Things are different now. The past few election cycles have left me disturbed. It’s not the policies or candidates per se that disturb me; it’s the hatred and contempt for the opposition shown by practically every candidate.

In 2009, Republican businessman and political adviser Mark DeMoss and Democratic lobbyist and former Clinton aide Lanny Davis attempted to begin a project they called the Civility Project. They wrote to all members of Congress and state governors, asking them to sign a pledge. Here’s what the pledge was:

I will be civil in my public discourse and behavior. I will be respectful of others whether or not I agree with them. I will stand against incivility when I see it.

Out of 585 politicians, guess how many signed the pledge?

Three.

Thousands of citizens signed the pledge, but others attacked it. Some responded to DeMoss and Davis with name calling and rants about communism, complete with foul language.

When I read this, I almost cried. This isn’t a terribly high bar for civil behavior, yet only three leaders agreed enough to sign the pledge? How am I supposed to vote for candidates like this? How am I supposed to have respect for leaders who show no respect for those they disagree with?

Let’s face it. If these leaders and would-be leaders were children and they behaved this way at school, many schools would call it “bullying” or “harrassment” and suspensions would be in order. If my children said the kind of things that I’ve heard political leaders say, I would discipline them.

All I want are leaders that have integrity and good ideas for running the country. And a big part of integrity is having respect for others, whether that looks like protecting others’ dignity by keeping your hands off them or refusing to denigrate their character even when you strongly disagree with their stance on an issue. It’s perfectly possible to disagree with another person and not sling mud at them. Not easy, but possible. But I haven’t seen it happen in any election.

I’m tempted not to vote.

I can’t pretend that all the horrible things that are said pre-election don’t show what type of character the candidate has. It doesn’t matter if it’s their political party sponsoring the smear-tactic ads; ultimately, the candidate bears responsibility for what is said. I can’t divorce the tenor of the campaign from the type of person the candidate is. It says something. It means something.

Two things:

 First, I realize that I have a responsiblity to vote. People have fought and died for the freedom to vote, and it’s not a privilege to be taken lightly. For that very reason, I want to cast my vote wisely, for a candidate that I can respect, not just “the lesser of the two evils.” Why should a hard-won freedom be wasted on electing another sleazy politician?

 Second, I know that someone will suggest that I stop complaining and be a part of the solution. But politics really don’t interest me. I have no leadership ability, no desire to run for office, and no good ideas for fixing a hole in drywall, much less the mess of Washington. I don’t want to campaign for a candidate because there’s no one I would feel morally justified in campaigning for.

If Mark DeMoss and Lanny Davis can’t get political leaders to agree to stop mud-slinging and show respect, I know my words won’t make an iota of difference.

But here’s where I’ll make my plea to my readers. If you hold strong opinions—political or otherwise—please be careful how you express them. Sarcasm and belittling comments say more about the speaker than the object of ridicule.

Show respect for the opposition, even if it’s difficult. Especially if it’s difficult.

There are many things worth fighting for. But there is no need to resort to name calling or sarcasm or false accusations in the process.

Note: For Christians who are interested in politics, I highly recommend Amy E. Black’s article “The Cure of Election Madness” in the January 2012 issue of Christianity Today magazine. I received the information about DeMoss and Davis and their Civility Project there. The pledge (in quotes) is directly from the CT article.

At times, it’s felt like riding a bicycle with a bad wheel. With each revolution forward, the frame wobbles, and another piece falls off, bouncing away. Other pieces stay put, and for that God-given stubborn resolve to hang on, the bike hasn’t collapsed. Each week brings a change: another missing face in the pew, or another announcement of a change intended to help the situation.

Right now, I’m caught between desire to flee and knowing this won’t help. As a pre-teen, I watched from afar as my childhood church split. My faith was shaken to the core. How could these grownups, who claim to know a God of love and peace, treat each other so horribly? I wondered.

As a sophomore at a Christian college, I contemplated rejecting my faith and becoming an atheist. How much of that mental and emotional turmoil was my undiagnosed bipolar issues and how much was a genuine dark night of the soul, I don’t know. But that church split was a factor.

So I know running won’t help anything. Not being at the epicenter of an earthquake doesn’t mean I’m not still impacted by the waves, and I can’t escape the quaking ground under my feet. Each time I hear about another person leaving or hear about an argument, I’m reminded of the two church splits I’ve watched, and I grow increasingly fearful.

