The Mercy Pope: Five Takeaways from His First Five Years

Do you remember where you were five years ago, when the white smoke signaled that the College of Cardinals had selected the successor to Pope Benedict XVI? I do. I was standing in the campus ministry office at Boston College, dumbfounded at hearing that the conclave has chosen a pope from Latin America … a Jesuit … and that he had chosen the name “Francis.”  (Remember the confusion over whether he would be “Pope Francis I” or “Pope Francis”?)

Five years into his papacy, it might be easy forget that Francis has been a pope of surprises. Sure, he’s the first non-European pope in well over a thousand years and the first Jesuit, which is shocking enough. And yes, his chosen name is unprecedented, prompted by advice from his friend, Brazilian Cardinal Cláudio Hummes, who hugged him and exhorted, “Don’t forget the poor.” At the moment of his introduction at St. Peter’s Square, he broke with tradition by asking the 150,000 people gathered to pray for him before offering his first blessing as pope. The surprises continued: he refused to use a platform to elevate himself over the cardinals when he was introduced as Pope Francis, eschewed a private car and rode the bus with his brother cardinals instead, and elected to live in a small suite in the Vatican guesthouse rather than the Apostolic Palace, unlike his predecessors. His simple lifestyle has elicited widespread praise, as well as his work to make the Vatican more hospitable to those experiencing homelessness in Rome. Francis’ pontificate orbits around consistent words and actions marked by humility, tenderness, and inclusion. Perhaps the best word to describe Pope Francis’ example is mercy. If Pope John Paul II’s legacy is tied to his travels to evangelize (104 international trips to 129 countries, drawing immense crowds), he may be considered “The Missionary Pope” while Pope Benedict XVI’s emphasis on ecological stewardship earned him the nickname “The Green Pope,” and so it appears that Pope Francis may be remembered as “The Mercy Pope.”

The world has never seen a pope like Francis. As we celebrate the fifth anniversary of his pontificate, five key traits highlight his character, intentions, and impact: his radical vision for the Church, the way he mediates mercy, his attention to the power of place, his commitment to listening, and his support for synodality.

1. Francis has a radical vision for the church:

When Francis met with 5,000 journalists to introduce himself as pope, he described his vision for the Church as one that “is poor and for the poor.” This hearkens back to the words of Pope John XXIII, who, in a radio address a month before Vatican II, proclaimed his desire for a “Church of all and in particular the Church of the poor.” This is a radical vision for the Church because radical refers to “going to the origin” or the “roots.” This reflects the core values of Jesus’ teaching and healing ministry (e.g., Matthew 25:31-46), as well as the witness of the first members the Church (e.g., Acts 4:32-35).

Francis’ vision for the Church cannot be reduced to a service agency, however. In Evangelii Gaudium (“Joy of the Gospel”), Francis articulates his vision for the Church as reclaiming our relationship with God and one another. The Church is to be a living encounter with Christ, which means that Christians are to recognize Christ in the other as much as they are called to be Christ for the other. This is not some weighty, pious burden but an invitation to deep and lasting consolation resulting from experiencing the love of God in and through loving others. Francis’ vision for the Church is rooted in communion and a mission of renewed enthusiasm marked by joy and hope. Francis doesn’t just insist that joy is the best barometer of the Christian faith; he radiates joy in every encounter.

At the same time, Francis’ radical vision for the Church is to be like a “field hospital after battle.” The Church goes to the margins to tend to the needs of those suffering the effects of personal and social sin. Drawing near others involves savoring and sharing the “Joy of the Gospel,” which “tells us tells us constantly to run the risk of a face-to-face encounter with others, with their physical presence which challenges us, with their pain and their pleas, with their joy which infects us in our close and continuous interaction. True faith in the incarnate Son of God is inseparable from self-giving, from membership in the community, from service, from reconciliation with others. The Son of God, by becoming flesh, summoned us to the revolution of tenderness” (Evangelii Gaudium, no. 88).

Francis has not changed any doctrine, but he seems to be shifting emphasis from defining or developing doctrine to the process of personal and communal discernment. Not only does this stem from his Jesuit formation (in the tradition of St. Ignatius’ “Spiritual Exercises”), but it highlights the freedom and obedience of one’s conscience as articulated in the Catechism (no. 1776). This is crucial for Francis’ vision of the Church as constituted by an informed and empowered laity whose full, conscious, and active participation is guided by spiritual discernment. This helps us look to the future where we all have a role to play in being available to the presence and power of the Holy Spirit in our midst, cooperating in the Church’s communion and mission. Any discussion of “The Francis Effect” on the Church has to account for the way Francis is energizing the laity to embrace their baptismal vocation to partner in the priesthood of Christ (CCC no. 1268).

Ultimately, Francis’ vision for the Church is a movement toward reform. Francis calls the Church – from personal beliefs and actions to institutional practices and structures – to turn away from sin, repent for the ways we have failed to love, and rededicate ourselves to Jesus. Each day is an opportunity to be rekindled by the “fire of Easter.”

