Among those who profess Christian faith, the question arises: How ought we — how can we — think Christianly about the political and cultural territory through which we are navigating? What word does our faith, our identity in Christ, speak to this political moment?

My personal dilemma: Informed by the Christian value that all human life is sacred, and every human being bears the image of God, I’m concerned about those whose circumstances force them into migration, whether authorized or unauthorized. If former President Trump is elected, their lives will become less safe. I’m also concerned about the lives of the conceived but not yet born. If Vice President Harris is elected, their lives will become much less safe. These are very concrete concerns that intersect with my Christian conscience.

It is, of course, inescapable that we live in the world — the world as it is, not as we might like it to be, or as, in God’s good time, eschatologically, it will yet become. When citizens of the kingdom of Judah were beginning to live in exile in Babylon, the prophet Jeremiah counseled them to not shy away from embracing their new circumstances:

Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. (Jer. 29:5-7, all citations ESV)

Seeking the welfare of the city in which we spend our exile entails being mentally and emotionally and volitionally invested in it. This entails taking one’s rightful place in its political and social structures, whatever those might be. We are part of our society, part of our culture.

St. Paul sharpens this notion as he writes to the Christian community in Rome: “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God” (Rom. 13:1). Paul clearly sees no radical disjunction between the polis of human society, with its governing structures, and the providential purposes of the missio dei to restore unity and abet human flourishing. The inbreaking kingdom of Heaven is not presumptively at odds with the culture in which those who herald its arrival find themselves placed.

The Apostle Peter also weighs in along the same lines: “Be subject for the Lord’s sake to every human institution, whether it be to the emperor as supreme, or to governors as sent by him to punish those who do evil and to praise those who do good” (1 Peter 2:13-14). As followers of Jesus the Christ, whose kingship is supreme and unique, we are nonetheless implicated with the iteration of human society and culture in which we live. Its blessings are our blessings. Its challenges and problems are our challenges and problems. The suffering of its members is our suffering.

Yet no kingdom of this world can be precisely identified with the kingdom of Heaven. There are limits; there are boundaries. From the author of the Epistle to the Hebrews: “For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come” (Heb. 13:4). While we are to work and pray for the welfare of the city in which we dwell, our loyalty to that city is contingent, constrained. Again, St. Peter (or this time, perhaps, his pseudonymous disciple) expresses the notion in arrestingly graphic imagery: “But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a roar, and the heavenly bodies will be burned up and dissolved, and the earth and the works that are done on it will be exposed” (2 Peter 3:10).

We, the pilgrim people of God, are — using the words of William Willimon and Stanley Hauerwas in their seminal, now iconic, 1989 work — resident aliens. Or, in the parlance of the anonymous Christian folk song: “This world is not my home, I’m just passin’ through.” So there is a dynamic tension between the reality of our current situation in the world, in which we seek the welfare of the city, and the reality that we are yet in exile in that city. We are undeniably very much in the world, but yet not of the world, as our Lord is recorded as expressing it in his high priestly prayer on the night before his Passion (John 17:16).

As resident aliens, then, how do we approach this election and its aftermath? First, we affirm and trust in the sovereignty of God. As we have occasion, at times, to sing (Hymnal 1982, #534):

God is working his purpose out as year succeeds to year;
God is working his purpose out as the time is drawing near;
nearer and nearer draws the time, the time that shall surely be,
when the earth shall be filled with the glory of God as the waters cover the sea.

Those who engage the practice of lectio divina cultivate the habit of always looking for the providential action of God — what is he up to in the passage of Scripture under consideration? Whatever the outcome of the election, God is not absent! God is always up to something. Resting in the knowledge of God’s providential presence enables us to take a high-altitude view of political developments. We realize that there is no need to panic. This does not mean that we are less passionate in our advocacy for justice and righteousness in the political order, but that our eyes are free to focus on the bigger picture. “God is working his purpose out.”

Identifying as a community of resident aliens also enables us to affirm and trust in the ubiquity of divine grace. God leads with grace and concludes with grace, and grace permeates everything in between. God is the consummate opportunist. He is not bound by human social and political structures, to say nothing of election laws, poll results, or debate outcomes. Rather, God will constantly look for ways to “hijack” such things toward his ends, even to the point of exploiting human behavior — whether personal or collective, that is in itself sinful — and channeling it toward his redemptive purposes.

“Elections have consequences,” it is said, but not for God! God is not on the ballot, and there is no way he can “lose” this election. This invites us, as the people of God, to relax a little bit, at least. Among the exploded heads on November 6, there’s no reason any of them need to be those of Christians.

