To My Readers, After Many Months
An essay on politics, Maundy Thursday, and folk music
I have been silent. I have been silent because I am wrestling. I have been silent because I am wrestling with speaking my mind. I have been silent because I am wrestling with speaking my mind when I overhear things I don't agree with. I have been silent because I am wrestling with speaking my mind when I overhear things I don't agree with and things I find offensive.
I have been silent because I am a woman who feels affronted in the presence of assertive male neighbors in my small-town Midwestern-American white community.
Essay is to try. This is me, trying.
I don’t agree with everyone, but I don’t let on to that most of the time. I have a hard time speaking out against people who have the wool pulled over their eyes by a fascist who they can’t even see is a fascist because of some witchery he’s spun out of evangelical wool and slapped over their glasses.
I.
I don’t garden much, though I talk big. I don’t mind getting dirty, it’s not that. My dad will tell you about the first time he took me fishing. When he was busy knotting his hook or hooking his bait or baiting his fish, I emptied our fresh cup of worms into my hands and squeezed its juicy inhabitants with all my four-year-old might. I think I said, “Look, Daddy, these are worms!”
Dirt doesn’t scare me.
But I don’t savor the thought of squatting and crawling through grass and mud and rock to weed out what is not welcome. I’d rather sit in sun and read a book, maybe one about plants.
Today, Maundy Thursday, my hip bones complained of sitting and reading too long. I needed to do something, but what? Jay was digging a plot for a fruit tree; I didn’t want to do that. The trimmed grasses were full of wild violets, so I decided to forage. I picked and picked and picked and picked until I had enough to brew some Southern-Ohio springtime tea. All the while listening to Bob Dylan and Jon Batiste and Mumford & Sons, and wondering, What good can I contribute to the culture war raging around me?
I tell Jay about my research on the fathers of American folk. After watching A Complete Unknown, James Mangold’s biopic film on Bob Dylan, I did some very credible fact-checking (on Wikipedia) and stumbled across some interesting finds, like a picture of Woody Guthrie in 1943. He is singing, guitar in hand. On his guitar, just to the right of the sound hole, is a sticker which reads, “This Machine Kills Fascists.”
“I think that’s what I’ll call this new playlist I’ve got going right now,” I tell Jay.
He scowls at me. “We don’t want to kill anyone,” he says. Always, ever the pacifist.
I grumble and argue and behead little plants. “But, it’s his guitar—his guitar’s the machine. It can’t kill anyone. That’s what’s ironic.”
But, as always, Jay’s comment gets me thinking. “Maybe I’ll call it ‘Fighting the Oligarchs.’”
Every day, it’s something new in this country. Manipulation of the justice system and cuts to library funding and strains with our northern neighbor and talk of a new prison in El Salvador where we can send American citizens perhaps without trial or sentence. I’m wearied and angry and energized. And I don’t often boast about having lots of energy. I’d rather read than dig, remember?
So—what to do? Besides forage, and sing, I mean.
Later, I mumble, “Maybe I’ll just say it kills fascism. It’s the ism that’s bad.” Right?
II.
Let us pray for the Church and the world.1
Almighty and everliving God, we pray that you will lead the nations of the world in the way of righteousness; and so guide and direct their leaders, especially Donald, our president, J.D., our vice president, Michael, our governor, and the various leaders of our local communities, that we, your people, may enjoy the blessings of freedom and peace. Grant that our leaders may impartially administer justice, uphold integrity and truth, restrain wickedness and vice, and protect true religion and virtue.
Lord, in your mercy:
Hear our prayer.
My Gran and mom were wondering what “Maundy” means in Maundy Thursday, the first commemorated day in Holy Week—week leading to Easter, Resurrection Sunday. After participating in tonight’s service, I’ve got the answer. From Father Ed: comes from the Latin for command, as in: “A new command I give you: Love one another.”2Command, also, as in Jesus’s command to remember him whenever we take communion.
When it comes to politics—I don’t need to agree with everyone around me. Father Ed, who does not share my politics, will tell you my reading of the Palm Sunday Scriptures was something he’d never heard the likes of, in all his years, and my building supervisor at school will tell you he appreciates (and here he pauses because he admits to hating the word) the “diversity” I bring to our campus—meaning my ideology.
I don’t want to live in an echochamber. I don’t live in an echochamber, it’s not that. But, most days, rather than confront what is not loving in me, I’d rather sit in sun and read a book, maybe a big one about love.
From my pew, I walk to the front in anticipation of the bread and the cup.
I kneel. I hold to the rail on the altar and ask God to have mercy. And I remember the new commandment: Love one another.
I am no better than anyone else, any brother or sister, who has or is or will partake of this cup.
I exhale, thanking God, yes, for his mercy—and in his mercy, for his lack of partiality, his absolute justice, his grace for all. And I rise, with my son, who pokes and flops and all but wrestles me through the rest of service. And then we go home, in silence. In the dark.
This is me, kneeling.
Every Sunday at our church, we pray what I wrote at the beginning of II. We ask God to help our leaders “impartially administer justice, uphold integrity and truth, restrain wickedness and vice, and protect true religion and virtue.” Today, I say Amen. And I write.
The best solution for any problem is prayer. And writing, for me, is praying. Thank you for reading.
I invite your prayers, too.
If you like any of the artists I mention, you might enjoy this playlist, which still bears the original, uninspired title of “home” (as in heaven).
from “The Prayers of the People” in The Book of Common Prayer (2019), Anglican Liturgy Press, p. 110.
Jesus, speaking to his disciples at the Last Supper: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13v34-5).
As always, when reading what you’ve written I’m sitting here fighting tears. I love your authenticity. I love your courage. If I’m being honest I’m wrestling today too. Wrestling with myself, with what I say I believe. How it affects how I live or love, or even more scary how it doesn’t. On this most holy day, how does the gospel , the good news I say I believe, affect my home, friend circle, work,and community?My fear is it affects those things less than I want or think or am willing to admit or even look at. Thanks for not being afraid to pray “out loud”. Please accept this prayer too. Love you.
Missed resonating with your musings, Christianna. I feel this post so much in my body, the anxiety I feel in my chest, the rising frustration, the struggle to not fall into resignation. "The best solution for any problem is prayer." I'm going to hold this for quite a while. Thank you for this, Christianna.