2. Francis mediates the mercy of God:

When, as a new pope, he answered the question, “Who is Jorge Mario Bergoglio?” Francis’ reply was simple: “I am a sinner.  This is the most accurate definition. It is not a figure of speech, a literary genre. I am a sinner.” Francis reveals a person deeply in touch with the experience of God’s mercy. (This, too, points to Francis’ Jesuit formation, including the first week of the “Spiritual Exercises.”) In his book, The Name of God is Mercy, Francis writes:

“The centrality of mercy, which for me is Jesus’ most important message, has slowly evolved over the years in my work as a priest, as a consequence of my experience as a confessor, and thanks to the many positive and beautiful stories that I have known … [mercy] means opening one’s heart to wretchedness. And immediately we go to the Lord: mercy is the divine attitude which embraces, it is God’s giving himself to us, accepting us, and bowing to forgive … we can say that mercy is God’s identity card.”

Francis explains that he sees God’s character and purpose through the lens of the gerund (and neologism), “mercifying:” the act of showing mercy. We typically translate mercy as loving-kindness, but as I have written previously, this betrays the rich and varied meaning of the word in light of its biblical heritage. Mercy involves strength and steadfastness, graciousness and gratuitousness, faithfulness and tenderness, forgiveness and responsibility, solidarity and accountability. Mercy is “the measure by which we shall be judged” (to borrow a phrase from St. John of the Cross).

Mercy is the crux of Francis’ theological vision, the true north of his moral compass, the heart of his imagination for what is possible. Mercy inspires Francis’ pastoral approach, which he urges his brother priests and bishops to share in becoming more like shepherds “who smell like sheep” because of their close accompaniment with the people of God. This resonates throughout Amoris Laetitia, where Francis highlights mercy as a test of the Church’s welcome, especially to those who are vulnerable, marginalized, and in “irregular situations.” He insists, “The way of the Church is not to condemn anyone for ever; it is to pour out the balm of God’s mercy on all those who ask for it” (no. 296). Not only is mercy the work of God in our midst, but it is the “criterion for knowing who his true children are” (no. 310).

Francis is quick to point out that mercy is not without a backbone; it is essentially tied to truth and justice. However, Francis’ emphasis on mercy – and the way he mediates mercy in his words and actions – underscores his belief that mercy should lead the way forward. In Amoris Laetitia, he affirms that mercy should inspire our personal and communal “pastoral discernment” to be “filled with love, which is ever ready to understand, forgive, accompany, hope, and above all integrate” (no. 312). Mercy motivates Francis’ commitment to inclusion (a theme that can be traced from his early days as pope, to his 2017 TED Talk, “The Only Future Worth Building Includes Everyone,” to the current campaign to #ShareJourney with migrants and refugees through the four-step process to welcome, protect, promote, and integrate our brothers and sisters on the move, those who – just like us – are seeking peace in their families, homes, and neighborhoods). In those moments when Francis embraces a child, a man covered with tumors, or rushes to the side of a police officer who fell off her horse, he incarnates God-Who-Is-Mercy in the world and encourages us to do the same.

3. Francis knows place matters:

Francis recently shared in an interview that he doesn’t like to travel and he didn’t intend to travel much as pope. But as the migrant crisis – especially those fleeing chaos in the Middle East and Africa – continued to bring hundreds of desperate people to the shores of Italy, Francis said their suffering was like a “thorn in the heart.” Francis celebrated Mass on the tiny island of Lampedusa to denounce the “globalization of indifference” that turns a blind eye, deaf ear, cold heart, and closed hand to the thousands of people fleeing violence, economic deprivation, famine, drought, and flooding. In his homily, Francis reflected:

“Today no one in our world feels responsible; we have lost a sense of responsibility for our brothers and sisters. We have fallen into the hypocrisy of the priest and the Levite whom Jesus described in the parable of the Good Samaritan: we see our brother half dead on the side of the road, and perhaps we say to ourselves: “poor soul…!” and then go on our way. It’s not our responsibility, and with that we feel reassured, assuaged. The culture of comfort, which makes us think only of ourselves, makes us insensitive to the cries of other people, makes us live in soap bubbles which, however lovely, are insubstantial; they offer a fleeting and empty illusion which results in indifference to others; indeed, it even leads to the globalization of indifference. We have become used to the suffering of others: it doesn’t affect me; it doesn’t concern me; it’s none of my business!”

Francis’ critique of the “globalization of indifference” goes beyond condemning moral apathy; he also points to the solution, which is accomplished by following the example of the Samaritan. This means interrupting our schedule, putting our agenda on hold, going out of our way and into the ditch to draw near to others in need. Proximity with the poor, marginalized, and oppressed will burst the “soap bubbles” of our self-concern (as anyone who has engaged in direct service knows). We learn about solidarity through contact with other people. This firsthand encounter serves as the catalyst for the kind of compassion, courage, generosity, and hope required to be the kind of people who routinely “go and do likewise” (Luke 10:37).

In a globalized, digital world, one’s physical place might seem to be less significant. But Francis understands that we are formed by our social location. This is why he took up residence in the Vatican guesthouse, why he opts for a Fiat instead of a limo, why he can be found ministering to and with those in need, day and night.  When Pope Francis was asked about moments of particular consolation during his papacy, he discussed his visit to Tacloban in 2015.  He went to show his support after the island was devastated by a hurricane but he was the one gifted by all the smiles – the irrepressible joy – of all those who came to see him and celebrate the Eucharist together. Even in the midst of a tropical storm, Francis’ physical presence was a consolation to the faithful, just as they have been to him.