The 81st General Convention of the Episcopal Church will be called to order on June 23. As always, it will consider a number of resolutions that purport to speak to government leaders on matters of public policy, foreign and domestic. Most of these resolutions will be passed, some with no debate. This habit is a holdover from the days of late Christendom, when Christians in general, and Episcopalians in particular, constituted a rather larger percentage of the total U.S. population than we do today, and the opinions of religious leaders were thought to carry some actual weight among legislators and government executives.

It used to be said that the Episcopal Church was “the Republican Party at prayer.” Those days are long gone. The public policy resolutions passed by General Convention will be painted a deep blue. Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing depends largely on one’s political leanings. If your views run to the right, it’s at least an annoyance and, for some, a significant incitement to frustration. If one leans leftward, the response is more like, “So what’s the problem?” Some argue that the gospel transcends the categories of politics, so the church should not be identified too closely with any particular political agenda, left of right, blue or red. If the church’s positions map too closely to those of either party, that in itself is a warning sign. Others respond that the gospel is political on its face, lifting up as their banner the trenchant language of the Magnificat: “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.”

The Episcopal Church’s canon for evangelism, Stephanie Spellers, was recently interviewed on The Living Church Podcast. Host Amber Noel led Canon Spellers into this territory, and she advocated passionately for the “gospel is political” viewpoint, citing the language of the Baptismal Covenant and the example of Jesus, suggesting that these lead inexorably, via the pursuit of justice, to positions that would fall left of center. If we run our political convictions through the filter of the gospel, according to Canon Spellers, we cannot help but support programs that provide more food to hungry people and, presumably, aid to others who are, for various reasons, marginalized or displaced.

Of course, I have heard such arguments in the past, a great many times. They make a certain degree of undeniable sense. I can easily follow them … to a point. Invariably, though, they leave me scratching my head, with an inchoate feeling of discomfort. The missing component, it seems to me, the absence of which keeps these arguments from being airtight, is a failure to delineate between private behavior, which is voluntary, and public behavior, which, under any form of government, including democracy, is coercive.

As a disciple of Jesus, I have no option but to be personally committed to an ethic of indiscriminate love and justice. A few days ago, while out on my daily walk, I was approached for assistance by a family of five — father, mother, and three young children. They were refugees from Venezuela, only eight weeks out of their home country and eight days in Chicago. Their immediate need was for food, so I walked with them several blocks out of my way to a Colombian restaurant — which, for them, was comfort food — and paid for their meal before I went on my way. They quite understandably ordered enough not just for that meal, but to take with them for later. I told the husband, Julio, I was helping them in the name of Jesus, to which he responded very positively. I saw this as what charity, agapē, demanded of me, and a joyful privilege. They were in my path. They had an evident need, and I had the means to meet that need without harming either myself or any others who depend on me. For me, it was an act of Christian discipleship, and I was a microcosmic extension of the whole church, the whole community of the baptized. As a leader in the church, even in “elder statesman” status now, it is entirely appropriate for me to urge Christian communities to adhere to that same standard. When I was last in parish ministry, we had a displaced family, bearing a wide range of needs, come through our red doors one Sunday morning, and the parish soon became a support structure that was integral to their lives. It’s what Christians do.

There are those, no doubt, who would encourage me to complete my recent act of caritas by lobbying legislatures at various levels to allocate more public funds toward the assistance of people like Julio and his family. I have no problem with that notion per se, but what bothers me about advocating for such a thing is that I would thereby be imposing my Christian values, coercively, on my fellow citizens who may not share my Christian commitment. It is one thing for me to ask myself, “What would Jesus do?” It is quite another for me to participate in a process that compels my neighbor to emulate my example.

Most any discussion about evangelism among Episcopalians (at least, though also among many other categories of Christians as well) gets to the idea that there is nothing the least bit coercive about sharing the gospel. Christian communities bear witness in the lives of their members, in acts of collective compassion and, at opportune moments, by using words to explain the love of God and the invitation to spiritual health and wholeness through faith in the crucified and risen Christ. Manipulation is to be eschewed. Even the hint of manipulation is to be eschewed. I can call to mind the aggregate effect of news stories in church periodicals about parish ministries to disenfranchised — often immigrant or refugee — populations. At some point in the article, almost as if it were a mandatory bit of virtue signaling, the absence of which would be problematic, a parishioner participating in the program is invariably quoted to the effect that “It’s not our goal to proselytize. We don’t ever mention religion.”

I always wince at this. It seems like such an opportunity squandered. It  does testify, however, to the reluctance of many Christians, in the private sphere, to do anything that might be construed as imposing their religion on others. Yet, in the public sphere, many of those same Christians seem more than ready to do the very thing they eschew privately — impose Christian values on those who are not Christian. I strongly suspect that most Episcopalians would join their voices to the chorus that proclaims, “America is not a Christian nation” — a chorus that includes my voice. Yet General Convention (and various diocesan conventions) never tire in commending public policies that would enact the social views of the majority, views that are invariably justified as required by the gospel.

