Deuteronomy 10:17-21; Matthew 5:43-48
Happy Independence Day weekend, complete with
flags and patriotic hymns here in church.
I imagine some of us today will think it’s completely natural to have a
church service celebrating our nation; and some of us likely will feel it goes
too far, violating the spirit of the separation of church and state. I think this is a good time to
wrestle with that a bit and ask what Jesus might have to say about church and
state, faith and politics.
If I asked how many of you think politics and
religion should mix, my hunch is that very few hands would go up. We’re wary of it, and for good reason. One of the forces drawing Europeans to the
New World was a desire for freedom from established churches (which was us, by
the way, in England). We still reject
being told what to believe or having a religion’s practices enshrined in
law. Though when they’re “our”
practices, sometimes it’s harder to see the problem. When I was growing up in Springfield, Missouri, the Sunday “blue laws”
were still in force, ensuring that shoppers observed
the Christian Sabbath whether they wanted to or not. But over time, we came to see the law
probably shouldn’t tell us whose holy day merits special protection.
So religion and politics typically don’t
mix so well. But what about faith and politics? Senator and priest Jack Danforth wrote a book
by that name several years ago, a book that resonates just as powerfully in our
present political season – maybe even more so.
Danforth argues that faith must inform our politics, both its content
and its practice. He calls Christians to
claim our high calling as reconcilers, not dividers, as we govern our nation. He calls us to use God’s command to love as
“the standard by which we measure everything we do” in politics and
government. And he cautions us not to
baptize specific positions but humbly recognize that God’s truth is bigger than
human policies.1
So what does it mean to be people of faith
who are also called to the ministry of self-government? Every week here, we confess the lordship of
Jesus Christ in our lives and the sovereignty of God over every other power and
principality. If that is true, I think
it’s impossible to say that our faith and our politics can’t mix. Our faith must mix with every element of our
lives, from how we spend our money, to what we watch on TV, to how we pay our
employees, to whether we recycle. If the
lordship of Jesus Christ has something to say about what I do with my trash, it
probably has something to say about what I do with my vote. So especially in an election year, when the
one thing everyone can agree is that the stakes are incredibly high, how are we
called to be faithful followers of Jesus Christ and engaged, passionate citizens of these United States?
For me, the intersecting point between Christian faith and American democracy is
love. If you boil down the Old and New
Testaments, as well as 2,000 years of theological reflection on them, you find
discipleship captured in three imperative statements: Love God, love neighbor, love one
another. Everything else is
commentary.
By the same token, I believe love is also
the fulfillment of America’s best self.
I believe love is our highest national aspiration, even though neither
the Declaration of Independence nor the Constitution includes that word. We use other words for love in political life: Equality.
Self-determination. Justice. Freedom.
Each of those values is a facet of the diamond of love. When we treat all people as having been created
equal – that’s an act of love. When we
maximize opportunity for life, liberty, and happiness, especially for those who
lack it – that’s an act of love. When we
hold all people to the same standard under the law, regardless of race or
ethnicity or class or sexual identity, or anything else – that’s an act of
love. When we expand the boundaries of
freedom … now that’s certainly an act of love, as well as being the American
story in microcosm. Starting with white,
male landowners, our boundaries of freedom have been expanding for 240 years
now, to poorer people, and to people of color, and to women, and to LGBT
people. Pushing back those boundaries of
freedom is an act of love. In fact, as
Mtr. Anne Hutcherson preached last week, St. Paul says that the point of freedom is to
build love: “[D]o not use your freedom
as an opportunity for self-indulgence,” Paul says, “but through love become
slaves to one another. For the whole law
is summed up in a single commandment: You shall love your neighbor as
yourself.” (Galatians 5:1,13-14)
So both our Christian and American identities
call us to love. But how do we put that
into effect in politics and policy? You
can’t pass a bill requiring people to treat each other with kindness and
mercy. You can’t amend the Constitution
to outlaw original sin. So where do
Christian love, and good government, intersect?
This is probably not the only answer, but I
think it’s a good one: The intersection
is the practice of dignity. In our
Baptismal Covenant – our job description for loving God, loving
neighbor, and loving one another – we promise to “strive for justice and peace
and respect the dignity of every human being” (BCP 305). Practicing dignity looks like advancing
people’s God-given, inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness – no matter how vigorously we might disagree with those people. Practicing dignity looks like respecting the
wisdom and insights we gain from people whose experience is vastly different
from ours. Practicing dignity looks like
governing based on the truth that every person is made in the image and
likeness of God – no exceptions.
Of course, practicing dignity is most
challenging – and therefore most clearly a mark of Christian love – when the
person in front of you is a stranger, or even worse, an enemy. It’s no accident that the readings for the Church’s feast of Independence Day speak to us about the darker corners of our
hearts that most keep us from being our best selves.
As the people of Israel are about to come
into the promised land, Moses reminds them what it will take to live out their
covenant with God in the land the Lord is giving them. Moses says, “The Lord your God is God of gods
and Lord of lords, mighty and awesome, who … executes justice for the orphan
and the widow, and who loves the strangers, providing them food and
clothing. You also shall love the
stranger, for you were strangers” once yourselves in the land from which God
has delivered you (Deut 10:17-19). It’s a
good message for a nation of immigrants to remember.
And as if loving the stranger isn’t hard
enough, Jesus ratchets up the call, commanding – not suggesting but commanding – that we love the most
unlovable: those who wish us harm. “I
say to you, love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you, so that
you may be children of your father in heaven” (Matt 5:44-45). That is practicing dignity to the Nth
degree; but at least in God’s eyes, it’s not an option. Strangers and enemies are facts of life. Love them anyway. You don’t have to admire them, God says, but
you must treat them with dignity.
So as I stand here precariously in the pulpit in this
election year, I would argue that the practice of dignity is where the wall between
faith and politics melts away. As we
evaluate candidates for public office, and as we consider their policy
proposals, I pray we’ll ask this question:
Do they enhance dignity? We can
bemoan incivility in public discourse (and rightly so), and we can challenge leaders
who grandstand and demagogue, riding the hobby horse of divisiveness. But you and I are the American democracy, and we bear the burden to make the
choice for dignity. We bear the obligation
to keep pushing back the boundaries of love.
We bear the responsibility to raise up leaders like St. Andrew's own Audrey
Langworthy, who was profiled in last week’s Messenger
as an example of someone who has lived out the Baptismal Covenant in her life
of public service. I want to leave you
today with her words, a great example of the intersection of faith and politics. Audrey said, “[Growing up,] contributing to
the community was our way of life. As a legislator, the opportunity to help
hundreds of people who toiled with state bureaucracies became a great challenge
and a rewarding motivation.” She
continued, “My faith, though quiet, has been the bedrock of my life. I believe that the teachings of our faith
demand, if we are able and with God's help, that we serve others as we travel
life’s road.”
There is dignity, the
place where faith and politics meet.
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