This is why Francis doesn’t just insist that we should be building bridges, not walls; he goes to the US-Mexico border to celebrate the Eucharist with people separated by the border wall. Standing at the border near Juárez (where more than 1500 women and girls have been murdered since 1993), Francis brings attention to the place where more than 6,000 migrants have died since 2000, a “mass disaster” that goes unnoticed by too many. When Francis celebrates the Eucharist at the border, he shines a light on the Body of Christ as a “body of broken bones,” disfigured by drug smuggling, human trafficking, and unchecked violence. In his homily, Francis speaks from this place to conscientize Christians and all people of good will, pleading, “Let us together ask our God for the gift of conversion, the gift of tears, let us ask him to give us open hearts … No more death!  No more exploitation!  There is always time to change, always a way out and always an opportunity, there is always the time to implore the mercy of God.”

By word and deed, Francis exhorts us to move our feet to draw near our brothers and sisters rather than stand in judgment at them from a distance. This is what it means to be a church that is like a “field hospital after battle,” going to the frontiers that are from the center of status, privilege, and power. When we take up the vantage point of the vulnerable, we better understand the circumstances they face, the personal and structural obstacles to their dignity and freedom, and the ways that this restriction of choice becomes a deprivation of life.

And Francis recognizes that when we cannot take up a particular location ourselves, we can still be formed by having a place brought to us. This is why he celebrated Mass with crosses and a chalice made from the wood of capsized boats that carried migrants. (Theologian Fr. Dan Groody travels with a chalice made from this same wood, giving emphasis to the connection between Christ’s suffering and those of these “crucified peoples.”) Every time we attend Mass, we are invited to think, feel, and pray in union with the whole Church, a church that Francis calls to be “without frontiers and a mother to all.” Francis’ travels bring to light forgotten people and places, making the Church more “catholic” (i.e., “pertaining to the whole” or universal) in seeking to affirm unity in its diversity.

4. Francis listens:

When Francis goes to the margins, he doesn’t only go to evangelize; he also goes to be evangelized. He takes seriously Jesus’ claim that he can be found in the least, the last, and the lowly (Matthew 25:40). He seeks to learn about the lived experiences of others and to draw on this wisdom to enrich the whole Church. This is why he made sure Laudato Si’ was informed by bishops, scientists, and people living in the Global South so that his call to care for all creation would be theologically sound, empirically-grounded, and prophetically inspired by the experiences of those who are already facing the effects of climate change (the poor are being hit first and worst). As a result of this listening, Pope Francis clarified how and why the great command to love of God and neighbor is essentially linked to care for our shared home, our ecological common good.  He asserts the need for ecological conversion and integral development: “We are not faced with two separate crises, one environmental and the other social, but rather one complex crisis which is both social and environmental. Strategies for a solution demand an integrated approach to combating poverty, restoring dignity to the underprivileged, and at the same time protecting nature” (no. 139). Francis beckons for each of us to pause from the busyness of our daily routine to “hear the cry of the earth and the cry of the poor” (no. 49).

Francis’ habit of listening is surely what gave rise to his famous “Who am I to judge?” line in response to a question about homosexuality. It is the reason why, earlier this year, he married the flight attendants on a plane in Chile – and reminded critics that “sacraments are for people” (which sounds a lot like Jesus responding to his doubters in Mark 2:27). Francis has been formed by this practice of listening, and this is beginning to shape the Church, as well. His stress on listening was the impetus for the Lineamenta that informed the pastoral priorities in Amoris Laetitia. During his visit to the United States, he highlighted the need for dialogue, including his willingness to be a part of that process himself. In the midst of controversy surrounding the church’s mishandling of priests’ abuse of children, Francis continues to listen to victims of abuse – almost weekly. (“They are left annihilated. Annihilated!” he reports.) Francis’s listening will continue to shape the Church in the future, as he seeks counsel on questions related to married priests, women deacons, and even as he considers what his adversaries and critics have to say about him.

Francis’ commitment to listening shows his spiritual maturity. He seeks to be attentive and responsive to the movement of the Holy Spirit, not just in his own life, but among the whole people of God. His careful listening also points back to his Jesuit formation, in the tradition of St. Ignatius’ “Spiritual Exercises.” Those of us who have been Jesuit-educated can easily detect the ways that Francis “seeks God in all things” (through the “spiritual senses” to grow in dedication to and affection for what God loves), how he is a man “for and with others” (avoiding that “which might separate us from others”), how he demonstrates “care for the whole person” (making us responsible to promote human dignity), and his dedication to a “faith that does justice” (to pursue the fullness of life for all). Francis’ discernment of the will of God is rooted in the vision of Vatican II: listening to the joys and hopes, griefs and sorrows of the Church. He does more than “read the signs of the times;” he hears what they mean to God’s people. Like other beloved South American bishops (e.g., Câmara and Romero), Francis feels with the Church. His pastoral approach is profoundly Latin American, marked by a theology of accompaniment en conjunto (together). It is about sharing – not wielding – power as a discipleship of equals.

