The election of a Donald J. Trump has left me feeling
unmoored. Immediately following the election and all through the waning days of
Barack Obama’s lame duck presidency, I cast about blindly trying to understand
how this America that was revealed to me could have existed under my very nose.
I felt like a happily married woman who suddenly learns that her husband has
been carrying on an affair. The person you love is not the man of character
that you imagined, but rather he is someone small and selfish, driven by venal
desires. The America that I loved endeavored to be a beacon of liberty and
hope. Our exceptionalism wasn’t based on our consumerist striving, but rather
the ideals of equal opportunity and treatment under the law.
The daily assault on that image of my country has been a
challenge. The impulse to march, to protest, to resist is strong and I have
joined with many to honor that impulse. Marching on January 21st
with millions of other women across the world to register my disapproval of a
man who has built his personal brand and personal wealth on the denigration and
exploitation of others energized me and brought me comfort. Retweeting a snarky
meme provides momentary satisfaction, but as other mass movements over the last
decade have demonstrated – something different is required. Occupy hasn’t made
any progress toward income equality and BLM hasn’t stopped the state sanctioned
murder of black men and women.
The ancient contemplative practice of praying the Rosary has
given me comfort and provided a useful framework for resistance. When praying
the Rosary, we are called to consider the mysteries of the life of Christ. When
I am feeling particularly vulnerable and lost, I rely on a mash up of two
distinct modes of prayer, the Holy Rosary and the Ignatian Contemplation on the
life of Jesus. This morning, as I praying on the Glorious mysteries, I
considered how the disciples must have felt following the arrest and execution
of Jesus. Where only a week before they had entered Jerusalem in triumph, they
were now scattered, frightened and lost. In Ignatian contemplative fashion, as
I prayed on the first decade and the mystery of Christ’s resurrection, I imaged
the women entering the cave expecting to perform the care taking duties of women
the world over. In their despair, they leaned into the comfort of providing the
customary preparation of the body for burial.
There’s a lesson there. Our traditions and our customs are
the wide path to the way forward. The women, along with the other disciples who
happened to be male, rode into Jerusalem feeling victorious but watched in fear
as the people turned on them and their message of liberation. If I look back to
the week before the 2016 election, I was concerned about how to reach the Trump
voters never imagining that they had no need for my ministrations. In
retrospect, I cringe at my arrogance while I despair of the venality and
grotesqueness of this new world.
My solace has been to follow the example of my foremothers
at the tomb. While the men fled and hid, the women were steady in their
commitment to the traditions and values of their community, and steadfast in
their belief in Jesus. Rather than flee, they confronted the danger of being
associated with the Nazarene and went to the tomb to care for him and prepare
his body for burial. When they found the tomb empty, they realized the miracle
and spread the word, changing the world forever.
We must be steady and we must trust that our values stand on
their own. The deficient values of Trump and his enablers in Congress will not
withstand the values of thoughtful people who believe in the America of
opportunity and equality. Our examples of caring for the poor, the sick, the
stranger is our greatest weapon in this battle for the heart and soul of our
nation.
