus any minute now. But, over the ensuing centuries, we’ve had to temper that urgency a bit. Contextualize it and discern from it what we might need to receive from it.

    I tend to see this from the context of what it means for us: which is about our posture toward God, our neighbors, and our world. A posture built on the urgency of good means we don’t hesitate to love, be generous, and prepare with gratitude. It also serves as a reminder of what not to do: put off generosity, scheduling for a more convenient time, or seeking goodness when it is easier, more comfortable, or strategically useful.

    Much of this sounds like preparation, right? It is, sort of. But let us not undersell the specific character of urgency, which involves the actions in the moment, of being in the right place at the right time. It isn’t throwing together a survival kit and calling it good — it is making one’s life so characterized by the love of God that love is the response to the moment, any moment, when it comes.

  • Left Behind — remembering the purpose

    The lectionary designates the gospel for the first week of Advent as apocalyptic. We hear Jesus warn his followers about a time when the world will be reconciled to God, which will lead to the total transformation of all things. So they ought to get ready for it.

    The Big Sort.

    Yes. But some Christians have gotten this moment a bit confused.

    Starting in the 19th century, a few theologians started to assume this moment of sorting is when good people would be taken up, bodily and alive, to heaven. This is often referred to as The Rapture. This is a strange reading of scripture and tradition.

    Before this reading, which seems to synthesize the big sort with an interpretation of the Kingdom of Heaven as a permanent hereafter in the sky, our common vision was more rooted in justice. In this way, it was about the reconciling of people with God. It isn’t about motivating people to get themselves heaven-bound.

    The Wrong Direction

    That’s why, what we see here is actually an image of sorting, not for heaven, but for condemnation. The people being taken up aren’t bound for heaven, but the other place. Because the promise isn’t annihilation of existence: it is to bring us into justice.

    Consider it this way: why do books and movies often end with the bad guy getting their comeuppance? Because we need to see the justice. Similarly, do stories usually end with the bad guys controlling everything still but the good guys get spirited away? This does happen, but it isn’t nearly as satisfying.

    We Must Experience Justice.

    For it to be real justice, we must experience it. The balancing needs to be real. And this is much more consistent with Jesus’s teaching and the theology of the time than rapture theology.

    The point is not to “save” the righteous only, but to bring justice to the world.

    This is the message we are called to carry with us as we green our homes and prepare for the blessed birth. That God is seeking justice here. Here.

    Here.

    For the sake of the world.

  • Modern Apocalypse — the Crucifixion and redeeming love

    The Crucifixion and redeeming love
    Proper Last C  |  Luke 23:33-43

    The crucifixion. What a downer. And a strange way to say Happy Holidays, right? 

    Last week, we had the story of Jesus and the disciples leaving the Temple, mesmerized by its enormity, beauty, that awesome response to this miraculous achievement, like skyscrapers and other wonders of the world, and Jesus is like, “eh, I wouldn’t get too attached.”

    These aren’t particularly happy stories, if you hadn’t noticed. But they point to things in the darkness. Things we’d rather shut our eyes to avoid. So we miss them. The whole truth. Of these Temples and crucifixions we tolerate, the selfish wonders and corruptions that are just part of our lives. Imposed on our lives, even. And they make us sad, despondent, until we accept it as normal, inevitable.

    And Jesus says: don’t.

    Apocalyptic Normal

    I like this time of year, though. Not for the holidays that are fast approaching exactly, but for the spiritual landscape we journey through. The downer stories we read at the end of the liturgical calendar and the beginning of the new. Of waiting impatiently for the incarnation, for the world to be transformed. It feels like our work. Holy work.

    The church gives us this pattern for a reason. It wants to normalize the apocalyptic imagination. The simple fact that we still fear apocalyptic talk and avoid thinking about the darkness of the season as a culture shows just how rebellious and ignorant we can be to our vocation as followers of Jesus.

    We’re talking apocalyptic today. And we’re going to talk apocalyptic next week. Because that is what the church calls us to do. 

    But first, we have to remind ourselves what this actually means. Because we associate the word with the side effects to the medication rather than to the medication itself, if you get my meaning.

    Apocalypse is a Greek word which means to unveil or reveal. Apocalyptic stories, then, are about revealing the truth: of God and the world. And they often show what happens when God sets to make things right.