5. Francis embraces synodality:

Of course, listening matters little if it does not lead to action. Aside from the emphasis on mercy, the hallmark of Francis’ pontificate has been his support for synodality. For most, the word “synod” might denote a gathering of bishops. But the Greek roots of the word mean “journeying together.” This implies more than listening and shared discernment (e.g., the “evangelical discernment” he outlines in Evangelii Gaudium, no. 51). Synodality requires that we build partnerships. Synods – most notably on matters related to the family in 2014 and 2015 and the upcoming synod on young people that will begin in Rome next week – foster mutual respect, support, and accountability. They promote listening that becomes the pathway for collaboration as “coworkers in the vineyard.”

Synodality offers a more inclusive and egalitarian model for being church. It necessarily involves dismantling barriers to full and equal participation, especially those created by the sins of racism, sexism, and homophobia. In the spirit of subsidiarity, it assigns responsibility at the lowest effective level. Synodality helps the Church to become more freely and fully one, holy, catholic, and apostolic. Francis’ endorsement of synodality is not an abdication of his authority, but a delegation of authority to those who are in the best position to offer fitting pastoral care. Bishop McElroy in San Diego offers an excellent case study of how synodality can expand our imagination of what is possible in response to Amoris Laetitia.

Ultimately, that’s the point of sharing the journey in synodality: to expand our imagination of what is possible as followers of Christ. Imagination is not about fantasy or illusion. Imagination – in a truly Ignatian way – is ultimately a function of our deepest desires. Imagination makes it possible to wake up from the delusion that we are separate from each other or that some lives matter more than others. Imagination calls each of us to be visionaries, seeking the reign of God in our midst so that we can continue to reach for it to become ever more fully realized in our time and place.

Francis’ encouragement of synodality reminds me of the line by the Jesuit priest and poet Dan Berrigan: if you want to be hopeful, you have to do hopeful things. Synodality is a sign of great hope; Francis trusts in the assembly, the people of God, the church. He is confident that the Holy Spirit is leading the way through the sensus fidelium, even if the way forward will not be in clear black-and-white terms. Francis rejects the allure of black-and-white thinking because such a facile approach does not cohere with the rich diversity of human experience. Through synodality, Francis is making room for the Holy Spirit – and for an empowered laity, too.

Indeed, these last five years with Francis give us many reasons to be filled with gratitude, just as they give us reasons to be filled with hope for what the future holds. There is more work to be done and Francis’ fifth anniversary is a time for us to be renewed in sharing this work. What would it look like for you to adopt Francis’ radical vision for the Church, his manner of mediating mercy, drawing near people and places of great need, listening to learn from others, and sharing the journey through collaboration? In what ways can we more fully embrace our baptismal vocation and make more room for the Holy Spirit to lead us where God needs us? What can we imagine possible for ourselves, our Church, and our world?

We do not know what is in store for us next. But Pope Francis offers some sage advice for the journey ahead:

“In the meantime, we come together to take charge of this home that has been entrusted to us, knowing that all the good that exists here will be taken up into the heavenly feast. In union with all creatures, we journey through this land seeking God, for ‘if the world has a beginning and if it has been created, we must enquire who gave it this beginning, and who was its Creator.’ Let us sing as we go. May our struggles and our concern for this planet never take away the joy of our hope” (Laudato Si’ no. 244).

Pope Francis gives us many reasons – past, present, and future – to bask in the joy of our hope. The Mercy Pope is a living witness of God’s inexhaustible and unconditional tenderness, just as we are called to be, too.


Love Has No Alibi: Pope Francis Announces First World Day of the Poor Message

Earlier today, Pope Francis released a message for the Church in preparation for the First World Day of the Poor, to be celebrated on November 19th.  This particular Sunday—two weeks before the beginning of Advent and the Sunday before the Feast of Christ the King, which concludes the liturgical year—is given focus by the gospel reading for the day.  The passage, Matthew 25:14-30, is called the “parable of the talents.” It is a sobering reminder that much is expected from those to whom much is given (to paraphrase Luke 12:48), and sets the stage for the following passage (Matthew 25:31-46, the gospel for the Feast of Christ the King), when Jesus surprises his disciples by saying that final judgment is not a matter of belief or belonging, but results from how a person uses his or her freedom.  Specifically, Jesus identifies himself with the least, the last, and the lowly, telling his followers: “what you do for the least of my brothers and sisters, you do for me” (Matthew 25:40).

These passages are part of the biblical foundation for the preferential option for the poor in Catholic social teaching. This teaching calls Christians to love God by loving their neighbor, giving special priority to the neighbor in greatest need. It is crucial to remember that when we use the word “poor,” we’re not just talking about scores of people barely making ends meet.  Poor and low-income people make up 71% of the global population.

