I remember the morning of November 5th, 2008. I remember that the world looked different as I walked my then 5-year old to school, the golden leaves on the sidewalk, the warm sun shining on my face. Everything was brighter that day. I felt jubilant, filled with a sense of possibility and, dare I say, hope. I look back at myself on that day and I long for that sense of limitless possibility. At the same time, I feel embarrassed, almost ashamed, that I thought it would be that easy – to vote, send in a little cash, and spend a few hours in Indiana knocking on doors. I look back at my November 2008 self and I want to take myself by the shoulders, give myself a shake and say, “Wake up!” I know I wasn’t alone in my naïve optimism. In many ways we had taken such a giant leap forward. Ten years later, it seems we have fallen so far back and sunk so low. Again, I want to shake myself, this time to awaken from a nightmare.
Don’t get me wrong. I am encouraged by some of the coming shifts in the political landscape. When we held a town hall with Representative Jan Schakowsky last month, Loyola Political Science Professor, John Frendreis, said that a Democratic House of Representatives would offer the greatest opportunity for a change in climate policy. It is possible that we will be able to pass legislation to impose a carbon fee and dividend that would go a long way to mitigate our climate crisis. This kind of modest hope is the only hope I can find these days. No more rose-colored optimism for me.
It’s hard to keep hope alive, to blow on the embers of enthusiasm that have all but gone out. The unmistakable escalation in violence since 2016 has a disturbingly numbing effect. Hate and fear are louder, stronger and more destructive than I’ve experienced in my lifetime. I mourn those who were killed or harmed in Thousand Oaks, California and before that at Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburg. And the lists go on and on. Chaos and violence cause compassion fatigue. Fear drives a wedge between us and forces us to disconnect from real suffering. How do we stay connected to one another rather than isolated by terror?
I’m reading Margaret Wheatley’s book, Who Do We Choose to Be? Facing Reality, Claiming Leadership, Restoring Sanity. It offers, not cheap grace or false hope, but the reality that collapse is happening. You’re not imagining it. Yet, in its midst, nothing could be more important than remaining connected to one another and to our own humanity. She asks readers these questions: “Who do you choose to be for this time? Are you willing to use whatever power and influence you have to create islands of sanity that evoke and rely on our best human qualities to create, produce, and persevere?”[i] Put another way by racial justice activist, Rev. Ashley Horan, at the MidAmerica Region large church conference hosted by UCE on Thursday, “How can we be of use to a world on fire, right now, as we are?” These are the questions of our time, for our church, and for ourselves. My hope is that we continue with our eyes wide open, that we continue to strive and live and cry and laugh and reach out and show up and fall apart and do it all imperfectly. We are frail and broken people and we are also strong, resilient spirits.
I want to thank all of you who are living as fully, presently, and imperfectly as you can in these very difficult times. I thank all of you for being models of engagement for me, fighting for our democracy and remaining politically active. You help me to remain compassionate, to stay present to anger and frustration, to move through to the other side of love, and to show up again and again. You help me maintain honest hope and a sense of real possibility. Know that I am with you in the struggle, eager to stay connected, and longing for a world made whole.
Yours in faith,
Rev. Eileen
[i] Wheatley, Margaret J., Who Do We Choose To Be? Facing Reality, Claiming Leadership, Restoring Sanity, Berrett-Koehler Publishers, inc., 2017, pg. 11
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