    This is why the common associations with gruesome depictions of the End Times, of conflict and destruction, are so animating and present in this. We treat these as synonyms for apocalypse, rather than the revealing: that evil sets to destroy the innocent in our world now. And God’s promise is that this must come to an end.

    The Crucifixion is apocalyptic.

    Because it reveals the evil of the world and the love of God. It is a contrast of the evil we are called to abhor and the love we are to embody. 

    The darkness, the shame, outrage, sadness that comes with it — we need a container for that. Some place to put that. And chances are we really only face that fact in the spring during Holy Week. The rest of the time, it is an abstraction. A data point. Something that happened.

    On the way back from Waycross last Sunday, I passed a church sign that declared “We preach Christ crucified” and I said to the universe 

    Good for you!

    And I also said

    So do we! Because that phrase is just a saying — describing the proclamation of the Good News. How we go about our business as pilgrims on the Way of Love. We preach Christ crucified . . . and risen. And this led me to say to the universe…

    Where’s the “and risen?” It’s just like Good Friday without Easter. Which is as true as the other thought that came next.

    Do most of us actually preach of Christ Crucified and risen? Most of the time, we talk about the presence of Jesus or our belief or faith or love, but not the crucifixion. And, let’s be honest, just talking about it all the time isn’t the same thing as preaching it.

    What then does it mean to preach Christ crucified and risen?

    It works in the same general tenor of living Christ crucified and risen. It isn’t a matter of talking about it or assenting to it as a faith statement. It isn’t a concept to understand in our heart or adopt so we “get right” with God. It is more like a way of being, like living into the love of God rather than the violence of the world. Like being in communion with your neighbors rather than hostility, isolation, and rejection.

    It is about seeing the revealed world around us as good because God made it and many of our cultural priorities as evil when they undermine it. Priorities like war and violence, persecution and pain, greed and isolation. Those things that pull us from love and faith and hope; sharing with others, building up our community, and enjoying life in this neighborhood.

    We receive this gospel story from the cross today because it reveals how broken the world’s priorities so often are. Not because they must be or will be, as if it is all predestined to be so. But because that is how people often tend to gain power and privilege. It is how we make sense of our moment and our struggles. And it’s often how we make ourselves feel better — by mocking the weak. Even from our own weakness.

    And yet, any of us can stand up. Like the thief from the cross. He accepts his own weakness, rejects the patterns of power that put him there and torture him there. Patterns that oppressors use to oppress them and that the other thief mimics himself! He is oppressing himself — accepting the lie of the world and mocking along with the ones who mock him. But the one stands up, and in so doing, gains salvation.

    The Real Criminals

    It is important to remember that these two crucified with Jesus, called “criminals” in the text, are there to contrast with Jesus, who was innocent. They are factually guilty of the crimes for which they are convicted, while Jesus is not. The writer of Luke takes great pains to ensure the reader understands this fact.

    Historically, there is only one crime that is punished with crucifixion: insurrection. The threat of taking up arms against the state. These aren’t people who did an individual sin or stole something. This is particularly important given our cultural bias toward believing Middle Eastern crime and punishment is reprisal and vindictive: cutting off a hand for getting caught stealing, for example. 

    These two men next to Jesus aren’t thieves or common criminals. They are traitors in the eyes of Rome. Which probably make them folk heroes in the eyes of zealous Hebrews. Revolutionaries for the cause of liberation. The one zealot probably doesn’t think he has a single thing to repent for. Because his cause is Godly.

    The other, however, sees that Jesus reveals the truth. That God’s way isn’t violent revolution. Nor is it violent oppression. Or violent suppression. He, therefore, is guilty. Not just guilty of breaking Rome’s oppressive laws, but of evil. Guilty of rejecting God’s true authority.

    This is about authority.

    As much as the church likes the wordplay of Jesus’s kingship and it rubs me the wrong way because we miss the nuance of it, this story is about authority. It is about the evil of kings and the reign of Christ as the anti-king. 

    We see this all apocalyptically because it reveals the truth of power, the truth of supremacy. It helps us see how tyranny condemns the guilty and the innocent alike. It is capricious and violent, full of hatred, malice, and punishes with both anger and fear. It hides its vulnerability and preys on the vulnerable. It sends to death those who want a different way.  And causes everyone to think only in terms of violence.