In Hebrew, the word for “poor” is anawim, although the word conveys much more than material deprivation.  Anawim is just as much about being vulnerable and marginalized, a social outcast, cloaked in shame.  When we talk about “the poor,” we should remember we are talking about people: children, married couples and single adults, the elderly, folks who experience mental or physical illness or injury—people who are socially excluded or isolated.  In Scripture, to be poor is to be denied dignity, rights, freedom, opportunities, and access.  Similarly, in the world today, to be poor is to have little or no power.  As Peruvian priest Gustavo Gutiérrez has claimed, to be poor is to be rendered socially insignificant, a nonperson, someone fated to premature death.

A significant part of Pope Francis’ Message for the First World Day of the Poor involves going beyond exhorting Christians to show special care, concern, and steadfast commitment to those in greatest need.  “Love has no alibi,” Pope Francis asserts, and it ought to lead to a “true encounter with the poor and a sharing that becomes a way of life.”  Here Francis connects this inaugural “World Day of the Poor” to one of the central themes of his papacy, the need to build a “culture of encounter,” to bring people together across differences with tenderness and solidarity.

Moreover, Pope Francis uses this message to remind Christians that we all experience poverty of some kind; we are all deprived in one way or another.  This is not a call to self-pity, but humility.  Aquinas defines humility as the truth: the ability to recognize our goodness as well as our finitude and moral failure.  Our poverty—material, spiritual, and marked by other social and political conditions—can be a starting point, rooted in humility to connect with others in vulnerability and openness.  As Brené Brown has highlighted, there is great power in vulnerability, a power that can bring about a change in the way we relate to ourselves and one another.

Instead of focusing on what we can give to others (especially in a spirit of pity or unilateral charity that can sometimes do more harm than good), this is a call to friendship, to right-relationship with God and all creation.  It is a call to be who God is in the world: a communion of love.

When we embrace our own poverty and refuse to ignore the poverty of others, we can make ourselves more available to the presence and power of God in our midst, who, as Jesus proclaimed, desires that we share life in abundance (John 10:10).  This First World Day of the Poor is a day to commit ourselves to be artisans of peace and builders of a “culture of life.”

You can read Pope Francis’ full Message for the First World Day of the Poor here.



Faithful Discipleship: Beyond Resistance to President Trump

A few weeks ago, a CNN poll showed that 85% of Americans reported the country is more divided now than in recent years.  More than half said they are dissatisfied with the way democracy is working in our country.  January 20, 2017 will be a microcosm of our divided nation: millions of Americans will be celebrating today’s Inauguration of Donald Trump, cheering on his promise to “drain the swamp” in Washington, DC (which has been undermined by his Cabinet appointments) and vow to “make American great again” (whatever that means, given the fact that war, economic uncertainty, and rising social inequalities marked most of the 20th century).  Alternatively—and especially given his record low approval rating to start his presidency—millions more Americans will be lamenting today’s transfer of power.  After all, this is a man who has a habit of making outrageous, offensive, inflammatory, and patently false statements.  (His Politifact scorecard rates his claims as true only 4% of the time.)  He has insulted patriots and heroes including, most recently, Congressman John Lewis, a key leader in the Civil Rights movement. He has bragged about sexually assaulting women and being unfaithful to his marital vows.  He has disparaged countless individuals and groups, and in particular, people of color, immigrants, and Muslims, among others.  His tweets and offhand remarks have destabilized companies’ stock, raised questions about his willingness to deploy nuclear weapons, and threatened foreign relations and global security.  He has endorsed violence against protestors at his political rallies, earned the support of the KKK, and in the wake of his election, there have been more than 1,000 acts of hate or intimidation targeting minority groups.  His cabinet picks are not only controversial and extraordinarily wealthy, they are among the most inexperienced nominees in recent history.  His ties to Russia and the possibility of Russian interference in the election raise serious concerns.  He is not the successful businessman he claims to be and his philanthropy falls well short of what he boasts.  Although he professes to be a devout Christian and says the Bible is his favorite book, he had difficulty naming his favorite verse.  Even more troublingly (at least from a Christian standpoint), he’s never asked God for forgiveness—not even before he receives “my little wine” and “my little cracker” at communion.  There are pressing ethical questions about how he will divide his business interests from his political responsibilities, and Americans will be footing the sizable bill to protect his interests and security, including his properties around the globe. He has shown himself to be unpredictable if not unstable, possessing very thin skin and a penchant for bullying.  There is a litany of reasons why parents should be uncomfortable thinking of President Trump as a role model for their children and to feel dread about how to talk about his antics with their kids. It’s one thing to address the “divided states of America” in terms of political polarization; it’s another to confront the staggering anger, terror, and widespread despair so many Americans feel at the prospect of a Trump presidency.

We cannot accept any of the above to become the new “normal” for our country.

Some have suggested Trump won’t last long.  Others—including President Obama—insist that we should give Trump a chance.  A few have sagely noted that it is counterproductive if not dangerous to denounce Trump and scapegoat his supporters.  It is worth reflecting further on how Trump won the Catholic vote (despite his racist, misogynist, nativist, and Islamophobic record) and why Catholics should not expect Trump to deliver on his pro-life promises.  More to the point, it is imperative to identify what “faithful discipleship” should look like during a Trump presidency.

Faithful citizenship,” as the US Catholic Bishops write, is about informing consciences to defend the dignity of life and take responsibility for the common good as civically-engaged people of faith.  I use the phrase “faithful discipleship” as a reminder that Christians are called to be faithful to the Gospel (and to the person of Jesus Christ) before any other allegiance, including nationality or party affiliation.

