The Apocalypse of Politic

We are creatures existing on the brink of transformation, for those of us coming from a Christian tradition, we are called to embrace transformation, to turn around. All Souls, dia de los Muertos, and Samhain, all mark that transitional period when the veil between the departed and our present selves is at its thinnest. That thin time of reaching across and remembrance extends from October 31 through November 2, and it is during this time that we are reminded that we too will be utterly transformed and released from our corporeal existence. The transformation of death is inevitable, it takes us all. So too ways of life die, and empires fall. We all stand in a very thin place in this moment.

But not all transformations are inevitable. We are active participants in how we choose to respond to the times in which we are given to live, how we allow ourselves to be shaped, and how we shape others. As a practical theologian I cannot help but consider the spiritual nature of our current political/cultural/religious zeitgeist, and if I were to define that zeitgeist with one word, that word would be apocalypse. I do not mean to say we are for certain facing the physical and existential collapse that will lead to the end of all that we know, but it could. In my brief 500 words, I will not even attempt to consider the apocalyptic changes facing us through climate change, for today I speak only of the apocalypse of politic.

I stand before the ancestors’ altar in my home, and the voices coming to me from that altar are voices with different perspectives and messy lives. They reflect the American experience of an imperfect broken beloved community where every seat at the table was secured through hard battle for those not born into the privilege of wealth, patriarchy, and whiteness. And for those born into such privilege there was the unavoidable internal battle and reckoning with a world view necessarily at odds with the creation of a more democratic nation. To have a seat at the table means no less than not having to fight for your right to exist, it means that your humanity has been recognized, and while your narrative may compete with other voices at times, you have a voice that will be heard.

Apocalypse is marked by death; something will not survive this moment. Democracy dies on emergency room floors while women bleed. Democracy dies as the lives of trans people are erased. Democracy dies at deportation stations, and sometimes, democracy dies at the ballot box. These words are not spoken in despair but as a sober recognition of the crossroad upon which we stand. I do not know if our better angels will prevail. It is a cheap theology that promises everything will be okay. I do know that through courage and unity there will be a way forward. Light remains though shadows cast long, and we know how to survive winter.

Originally published in the Bennington Banner