    And it reveals the Jesus Alternative. It exposes the limits of violence, oppression, and suppression and offers a genuine alternative to the violence dichotomy: fight or flight. Of standing up for our convictions. And of being vulnerable and offering vulnerability as a means of connection. 

    Like children.

    We aren’t supposed to be independent from God, but dependent on God.

    The lies of our culture obscure our view and make us fall for the delusion. And given enough focus on the fake vision of the world, we’ll find the reveal to be painful. That the apocalyptic imagination hurts, rather than helps. But that isn’t exactly true. It is an untruth we’ve accepted to make this distorted world more hospitable. To survive it.

    Jesus doesn’t want us to survive. He wants us to live. Really live. With love and joy and all manner of hope, faith, and love.

    That we are God’s children. Blessed with community, with neighbors and friends and family. To love and share God’s love and be filled with joy and creative hope. That we can be here for one another. A whole community of love, blessed. Blessed by love, not just with love. Blessed by love to love. And to give generously, joyously. With a grateful heart. To this place. To this work. In this neighborhood. In solidarity with those who live and love and lose and grow here. Our people. God’s people. All of us children.

    The flock redeemed. Free of oppression. Free of hatred and that which steals joy and a future in faith. Free to be together in faith and love. Living the Jesus Alternative Way of Love we become more like God. We become love. The vehicle of redemption, that undermines the cross, that raises the dead and transforms the world. Making the world, us, life itself, new. Ever more infused with love.

  • Some meandering thoughts on “elections have consequences.”

    There’s a phrase that seems sensible. We say that elections have consequences, which is, I think, intending to suggest that this is the result. Whatever this is. It comes from that. That we had an election. 

    For some, this is a comforting idea, I suspect. Especially for the thoughtful many who think every thing is a direct result from a previous thing. And that certainly is how butterfly wings lead to tsunamis, but we so rarely suggest the two are so directly related — and only in science fiction stories about time travel. The rest of the time, we ought to recognize a natural distance between things. One butterfly here [stuff stuff stuff] tsunami there. Most of the time all of that stuff in the middle amounts to a lot more than nameless nothing.

    This isn’t to say results and origins aren’t important, right? But that other stuff is also. That stuff that’s too often left unsaid, unrecorded, unrecognized.

    But is it even true?

    One of the other hinderances to the elections have consequences response to US politics is that it frequently seems to be patently untrue. We elect one person to office and the personal impact seems imperceptible. Most of the time. Assuming the person elected hasn’t targeted your humanity or considers you a personal rival. 

    Most of the time, we are allowed to go about our business like elections decidedly don’t have consequences. And that is part of what they sold us in the 1990s. And why some of the people marching a few weeks ago had signs that said “I’d rather be at brunch right now”. It is a demonstration of just how many have internalized the idea that elections should have few consequences, actually. This, too, is dumb.

    More significant, however, is the suggestion that elections won’t have consequences.  Primarily because our elected officials don’t intend to listen to us even a little bit. A 2014 Princeton University study found that economic elites and business interests have significant influence on legislators while the impact of average citizens and interest groups is near-zero. In this sense, elections and consequences seem distinctly unrelated.

    How other countries do it

    The US isn’t the only democratically-aligned country. One of the obvious differences between our republican system and the parliamentary systems other countries use is that in other systems, the election winners form the government. In these systems, elections actually matter because the majority gets to govern — and the people live with the consequences. In the US, the minority can more vociferously obstruct and prevent, leading, in theory, to more compromise.

    Like many others, I’ve often speculated on what it would mean if the minority party simply let the majority have its way. They won the election, so they get to govern for the next two years. Good luck! This does feel more democratic, doesn’t it? It is, as we like to say, “the will of the people” after all. And I suppose it is. 

    Should we consider it? To go ahead and let elections have such steep consequences?

    What these thoughts rarely consider, however, is how we’re trained, not for democracy, but for obstruction. Our civic conversation often couches this in the terms of rights and an intentional system of checks on power. From the electoral college to the senate to the filibuster to the founders’ concern with discriminating the land-owner from the public — we have a long history of undemocratic influences compromising our systems, tempering them, not just from tyranny, but also from equality. We see a kind of virtue in obstruction, rather than focus on what our laws more directly empower, which is centrist homogeneity.

