Jesus, Desmond Tutu, and Donald Trump Jr.

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So here's the deal: I'm not really a Bible-believing Christian anymore. But ... I think I'm a Bible-believing agnostic? Weird thing to say, I realize, but the point is that while I'm not really sure I have a grip on metaphysics I know my moral outlook is very much shaped by growing up in the church, and particularly my association with the Mennonite Church.

So that's why I found it so interesting that Donald Trump Jr. came in for some mockery and criticism this week. Here's what he said: 

“If we get together, they cannot cancel us all. Okay? They won’t. And this will be contrary to a lot of our beliefs because — I’d love not to have to participate in cancel culture. I’d love that it didn’t exist. But as long as it does, folks, we better be playing the same game. Okay? We’ve been playing T-ball for half a century while they’re playing hardball and cheating. Right? We’ve turned the other cheek, and I understand, sort of, the biblical reference — I understand the mentality — but it’s gotten us nothing. Okay? It’s gotten us nothing while we’ve ceded ground in every major institution in our country.”

Emphasis added. Peter Wehner took note of the comment at The Atlantic.

...the former president’s son has a message for the tens of millions of evangelicals who form the energized base of the GOP: the scriptures are essentially a manual for suckers. The teachings of Jesus have “gotten us nothing.” It’s worse than that, really; the ethic of Jesus has gotten in the way of successfully prosecuting the culture wars against the left. If the ethic of Jesus encourages sensibilities that might cause people in politics to act a little less brutally, a bit more civilly, with a touch more grace? Then it needs to go.

Decency is for suckers.

 Ed Kilgore piled on at New York:

We have grown accustomed to the irony of conservative Christians all but idolizing a politician who is the most heathenish public figure of our generation, inordinately proud of his power over women in particular and supposedly lesser beings generally and incapable of confessing a single sin or weakness or defeat. But it’s still a bit jarring to hear this chip off the old block openly calling for an ethic of hatred, resentment, and vengeance against his imagined persecutors.

Wehner and Kilgore are right, but incomplete. It's easy to mock Donald Trump Jr. for his callow approach to Christianity, but honestly: Isn't he just saying the quiet part out loud? If America is nominally a Christian country -- most of us still claim the religion, however tightly or loosely those affiliations are held -- can we be said to be a society that "turns the other cheek?"

Think about where that phrase originates:

“You have heard that it was 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. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well.

That's a radical command. It's one that almost nobody -- least of all self-proclaimed Christians -- follows.

If we were that kind of society, we might not have a death penalty. If we lived by a "turn the other cheek" ethos, we might not have troops spread out around the globe, ready to deliver violence at a moment's notice. If that's who we were, we wouldn't have grown men continuing to use John Wayne as a model of masculinity. And honestly, I'm not sure I know if it's possible to build a society on a "turn the other cheek" ethos. What I do know is that we're not in danger of finding out anytime soon. Donald Trump Jr. is just expressing the way we already live.

What does it look like to live in that fashion? Michael Eric Dyson gets at the possibilities in a reflection on the legacy of  Archbishop Desmond Tutu: 

When people claim the political utility of forgiveness, they help stabilize a culture addicted to the satisfaction of petty vengeance, establishing in its stead a measure of justice supported by big-picture moral values and social visions.

“Thus,” Archbishop Tutu argued, “to forgive is indeed the best form of self-interest, since anger, resentment and revenge” undermine the common good. South African leaders borrowed from Black American kin in their fight against apartheid. Nelson Mandela promoted armed resistance against murderous white rule, while Archbishop Tutu advocated nonviolent resistance against white supremacy. As the head of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, Archbishop Tutu believed that the only way to achieve a thriving democracy was for its citizens to come clean about their sins. He argued that Black forgiveness would remake South African society and pave the way for true justice.

This kind of work is -- let's be honest -- unnatural. Our instinct is never to turn the other cheek, but to repay injury with injury. The people among us who try to live by a "turn the other cheek" ethic are basically saints. And too often, their example can be misused by those who would happily inflict injury but naturally wish to avoid consequences for their actions. (Oh, all the people who love to quote Martin Luther King Jr. without following his example!) 

So: I have no respect for Donald Trump Jr. But he's an easy target. In our lives, in our politics, in our actions, most of us think -- even if we're not really willing to say -- that the biblical reference gets us nothing. He was just being honest about it. 