In this regard, it may be helpful to remember that Jesus wrestled with an unjust social order and condemned abuses of power.  As John Pavlovitz writes, Jesus was a peacemaker with an activist heart.  He was a shepherd for the marginalized and oppressed, the nonpersons of his day.  But to the “wolves” who preyed on the socially insignificant of his day, Jesus “was the holy fury of an outraged God who refused to tolerate the mistreatment of those made in God’s image.”

This is the same outrage we hear in the prophets like Amos, Jeremiah, and Isaiah who warned:

“Woe to those who turn justice into wormwood and cast righteousness to the ground, they hate those who reprove at the gate and abhor those who speak with integrity; therefore, because you tax the destitute and exact from them levies of grain, though you have built houses of hewn stone, you shall not live in them; though you have planted choice vineyards, you shall not drink their wine.  Yes, I know how many are your crimes, how grievous your sins: oppressing the just, accepting bribes, turning away the needy at the gate …” (Amos 5:7-12).

God reveals God’s character and purpose throughout Scripture as taking the side of the poor, vulnerable, and oppressed.  As Bible scholar Fr. John Donahue, S.J., writes, “This concern for the defenseless in society is not a command designed simply to promote social harmony, but is rooted in the nature of Yahweh himself who is defender of the oppressed.”  (See, for example, Deuteronomy 10:18 and Psalm 103:6.)  This means “the knowing of Yahweh is taking the cause of the poor and the needy.  Here there is no division,” Donahue explains, “between faith and the doing of justice.  Justice is concrete.  It combines non-exploitation of the poor and taking their cause.  The doing of justice is not the application of religious faith, but its substance; without it, God remains unknown.”

In other words, Christians cannot be spectators in the political arena.  Neither can they leave those in Washington to do the work of politics.  It is the responsibility of every disciple—as individuals and as members of faith communities called by the Gospel and empowered by the Holy Spirit—to live a faith that does justice.  Otherwise we risk being complicit in an unjust social order that betrays who God is and what God wants.

The biblical vision of justice is one that overcomes self-interest to prioritize the needs of the most vulnerable members of society (this is the principle of the “preferential option for the poor” in Catholic social teaching).  The poor and needy are the very people Trump calls “losers” (among other insults, now numbered at least 289 times on Twitter).  Faithful discipleship requires resisting the kinds of political rhetoric and exercise of power that demonize, denigrate, and divide.  It demands that Christians cultivate the prayer life, prophetic imagination, courageous advocacy, inclusive dialogue and relationship-building, as well as community-organizing and collective action that delivers justice for the neediest members of our society.

I agree with Stephen Pope, who argues that this is “not the time for reconciliation.”  Pope writes:

“Jesus was clear that those who follow him should expect strife. When they stand in tension, fidelity is prior to reconciliation—and even its necessary condition. Forgiveness, reconciliation, and healing are central to the Gospel, but they are corrupted when not coordinated with fidelity, justice, and truth. All of us must be willing to support reasonable compromises that advance useful public policies, but only within the bounds of what is consistent with universal human dignity. We must try to understand everyone, but not turn a blind eye to bigotry. We must will the good to offenders, but not reconcile with unrepentant racists. Instead, we must struggle against injustice and those who promote or countenance it. As John Paul II insisted, wrongdoing “must be acknowledged and as far as possible corrected … [because an] essential requirement for forgiveness and reconciliation is justice.” We are light years away from justice.”

What does a commitment to justice look like with Trump as president?  I have alluded above to a five-point-plan that goes beyond resistance.  While I agree with Rev. Jim Wallis (founder of Sojourners) that resistance is patriotic and Christian, it may also exacerbate social divisions and political gridlock.  Prophetic leadership is most effective when it combines denunciation (of what should not be) with annunciation (of what should be).  Toward this end, our objective should be more than resisting Trump, the demagogue; we should be working to build the just social order that celebrates human dignity and fosters the common good.  (Mother Teresa might remind us, “God does not require that we be successful, only faithful.”)

I propose the following five steps for practicing fidelity to Jesus who is, as Donahue asserts, “the sacrament of God’s justice in the world.”

1. Cultivating prayer for shalom. Shalom, a word usually translated as “peace” is better understood as the wholeness and fullness of life in right, loving, and just relationship between God, humanity, and all creation.  This is God’s hope and it should be the end to which we order our deepest desires and heartfelt prayers.  The problem is, too often prayer is conceived as time spent bringing our problems to God in order to ask for God’s help to fix them.  Sometimes, we just want God to fix our problems for us.  (Notice how the prayer of the faithful are written at your parish; when we pray for the hungry, sick, poor, and those subject to violence, war, and ecological degradation, are we suggesting that these are God’s problems to solve or ours?)  The point of prayer is to commune with God and to be transformed in God’s love.  We pray not for God to change the world, but so we can be changed, as Fr. Richard Rohr describes.  The first step in faithful discipleship is to commit to a life of prayer, to grow in becoming “contemplatives in action” as St. Ignatius of Loyola saw it.  According to Jesuit priest Walter Burghardt, this process begins by taking “a long loving look at the real.”  By trying to see the world (including ourselves and others) as God does, we can see the good in us and around us as well as the divisions and wounds that need to be healed.  We pray so that we might act in fidelity to God’s hope for creation, to realize the “reign of God” at the core of Jesus’ teaching and healing ministry (which is shalom).