    Separate and Unequal

    The popular phrasing reveals much: majority rule, minority rights. And its prime example is found in the battlefield of civil and equal rights. Rights were won, not through the supposed democratic character of our institutions, nor in the famously-regarded counter-argument to majority rule that is minority rights, but in the spilling of blood in our streets and on bridges. It was the dramatic change in heart of the masses and the willingness of courts to finally do the right thing. It came from changing the narrative enough to change the laws themselves. And, no less importantly, those enforcing the laws.

    The whole system needed to change.

    When the politically-savvy presently pontificate about the need for checks on the power of tyrants, now more than ever, they speak constantly, not of people, but of institutions. The courts. Congress. Or they speak of anthropomorphized abstractions: something we call the rule of law. And so we protect the filibuster because it is the only action to keep the tyrant in check. Yet, also, there are “the courts”. There is little spoken in these places about the power of people or in local municipalities. No actual expressions of democracy — only obstruction and denial.

    Brilliant minds wonder how this can happen here. And without any hint of irony . . . or self-awareness. And they do so while also wondering how less democratic countries beat the United States to equality and more democratic governments. It seems even the most conservative and illiberal countries have found a way to elect a woman as prime minister or administer cheaper healthcare to all of its people. They better educated their citizenry, keep them healthy, and live longer. Heck, in most of these places, they even rate much happier.

    And yet we shrug, regurgitating the claim that it’s impossible here. We’re not ready.

    Power

    It seems that there is an inverse relationship to US expectations of elections and consequences. Those places in which the true fate of a decision falls upon the people who win elections often have more democracy — and stability. Even when Canada calls for a snap election, for example, party leaders run for a few weeks, the public makes a decision on, and the government goes with it. 

    Ours, from this perspective, engineers a far less stable transition of power. In fact, we are in a perpetual election cycle at incredible expense, leading to the least efficient government on the planet. And none of this accounts for the ever-present lionization of gridlock and the purposeful slowing of progress.

    If we adopted the total consequences mindset today, would it work? Without also adopting the systems which protect people from those consequences, I doubt we’d see much success. Shall we allow a tyrant to starve the public for two whole years? Ah! But we do have a mechanism to deal with such a situation: impeachment!

    Oh. I see the problem.

    “Oh, but we’ve tried that,” we’ll say. And not realize that our refusal to use our own mechanisms proves the point.

    The Centrist Mindset

    We must acknowledge how much we’ve been taught to believe in obstructive centrism. That it is a neutral good in itself. That it is more than a check on power, but its own power. It is a polarizing power, which changes the game from a competition between one extreme and another, it recasts the battle as a battle between extremes vs. moderates. Obstructive centrism holds itself as better, more rational, than any single ideology. An apex ideology. 

    This is why we need a single person to gum up the works — not of business for the sake of the workers, but government for the sake of political gridlock. And for the sake of tax breaks for billionaires or cornhusker kickbacks. You know, the stuff of compromise. 

    Comfortable Injustice

    It strikes me that the less our elections are supposed to have consequences, the more comfortable we get in present injustice. In our being taken advantage of and accepting the unacceptable. Even more so, when given our present fears. That a tyrant can come in and ignore the anthropomorphized abstractions while the human beings with actual systemic power seem frozen to their seats. We anticipate the checks can just happen. And we can just keep on going. 

    So we can see in the wheels of government these deficiencies and wonder why they happen and still not realize how to fix them. That a president can ignore the Supreme Court. And congress. And the constitution, the rule of law, governors, mayors . . . And we can see the downside of two branches of government having invested zero dollars or hours investing in a means of protecting their authority.

    In short, we’ve championed a system of checks and balances as more democratic and we haven’t bothered to make any of it real. No material investment in checking or balancing. No people or even systems of enforcement. Not for the courts or congress.

    We aren’t seeing the mere consequence of an election. This is the abdication of the responsibilities of millions of Americans to protect the constitution from tyranny. 

    And not one bit of this relates to the ballyhooed checks and balances inherent to the US system. Much the opposite. The system which seems perpetually frightened to make new precedents on purpose allows new precedents to stand constantly. Not because we want elections to matter, but because the modern interpretation of the constitution makes us think they shouldn’t.

    In all of our fear of tyrants, we have allowed the one vehicle we have to dispose of them — the power of the people — to atrophy. And this seems the least democratic outcome of all.