I long for the past. I fear the future. This middle part, the here and now, is all about change. It’s a giant question mark. And with each change, I’m tugged between past and future, longing and fear.

Yet the One who defines himself as I Am, present tense, outside this tug of war between past and  future, is the only constant. I should find my hope in him.

I know this intellectually. But in reality, I want my church to be the same place it was when I came there eight years ago. I want to shake the change-makers and the change-haters and tell them that their arguments are making me fearful, unsettled, even though the fear is my issue, not theirs. “Don’t you know what you’re doing to my faith?” I want to say.

And the question stops me. Who is my faith in: the unchanging, perfect God or a church of changing, imperfect people? Where do I place my hope?

I’m reminded of some lines from the Elizabethan poet Edmund Spenser. At the end of his famous Mutabilitie Cantos, where he writes about change and chaos and constancy, he muses about the future time when change will cease:

But thence-forth all shall rest eternally
With Him that is the God of Sabbaoth hight:
O that great Sabbaoth God, graunt me that Sabaoths sight.

Roughly paraphrased: Then all shall rest with the Lord of Hosts . . . God, grant me the sight of that day of eternal rest.

I fell in love with these lines the same semester I contemplated atheism. Somehow, even with their formal syntax and strange spelling, they spoke to me about hope. I won’t say that they saved my faith; I didn’t truly understand Spenser’s intent or his wordplay when he combines sabbath (rest)/sabaoth (hosts) to write “Sabbaoth God.” I doubt my nineteen-year-old self could’ve written a paper on these cantos. But the lines sank deep in my troubled heart.

And I’m reminded of them now, as I watch my fellow churchgoers. At times, we can be a fractious, cranky bunch who quarrel over buildings, music and theology. Yet we’re covered by the same grace. Loved by the same God. Given the same hope of rest, comfort, and peace. Rolling down the narrow road on wheels that wobble and yet never break, for they are sustained by a God who cannot be shaken.

——————————————————-

(This post is part of a synchroblog, hosted by Provoketive magazine. Check out this link for more great writers and their thoughts on hope.)

But at what point does all this talking become idle chatter, the hand-wringing become exploitation?

It’s not enough to talk about atrocities and spread information about them; we must work to stop them. Yet in my desire to make everyone aware of injustice, I often spend my time talking about injustice rather than acting on behalf of justice.

And in not actively working to stop injustice, I wonder if I am somehow participating in it. I’ve heard that all it takes for evil to reign is for good people to stay silent. I’ll add, “for good people to talk so much about evil that they no longer hear the cries for help, only their own voices.”

I let my thoughts of helplessness—What can I do? What can I do?—beat in my head until that’s all I hear. I let them keep me from doing anything.

Words can do a great many things. But words alone aren’t enough to care for Sahar’s wounds, physical or emotional. Swapping horror stories isn’t enough to stop horrible things from happening. Talk must lead to action, or it is useless.

So it’s time to stop merely talking . . . and start doing.

This month, the theme was beginnings. This is my first time participating and it’s been cool to see how other writers talked about beginnings: everything from starting to plan a trip to Disney to goals for the year, friendships and parenthood, reading plans and behavior changes. Rebecca Buckner hosted this month. (Thanks, Rebecca!) Here’s the link to her blog: http://theresplendentbeauty.com/wordpress/?p=697

If you like what you read, please let the author know!

Walkin’ on a tightrope, and waiting to slip and die
Insanity, dread, and a screwed-up mind in my head
But I know there is really no reason for fright
God’s love is waitin’ to catch me when I dive

C’mon everybody, let’s go for a dive
Right into his love and be energized
I’ve gotta load of cares to leave behind
a heart of tears and sorrows, just unkind
Seems like a scary thing to change my life
but He’s the One who can set me right
and I’ve got life ’cause He first died
So c’mon, everybody, let’s go for that dive
Yeah, yeah, yeah

Take a deep breath, hold hands and count to three
Step off and plunge into the love that we really need
Don’t fear nothin’ cause there’s nothin’ left to fear
only fear itself and that ain’t stopping me

Right now, I feel a little like my character, fearing leaving the past behind. It’s familiar. I look back over my blog posts, horrible first drafts, revisions, and lists of books I’ve read (and been influenced by) and know where I’ve been. And even when it’s painful—and parts of this past year were painful—it’s hard to leave it behind, as hard as diving off a tightrope with no safety net below.