I can already hear the retort: What about the demands of justice? Justice is not a uniquely Christian value, is it? It is presumed to be part of the bedrock of any modern, civilized society. All people of goodwill, Christian and non-Christian alike, share a commitment to basic human rights: beyond the classic trio of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” things like safety, shelter, nutrition, clean water, education, and healthcare might be added to the list. In today’s rhetorical environment, the presumed corollaries of justice — diversity, equity, and inclusion — should surely be given space as well.

But this is a house of cards. If you pull on one of the loose threads (to mix my metaphors), the whole thing begins to unravel. Here’s a case in point: Many Christians — though, perhaps not many Episcopalians — would argue that the right to life, as a matter of gospel justice, extends to the conceived but not yet born. This position passes the three-way test of Scripture, tradition, and reason with flying colors. If our duty is to allow the shade of justice to cover the weakest and most disenfranchised among us, who more fits that description than an unborn child? Yet General Convention will pass no resolutions aimed at protecting the unborn, even though it is patently a justice issue. Why? Because they would not fit under the bright blue blanket that covers all public policy resolutions.

When the Christian community in North America, including the Episcopal Church, recovers its gospel-shaped identity in a way that demonstrates complete independence from the categories, structures, and rhetoric of secular political discourse, and can speak with an authentically Christian voice, not one that merely pays lip service to some theological jargon, then it may be capable of speaking an influential prophetic word to our society regarding matters of public policy. We are nowhere near this point, but I believe it could happen, and pray for that. Until then, though, we would do well to cultivate the virtue of collective humility, and keep quiet.

— Editor.

A Third Article Reflection

Roughly between 2003 and 2021, I was deeply enmeshed in “the distant scene,” with the “broad and universal” life of the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Communion. I attended six consecutive General Conventions, three as a deputy (from two different dioceses), and three as a bishop. In 2006, I was appointed by the president of the House of Deputies to a General Convention special committee, the remit of which was essentially to preserve the unity of the Anglican Communion (we failed). I became an active and highly followed blogger, posting substantive essays on Episcopal and Anglican goings-on, sometimes 20 to 25 times per month, and engaging in long comment threads, acquiring a reputation, I like to think, as an irenic, bridge-building, conservative voice.

I spent a week in Bangkok with bishops and clergy of the Anglican Global South. I was invited to give quiet days, retreats, and preaching missions in far-flung locations. I participated in the consecration of three bishops in Peru. For five years, I chaired the board of one of our historic seminaries. I confirmed scores of young people in Tanzania. I took care of a parish in South Carolina and another in Mississippi under the Delegated Episcopal Pastoral Oversight protocols. On three occasions, I was invited, along with a small group of colleague bishops, to Canterbury for a meeting with the archbishop to discuss emerging ecclesial concerns. One of these meetings was arranged with barely 48 hours’ notice. There was one calendar year when I made 19 separate trips that involved air travel. One of these was likely a personal vacation, but the rest were church-related. In my decade as a diocesan bishop, there were dozens of people (clergy) who were literally under a vow of obedience to me, canonically obligated to pay attention to and heed whatever I wrote or said. In a phrase made popular in my extended family by one of my sisters, I was “cool and important.”

Then I retired. After a solemn Evensong, I ceded my chair to the dean to hold for my successor, laid the crozier used by George Franklin Seymour, first Bishop of Springfield, on the altar of the cathedral church, and left the building. On July 1, 2021, I woke up as the Right Reverend Nothing of Nothing. Not a soul is under any obligation to pay attention to me. My personal crozier is in the basement gathering dust. If I visit Canterbury again, it will likely be as a tourist. I am no longer cool and important. By the generous sufferance of the Bishop of Chicago, and of a handful of rectors there, and only thereby, I am able to preside and preach at the Eucharist several times each year. For 20 years as a vicar and rector, I had an altar and a pulpit that were my own. For a decade as a diocesan bishop, every altar and pulpit in the diocese was mine! Now, like many retired clergy, I am keenly aware that I have no altar or pulpit that is mine by right. I depend on the generosity of others to exercise those ministries that lie at the core of my very being. The “distant scene” is no longer mine to see. I must find “one step” to be “enough for me.”

It’s not like I no longer care. I do. I’m aware that, even as I write, the Church of England’s General Synod is meeting, in the midst of elevated anxiety. I’ll likely be at General Convention in Louisville this summer, at least long enough to vote in the presiding bishop election. But “the issues” no longer dominate my field of view. While continuing to care, I’m much more relaxed about it all. I’ve learned that the intensity of one’s psychic investment in any system is largely determined by the position one occupies within that system. I now occupy a very different position than I once did. As a result, the “broad and universal” have faded for me, while the “local and particular” are burning more brightly.