Losing that 'boundless sense of optimism'

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Damir Marusic reflects on the emotional damage done by two years of pandemic:

Maybe as the variants get less deadly and we get better at managing sporadic outbreaks of novel mutations, something approaching the previous normalcy will re-emerge. But that’s not really what we mean when we say “getting back to normal.” We want to have our innocence restored, to once again believe in a kind of permanence to our lives. I think that’s gone for good, though. That longed-for permanence is similar to the sense of ourselves we have before we experience the death of a friend. We implicitly believed we were somehow indestructible. Not immortal, but that the same rules didn’t exactly apply to us. A friend’s death shows us that in fact they do. It’s the same with COVID.

It’s a lesson we can, with time, choose not to dwell on but can never unlearn. It’s a part of growing wiser. Eventually we move on, having internalized these hard lessons. Eventually, we straighten up out of our crouch and re-engage with the world. We may memory-hole much of the emptiness that characterized the last two years of our lives, but we won’t regain that sense of boundless optimism born of a belief in stability that we had before.

Emphasis added. The bolded lines caught me up short because they described precisely the same sense I had about 10 years ago, after I'd lost my job and then had a close brush with death all in the span of a year. When I came out the other side -- to the extent that I did -- the thing I mourned most, aside from my lost health, was the death of that "boundless optimism." Somewhere in the back of my head, I think I'd believed that things would always work out somehow, because they always had. (Believe me, I know what a privilege -- perhaps callow -- it was to have ever possessed such a belief.) After my year-plus of calamity, I no longer felt that to be true: Sometimes things don't work out. Sometimes the losses are permanent. 

There's been a lot of talk the last few years about the trauma we're all experiencing. But Marusic's reflections prompt another possibility: Quite inadvertently, we've all been given what amounts to a midlife crisis at the exact same time -- come face-to-face with our mortality, a lesson that we can't ever quite unforget. We're more aware of our boundaries, our limits, a sense that time is running out because it always is. It's natural that eventually, for most of us, "boundless optimism" fades with age. That's life, and life experience. But it's a tragedy for so many of us to have experienced as younger people, because so much of what is created and made by human beings comes from the ferment of energy and joy that isn't yet haunted by death. I wonder what we're losing, that we've lost, that we can't see because it was never made.

Can I be friends with a conservative?

 Axios:

Nearly a quarter of college students wouldn't be friends with someone who voted for the other presidential candidate — with Democrats far more likely to dismiss people than Republicans — according to new Generation Lab/Axios polling. ... 5% of Republicans said they wouldn't be friends with someone from the opposite party, compared to 37% of Democrats.

At New York, the writer Sarah Jones offers her approval: 

...bipartisan relationships are more fraught, if indeed they were ever advisable at all. Such unions hark back to an earlier age in Washington when the roots of Trumpism flourished within the GOP and Democrats preferred not to notice. Some feel nostalgia for that age; that’s evident in every lament for the bygone civility of Capitol Hill. That age is now beyond recovery. There is only a post-Trump present, and young liberals are coping with it. With few exceptions, loving a Republican means loving someone who voted for Trump, twice, despite the racism and the COVID denial and the credible sexual-assault allegations. Even befriending a Republican involves a certain amount of tolerance, and tolerance is not always a virtue, as conservatives themselves have argued for decades.

I get this feeling, but also don't really want to surrender to it. I've lost conservative friends during the Trump Era, and I guess it's safe to say I haven't made any new conservative friends during that time. So beware, reader, I'm not very good at practicing what I'm about to preach.

Which is this: Everybody has to set their own red lines about what relationships they can sustain and which ones they can't. But I think it would be a mistake to automatically reject the notion of befriending people on the "other side." Even if I think those votes are awful. I'm old enough to remember when somebody could legitimately say that "loving a Democrat means loving someone who voted for Bill Clinton, twice, despite the racism and the executions and the credible sexual assault allegations." People are complicated. Sometimes we make political choices that make sense to us in the moment and look shitty in hindsight. Sometimes we just make mistakes. Sometimes we believe bad stuff, and can't see beyond ourselves to know that it's bad, or why. That's true of all humanity, not just conservatives. Which suggests to me a little bit of grace might be called for.

Beyond that, I think back to people whose lives have changed because somebody else was willing to be gentle and open with them despite having massive disagreements with their beliefs. I think about Derek Black, a scion of white supremacy who changed his mind and his life after being befriended by an Orthodox Jew at college. I think about Megan Phelps-Roper, of the notorious Westboro Baptist Church, who was raised to sling homophobic and anti-Semitic slurs and then found her way out with the help of people who treated her as a human instead of as a cartoon villain -- which was probably what she deserved. I don't think that people should make friends with other people who have repulsive ideas simply  to convert them; I do think those moments don't happen if a few brave, gentle souls among us embrace the notion that tolerance should be rejected. 