Yet it’s necessary, and not only because the month of January has begun already, regardless of my personal preferences. T.S. Eliot wrote:

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

An ending is a chance for a beginning. The ending of Lucy’s (tight)rope is the beginning of an exhilarating and frightening free fall into love, in all its many manifestations. Ending the revision process of this novel means beginning the writing process of another one, with all the joys and heart/headaches inherent in telling a story and finding each word a home. And when that ends, there will be another beginning, another story.

And maybe this story will be even greater than the one before.

Each time I give stuff to charity, I feel relieved—and disturbed.

I give away things that I don’t want anymore: impulse buys, unflattering clothes, childish toys. Often, it’s a little marked up or scratched; no one will mistake it for new. But someone else will buy it for a low price and that sale will help others in need. Clean closet for me; money for a charitable organization; dirt cheap merchandise for bargain hunters. So far, so good.

But why does giving to charity always mean giving my leftovers, the stuff that I declare is unworthy to hang in my closet or sit on my shelves?

And how does it feel to be the person shopping at a non-profit thrift store, not because you adore a good bargain, but because that’s the only place you can afford? How does it feel to be on the receiving end of charity, knowing that you’re supposed to find your treasure in other people’s trash?

If you’ve ever been the odd person out, you know how being “charity” feels. You stand to the side, watching everyone else, feeling totally out of place with these strangers who all seem to be intimate friends. Then someone saunters over and starts a really awkward conversation designed to make you feel welcome. Only it doesn’t.

Typically, their motivation is more duty than actual interest in you as a person. They pity you for not fitting in, and because they’re decent people, they want to make you feel comfortable. Unfortunately, their plan is so obvious that it has the opposite effect: you feel uncomfortable. That’s treating someone else as charity.

Pity is cheaper than love.

Pitying others means that I get to feel superior. I hold the upper hand: the keys to acceptance in a group, the material wealth that they need to survive, things to make them more acceptable as people. And I can give these things and walk away, feeling good about myself, and go back to my real friends, clean closets, and newly purchased items. It’s a seller’s market, with people being treated as commodities to be bought and sold.

Loving them means that I believe they’re worthwhile as people—worth just as much as me. Not less. I’ll want to give them my attention. I’ll want to give them more than just discarded toys or outgrown clothes or a few extra dollars. I’ll want to give them the best because they are important to me. I’ll want to give, even if it means giving up something that I really want, even if no one else ever knows.

This is both harder and easier. Hard, because we’re used to thinking in terms of money and commodities and love is unquantifiable. Easier, because we’re freed from thinking that if we’re materially poor, we have nothing to give. All of us can give love and give in love.

What would happen if we all gave our best to others? What would happen if we gave—attention, gifts, money—out of love, not pity or duty? How can you do this?

I keep finding evidence to the contrary. The friend who says the mixed-faith thing makes Christmas really hard. Over the Thanksgiving holiday, another friend hosted a child whose mother had left her husband earlier that day. News stories about war, accompanied by images of flags burning, the staccato tap of gunfire, the stench of decay. Stress. Rage.

It’s the grief of a world gone wrong, and people longing for all to be made right again, longing for the joy that Christmas carolers and Bing Cosby assure us is there—and finding emptiness instead.

Several years ago, I miscarried our second child. We had tried for a pregnancy for two-and-a-half years, been through the hassle of infertility treatments, and finally I was pregnant. The first ultrasound looked good. A solid heartbeat. We told our then-three-year-old that she was going to be a big sister. It was Thanksgiving and we had so much to be thankful for.

Then I started bleeding.

We were putting up the Christmas tree, I remember. It wasn’t heavy bleeding—my pregnancy manuals assured me that light spotting was common—and a second ultrasound showed that the baby’s heart was still beating.

But the bleeding wouldn’t stop. My ob-gyn did a third ultrasound. Where the baby had been just a few days earlier was a black spot on the screen. The baby was already gone. I was left empty inside, just as I had been all those years while we waited for a child to fill my womb.

We spent Christmas grieving our child’s death. I won’t pretend that it was exactly the same as losing a grown child or having a stillborn baby.

But it was still death and grief, and they were there with us that Christmas as we unwrapped presents and opened cards and went caroling with church friends. It was there when we sang

Silent night, holy night
all is calm, all is bright . . .         

It seemed ironic that we were dealing with the loss of a child when Christmas celebrates the birth of a child.