Dorothy Day is an exemplar of this commitment to being a “contemplative in action.”  Lauded by Pope Francis in his address to Congress in September 2015, Dorothy Day’s discipleship was dedicated to prayer and piety as much as a commitment to justice for the poor and nonviolence in our world.  Her life is a testament to the power of prayer and the personal responsibilities of a faith that does justice.  I imagine Dorothy with a rosary in one hand and a protest sign in the other.  In December 1948 she reflected, “I really only love God as much as I love the person I love the least.”  Dorothy Day prayed continuously to grow in love—love for God and love for those in need, and those hardest for her to love—knowing that love would give her the energy to humbly yet tirelessly commit to the work of justice in the world.  (She also relied on the sacramental life of her Catholic faith; she wrote “Without the sacraments of the church, I certainly do not think that I could go on.)  With Peter Maurin, she co-founded The Catholic Worker newspaper and dedicated her life to practicing the social mission of the church.  She was a staunch advocate for the poor, hungry, and homeless; the houses of hospitality she started in the 1930s now number over one hundred across the globe.  She opposed war and promoted nonviolence and called for a revolution of the heart to a greater love open to all—even enemies.  “If I have achieved anything in my life,” she once said, “it is because I have not been embarrassed to talk about God.” Dorothy reminds us what it means to be a “contemplative in action,” especially one shaped so deeply by love and justice.

2. Practicing prophetic imagination. It is easy to look at the state of the world, our political system, our cities and schools, and lose hope.  But hope—trust that God makes good on God’s promises—is what leads us into the future.  Hope fights the twin temptations of presumption (that God will take care of everything for us) and despair (that all is lost).  Hope is closely linked to the imagination: it expands what we imagine to be possible and refuses to domesticate or “fence in” the work of the Holy Spirit.  Hope generates creativity and advances freedom.  It helps us to better recognize and partner with God who is present and at work in the world.  Hope reminds us that we do not have to accept the world as it is; we can and should practice a prophetic imagination that explores what it would take to bring about the shalom God desires for all creation.

Walter Brueggemann is a theologian who specializes in the prophets of the Hebrew Bible.  He understands the prophetic tradition in terms of a “prophetic imagination,” which he envisions as closely related to poetry, the artful use of language meant to convey wisdom and impart courage.  The prophetic imagination creates conflict: from a critical distance, it critiques an unjust status quo and confronts those responsible for it.  But as mentioned above, this extends beyond denunciation to annunciation: the goal is not to carve out a contrary position as much as it is to effect change in social perspectives and policies.  Practicing a prophetic imagination constructs a visionary awareness of what is real and what more is possible.  It critiques the exercise of power that subdues, marginalizes, and causes suffering—that is, the structural evil the Catholic tradition calls “social sin.”  It provokes and interrogates, seeking to root out fear, complacency, and blind obedience.  As Brueggemann describes, the prophetic imagination is profoundly countercultural because it “dismantles the politics of oppression and exploitation by countering it with a politics of justice and compassion.”  It does more than resist or denounce the darkness in the world; it releases the energy of God who stands with those at the underside of empire in order to liberate those who are deprived freedom and equality.  The prophetic imagination calls forth wonder, awe, and appreciation in people to, as Brueggemann sees it, “engage the promise of newness that is at work in our history with God.”  In short, the prophetic imagination combats complacency and despair by reminding us to look for ways to practice hope, courage, and boundless creativity to nourish and sustain work to make new life and new forms of community possible.

3. Growing in advocacy. The sociologist Alan Wolfe has found that most Americans prefer what he calls “modest virtues.”  Basically that boils down to tolerance and non-judgmentalism.  (In fact, Wolfe opines that if Americans were to vote on adding an 11th Commandment, it would be “Thou Shalt Not Judge.”)  But the problem with tolerance is that merely tolerating the existence of others falls short of what is required to solve complex social problems (like sexism, racism, or poverty, for example).  A prophetic imagination generates hope, courage, and creativity and it needs to urge people beyond tolerance to take shape through social responsibility.  The way to do this is by growing in advocacy: developing the courage to show up and speak out against the structural evil and personal suffering caused by injustice.  It keeps us from saying, “Who am I to say or do anything about this?”  Our silence will not save others and it will not save ourselves (as Martin Niemöller famously alluded).

Martin Luther King, Jr. is one of the best examples we have of a Christian disciple who took his citizenship seriously enough to become an advocate for the dignity and rights of his fellow citizens.  Indeed, it is difficult to imagine another non-president who has effected the same measure of change to our American democracy.  Even though King had his fair share of moral shortcomings, his example reminds us that moral heroes need not be flawless individuals (which, of course, would be impossible, given the reality of sin).  It is also easy to romanticize King and forget the struggles he faced.  In 1966, 72% of Americans had an unfavorable view of King (which changed dramatically by 1987, when 76% reported a favorable view).  Even though opposition to King was related to his stance against the Vietnam War, King wasn’t always the popular figure we imagine today.  In fact, some claim that only 13% of black churches supported King during his work for the Poor People’s Campaign.  This is worth mentioning not to discredit King, but to pay tribute to his courage and resilience in the face of such little support.