Again, everybody has to make these decisions for themselves. Not everybody can embrace a racist or a misogynist or a homophobe and be true to themselves, much less preserve their own sanity.  And I'm not convinced that everybody who calls themselves a conservative fits those descriptions, though some folks surely are. But I don't believe, as Jones says, that "tolerance is possible only when a certain political equilibrium exists." What that means is that "tolerance is only possible when I've already won the war." That's not really tolerance. 

Why I don't watch much sports

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Jane Coaston has one of the more interesting and lively minds around. So she even makes the experience of college football interesting for me. In her latest newsletter, she writes about her joy at Michigan's recent victory over Ohio State, its most-fierce rival:

Obviously, as I am not a member of the Michigan football team, I did not play a single snap of that game. And I watched it from my warm and cozy apartment, rather than in the snowy stands of Michigan Stadium in Ann Arbor. But I was so invested in the action that my heart-rate tracker thought I was working out. When the game ended, and Michigan had won, I felt as if I had won, too, from hundreds of miles away.

I am, of course, not the only one who felt this way. A fellow Michigan graduate and current N.F.L. Network host Rich Eisen told me that during the game he felt so personally involved that he turned to his wife and asked, “Why does this mean so much to me?” He said that during previous games, when Michigan was losing to Ohio State, he would have to force himself to take stock of what was good in his life. “I would often sit there and think to myself, ‘I’ve got a beautiful family, and I’ve got three healthy children.’”

After Saturday’s win, Eisen was at a loss to describe this particular brand of joy, just as I have been. “Obviously, childbirth and marriages are your best days of your life,” he told me, not all that convincingly. “But this win over Ohio State, I can’t even really put it into words, and it’s my job to do that sort of stuff.”

This is why I don't watch sports all that often.

I can tell you when and why I made the decision. In 1998, I was living in Emporia, Kansas. Gamedays for the Kansas City football team were a big deal to me then -- I planned my Sunday afternoons around them. Some friends who worked at the local university regularly hosted a group for the games, and put on quite a spread. It was joyful. That year, the Chiefs went 13-3, looked like they might go to the Super Bowl, then ... flamed out in their first playoff game.

A few months later, KU's basketball team headed into the NCAA tournament looking like a national championship contender. Paul Pierce, an eventual Hall of Famer, led the team with Raef LaFrentz. And that team ... flamed out in the second round of the tournament.

All of this made me feel awful. Obsessively awful.

So I pretty much stopped watching. Oh, I still keep an eye on how the teams I used to love are doing, but in a general way. When KU won the national championship in 2008, I did in fact go down to Massachusetts Street to join the celebration. I'm not immune to the way that victory can make my community seem joyful. But on a day-to-day, game-to-game basis, I've pretty much extracted myself from fandom. Letting my emotional well-being ride on the athletic exploits of young men just didn't seem wise to me, or a way to be happy. I didn't -- don't -- have the emotional bandwidth for sports. 

Amanda Ripley's 'High Conflict'

High Conflict: Why We Get Trapped and How We Get Out by Amanda Ripley


Amanda Ripley's book focuses on people who get trapped into endless conflict with each other, the difficulty of getting out and how it's sometimes possible. It's aimed at a readership exhausted by America's political polarization, it's clear, but mostly only nods at that Very High Conflict while focusing on smaller-scale stories.

I was reminded of a few things. About my Mennonite congregation's process to become a church that welcomed LGBT members, nearly 20 years ago. About the NYT's much-mocked reports about Trump supporters in Ohio diners. About how much conflict can embed itself into whatever culture or subculture we call home, so that the act of trying to honestly understand people with other viewpoints is very much a countercultural act. (And, frankly, even a spiritual act -- even for somebody somewhere between Mennonite-and-agnostic like myself.) About how I might unwittingly be a "conflict entrepreneur." About how I need to do better, both in my personal and professional lives.
 
Still digesting.

A republic, not a democracy!

Chris Lehmann reviewing a new book about Robert Welch, founder of the John Birch Society:

Nor was this Welch’s only anticipation of the present-day reactionary temper on the right; he and his anti-statist allies saw social democracy as the harbinger of eventual Communist takeover, and so loudly insisted that the U.S. was never meant to be a democracy and that the embrace of democracy spelled certain ruin. Recommending The People’s Pottage, an anti–New Deal tract by his friend Garrett Garrett as “required reading” for all Birchers, Welch hailed its clear-eyed account of “the Communist-inspired conversion of America, from a constitutional republic of self-reliant people into an unbridled democracy of hand-out seeking whiners.” A common refrain of the Bircher faithful was that America is “a Republic … not a democracy. Let’s keep it that way!”

The NYT Notable Books of 2021

 Lists like this make me panic about how much I'm not reading.