Silent night? Calm and bright? Hardly. It makes for a lovely song, just like the television commercials for store sales make lovely interludes between news segments. It wasn’t calm or bright or blissfully silent in my heart that Christmas. I was both womb-empty and grief-filled, and neither felt like peace on earth, goodwill to all.

God was gracious and gave us another child. I don’t claim to understand why our infertility was healed while other couples struggle, or any of the other myriad of questions God’s grace raises. But my emptiness went away.

Sometimes I think about the child we lost. A strange feeling comes over me, like the emptiness was only partially filled, and there’s still a space in my heart that is grieving, knowing that another child is supposed to be here, too.

I often feel this dissonance: my feelings of emptiness don’t match my sense of how things ought to be. At Christmas, I hear so much about peace and hope, love and joy. They sound beautiful.

We long to be filled with them, even as we rush from store to store, beguiled by tinsel and lights.

Or as we sit in a candlelight service, grieving or angry or merely going through the motions.

Or as we secretly wonder why we don’t feel completely happy, filled to the brim with joy.

The world still isn’t right.

Christmas points me in the direction of hope but it isn’t the source of hope. It’s the expectation rather than the fulfillment. The reminder that one day,

wrongs will be made right,

justice will be served,

mercy poured out,

empty spaces will be filled.

(And not in the temporary, imperfect sense that defines our meager attempts to fight for justice or show mercy, either.)

And until then, I cling to this hope, the hope that Christmas reminds me of, waiting for when I will be perfectly and completely filled.

The woman’s face is disfigured. Horrible third degree burns cover her face. One eye is clouded and discolored. Her smile, though, is amazing: amazing for the fact that she can smile—she survived something horrible, her lips can form a smile, her teeth are intact—and amazing because she is smiling. She’s smiling despite going through hell. (Would I?)

I realize that I’ve recoiled and looked away because she’s hard to look at, and I feel ashamed for even thinking this. She’s another woman, not a creature from a horror movie.

Why did I look away?

But she doesn’t look normal.

But why does that matter? Have I bought into my society’s expectations of “normal” that much? Am I conditioned to look only at beautiful or pleasant or normal images? What does this say about me?

That you’re normal.

I know I always say I want to be normal, but if this is normal, then it’s overrated and shallow.

All of this is running in my head. I’m supposed to be cooking dinner or waiting for the smoke detector to tell me that dinner’s done or something, but I’m wondering what to do with the letter. I usually leave all the mail on the counter for my husband to read, but I sense that I can’t leave this letter there. What if our four-year-old daughter sees it?

I don’t want to explain her appearance, though the story is simple enough. She lives in Indonesia. During an attack on Christians in her village, this lady was fleeing when she tripped over a gasoline lantern. It set fire to her face. She was fortunate to survive. The non-profit organization Voice of the Martyrs helps her and her children.

The letter talks about her suffering. As you can imagine, she has lots of physical suffering. But there’s emotional pain, too. Each gasp or grimace brings pain to her heart. Sometimes people tell her children that she is a monster.

I read these words and remember my gut reaction: recoiling, averting my gaze because it’s too hard to meet her eyes, even in a photo. Conflicting emotions rise in me. Indignation that people treat her badly (Can’t they see her beautiful smile?) Shame that I reacted just like them. (Why did I gasp?)

I’m confronted by a paradox.

I want to be the person who responds with compassion.
Who doesn’t flinch at what she sees.
Who sees people as people, and not in terms of beautiful or ugly, normal or abnormal.
Who sees this woman and embraces her, the way I would like to be in those circumstances.

Yet I don’t. I’m accustomed to being surrounded by external beauty and have accepted it as my birthright to be surrounded by it. So I cringe at images or people or things that don’t fit. And instead of first reaching out in compassion, I respond by turning away.

It’s a reflex. Normal. But I don’t want to be like that.

I take a deep breath, and a second look. I see the woman with the beautiful, warm smile, her smile evidence of a hard-won joy. And I know that if I had stayed turned away, stayed caught in that initial response of horror, I would have missed this beauty.

As a Christian who wrestles with bipolar disorder, I was concerned to hear your October 20th remarks linking a lack of faith in God with depression. Some people ignore them. Others agree with them. Still others spew venom toward you as a person. I won’t do any of these.

Instead, I would like to respectfully share my thoughts on your points. Antidepressants, as your colleague Lee said on the program, are the third most common prescription drug in America. Then you said:

It’s amazing. I mean, the American people—the message is just stay stoned . . .