In one of the parishes that I regularly frequent on Sundays and holy days, the quality of the liturgy and music feels like a double shot of spiritual adrenaline every time I’m there. The organist is fearless, and pulls the stops that are necessary to ensure that every worshiper feels liberated to sing at top volume and not fear standing out. And sing they do. The parish engages the liturgical calendar robustly. Where else could I have found a sung liturgy for the Feast of the Holy Name when it fell on a Monday, or a Solemn High Mass for Epiphany on a Saturday morning? As I get to know parishioners, I am witnessing lives that are conditioned and formed by this corporate fidelity to the work of worship. They are also growing in their witness and outreach to people in the neighborhood who are economically and socially marginalized, activities that are fueled by their knowledge of their identity in Christ.

In another parish in which I hang out, the liturgical ethos is a rather more old-fashioned version of Anglo-Catholicism than is my personal sweet spot. Yet, there is a spirit loose there that is entirely sweet. While very traditional theologically, it may be the most ethnically and racially diverse parish in the diocese, and I don’t lower the average age when I walk in, as was the case in many of my congregations as a bishop. Last year, while the rector was dealing with a health issue, I took care of them on most Sundays over a three-month span. During that time, I sat in with an adult study group between services that was usually led by the rector, but during that time various lay persons took turns leading, and did so quite ably. I was blown away by the knowledge and spiritual maturity and desire for growth in discipleship that was manifested by these people. Now, that group (at my suggestion) is working its way through Martin Thornton’s Christian Proficiency, and a women’s group meeting during Lent is reading Evelyn Underhill. Both of these are developments that cannot but yield salubrious results.

Yet another parish on my rota is a small community that is serious about finding in the Eucharist the “source and summit” (language from Vatican II) of its common life. For decades the parishioners have been led in intentionally cultivating a Benedictine ethos. Their manner of worship — which depends heavily on plainsong chant, much of it quite florid (and challenging to a newcomer), and relatively little on familiar metrical hymns — while arguably idiosyncratic, nonetheless rests securely within the scope of the Anglican tradition. Their fidelity to the texts and rubrics of the Book of Common Prayer is exemplary. I leave refreshed whenever I attend there.

Not in my regular rotation, because it lies in the far western suburbs of Chicago, but one with which I very much have “bonds of affection,” is a parish that drinks from the more evangelical stream of the Anglican tradition, and where it has been my privilege to preach and preside on a couple of occasions during the past few months. A rector with a nearly 30-year tenure has just retired and they have made a smooth transition to his successor. This is a community of bright, curious, and serious Christian disciples, and it is a joy to be around them. Measured by average Sunday attendance, they are the largest parish in the Diocese of Chicago. I expect great things from them in both the short-term and mid-term future.

Another aspect of my new “one step enough for me” world is that, while I do get to “function” from time to time, for which I am immensely grateful, on any given Sunday or holy day, I am more likely to be in the nave as part of the congregation than I am to be in the sanctuary as part of the altar party. There is, I have discovered, a great blessing in this. There are dimensions of worship that are available to a “mere” member of the congregation that are denied to those who are, in varying degrees, responsible for making it happen for everyone else. As a celebrant, I am a steward of the holy mysteries on behalf of all the others. Fidelity to my position in the system requires me to sublimate my needs to those of the larger community. When I’m in the pews, I’m free of that burden. I am finding that my sense of connection to the eucharistic mystery and the eucharistic action is regularly richer and more intense now than it has ever been in my life.

When John the Baptist languished in Herod’s prison, he grew discouraged, we are told in Matthew’s gospel. The kick-butt-and-take-names Jesus that he had boldly announced was instead graciously and gently healing people and teaching them. Too much “one step” and not enough “distant scene,” by his lights. So John sent his disciples to find Jesus and ask, “Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?” A poignant question, by any measure, even as those of us in Anglicanism poignantly and anxiously wonder what will become of the ecclesial rock from which we were hewn. Is this the church that will make us holy and fit us for heaven, or shall we look for another? When John’s disciples are finally able to put the question to Jesus, how does he respond? “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them” (Matt. 11:4-6).

What do I, in my no longer cool and important systemic position, see? I see the triune God being worshiped in spirit and truth. I see people reciting the Nicene Creed and meaning what they say. I see Christians learning to pray, excited and serious about their faith, and loving one another in community. I see disciples of Jesus serving the hungry, the ill-clad, and the unhoused in his Name. Will any of this save the Episcopal Church from exponential free fall? I have no clue. Will it mend the fractured state of the Anglican Communion? Above my pay grade. I ask not to see the distant scene; one step enough for me.