Being stoned and being medicated are not the same thing. 

. . . and don’t worry about what’s going on in the world.

Please don’t assume that I “don’t worry about what’s going on in the world” because I take medication for my mental illness. My medication doesn’t make me indifferent to the world. It makes me better able to think and better equipped to handle seeing the world around me.

When I wasn’t taking medication, the bipolar disorder made it difficult to focus on anything other than survival. Just get through this day or hour or minute without giving way to despair. AIDS? Political scandals? What did those matter when I was in so much pain? Or alternately, the world’s problems overwhelmed me and forced me deeper into the darkness.

Having the medication stabilizes me and increases my ability to engage with the world in a meaningful and productive way.

Pat:  Prozac, and what are some of the other antidepressants? That’s the one I’m familiar with.
Terry: It’s interesting. We have so many blessings and then to have depression be such a significant aspect of our lives.
Pat: You lose God, you lose hope, and God gives hope and with hope, comes praise and joy and happiness, ‘cause you have a future. . . .

God has not guaranteed happiness in this life. Hope, yes. A future, yes. But hope does not make present pain go away; it doesn’t make grief and sadness disappear. Horrible things still happen, and they happen to people regardless of their faith.

If you don’t believe in the Lord, you have no future, and everything looks dark and gloomy . . .

Don’t assume that depression is always and only a spiritual thing. I’ve heard this in countless ways over the years, usually accompanied by well-intended advice, usually dispensed by overly-cheery people. Read the Bible. Pray. Count your blessings. Meditate on Scripture.

The clear implication: get your spiritual act together and your depression will disappear.

Humans are complex. We’re spiritual beings, yes, but also physical and chemical and mental and emotional beings. It’s all a tangled mess and only God knows where one aspect ends and the others begin. As a finite being, for me to pull out one thread and declare, “Ah, see here’s the definitive cause of my (or your) depression,” seems arrogant and presumptuous on my part. For depression to be treated, the whole person needs help, not just one part.

 . . . so I’ve got to have something to kill the pain, so the way they go—use this term, “self medicating.” I’m not quite sure what all that entails, but it’s not a very pleasant thing.

First, people often take medication without consulting a doctor first; think taking aspirin for a headache or an OTC medication for a cold or downing a pot of coffee to pull an all-nighter.

Second, antidepressants (and other drugs like this) aren’t OTC medications, so technically I can’t self-medicate my pain with Prozac, Lithium, etc. I have to get a doctor to write the prescription for me. Yes, it can be at my request. Yes, I can abuse prescription medications; many people do. Yes, I can get medications that I don’t really need; people do this, too. But assuming that those taking medication for severe depression are “self medicating” is inaccurate.

Elsewhere on your show, you have said that sometimes people need to take antidepressants to stay even while they work things out. (I also noted that someone criticized you for writing something similar in Bring it on: Tough Questions, Candid Answers.) So I know that your October 20th remarks don’t fully portray your thoughts on this.

But there are people who will hear your words and feel despair at their “lack of faith” because they need antidepressants. It’s difficult enough to survive a day of depression without having a public figure make me feel like a second-class Christian. Since I doubt that was your intent, please be careful in how you talk to those in pain.

We need hope, not discouragement.

Sincerely,

Laura

Is peace always preferable to war?

Why do people rejoice when someone they hate dies?

Why is it easy to hate another person?

Why must every violent event be recorded and shown to the general public?

Who are the people who want to watch graphic video of someone’s death?

Can political candidates stop yelling at each other? (Is the other person’s hearing really that bad?)

Why do politicians use their mouths more than their ears?

Why can’t newscasters just report the news and not add their point of view?

Why is Lindsay breaking the terms of her parole considered news?

If I broke the terms of my parole would it be on Fox or CNN or MSNBC?

When did criminal trials become media events?

Is there a difference between ripping off thousands with pyramid schemes or a few with identity theft and captivity?

When did we switch from trial-by-jury to trial-by-Twitter?

Whatever happened to that innocent until proven guilty thing?

Why do people base their opinions on guilt vs. innocence upon the suspect’s race or ethnicity?

Does spewing hate online (or off) ever do any good?

Who decides what is news and what isn’t?

Why do I think my opinion is the only one worth hearing?

Why do I hear the news and think, “What does this mean for me?” rather than, “How does this affect other people?”