To grow in advocacy like King requires that people who are comfortable risk becoming uncomfortable for the sake of love and justice.  In his “Letter from Birmingham City Jail,” he laments the laxity of the church.  He explains, “Yes, I see the church as the body of Christ.  But, oh!  How we have blemished and scarred that body through social neglect and through fear of being nonconformists” and continues, “So often the contemporary church is a weak, ineffectual voice with an uncertain sound.  So often it is an archdefender of the status quo.  Far from being disturbed by the presence of the church, the power structure of the average community is consoled by the church’s silent—and often even vocal—sanction of things as they are.”

As true as this might have been in 1963, this critique is eerily prescient for today. 40% of Americans say churches contribute “not much” or “nothing” to solving important social problems.  The US Catholic Church has been mostly quiet about Trump’s shameful behavior; Archbishop Kurtz congratulated Trump for his victory and said the USCCB looks forward to working with him as president.  In the face of increasing inequality in our country, growing racial tension, police shootings of unarmed black men and women, and other troubling trends, US bishops have been largely silent. (The USCCB’s last statement on racism was in 1979.)

King urged Christians to shirk the label of “moderate” to be “extremists for love” just as Jesus was (Luke 6:35).  He called on disciples to be “creatively maladjusted” to a country marked by sinful social structures that exclude and oppress.  To be an advocate is to use one’s voice to disrupt an unjust status quo, combat complacency and despair, and encourage folks to continue to be resilient in the pursuit of shalom.  He insisted that we are measured by where we stand not in moments of comfort or convenience, but challenge and controversy.  He reminded us “silence is betrayal” (and also: “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter”).  We all have a voice; the question is whether and how we use it to promote love and justice for all.

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4. Initiating inclusive dialogue and relationships. Much has been made of fake news and the ideological echo chambers created by social media.  We may have a preference to associate and interact with people who look like us, think like us, and act like us, but this fails to reflect the complexity and diversity of reality.  No one possesses the fullness of truth; no one is free from blind spots or biases (which need to be filled in and corrected).  It is impossible to cultivate empathy, understanding, or a shared commitment to the common good if we don’t first grow into the “culture of encounter” Pope Francis has been championing throughout his papacy.  A “culture of encounter” requires that we step outside of our comfort zone, welcome the “other” and listen to what that other has to teach us.

A prime exemplar of this practice is Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk also highlighted in Pope Francis’ address to Congress in September 2015.  Merton was deeply committed to peace and interfaith understanding and echoed many of the concerns raised by Martin Luther King, Jr.  Merton wrote “Letters to a White Liberal” in response to King’s “Letter from Birmingham City Jail” in 1963, in which he called for white atonement to acknowledge the unmerited privilege white people enjoy in American society as well as commitment to reform the systems and structures that create such unjust inequalities across the color line.  In addition to his commitment to racial reconciliation, Merton also prioritized interreligious dialogue.  In particular, he fostered a close relationship with the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh (even though they met only once, in 1966), whom he called “my brother.”  It is remarkable that Pope Francis lifted up Merton as an example during his visit to the US, given that Merton was often dismissed by his contemporaries as “too radical.”

Perhaps the pope lifted up Merton’s example of inclusive welcome, free and open inquiry, and engagement with pluralism and diversity because it remains a much-needed standard for Christian discipleship today.  In a socio-cultural context marked by ideological differences and divides based on class, race, and creed, Merton’s reverence for the natural world, the uniqueness of each individual, and an incarnational spirituality that fosters global solidarity challenges us to be ever more inclusive with our conversation partners and collaborators.  There is so much to learn and appreciate; faithful discipleship implies a willingness to go to the frontiers (as Pope Francis described his own aspirations) and to go beyond what is already familiar, comfortable, and similar.  This means expanding our social circles, making friendships across boundaries that divide, and listening to voices that speak from perspectives different from our own.  Put simply, it means being better about listening to others (especially those we might consider to be “other”), casting a wider net in whom we follow (and what we share) online, and forging partnerships and coalitions that defend human dignity and promote the common good.

5. Participating in community organizing and collective action. In the face of so many people who feel helpless and powerless, faithful discipleship requires that we exercise agency in meaningful and effective ways.  In Catholic social teaching, the principle of subsidiarity instructs that we take action at the lowest effective level.  This means exercising our rights and responsibilities and not waiting for our elected officials to effect the change we hope to see (even though one-third of Congress is Catholic and this would seem a peak opportunity to bring Catholic social teaching to bear on our national policies).  Faithful discipleship is, at bottom, about right, loving, and just relationships; this relational anthropology reminds us that not only do we belong to each other, but we are accountable to each other.  Community organizing and collective action can provide “structures of grace” that confront, resist, and transform the structural evils waged by personal and social sin.  Faithful discipleship implies having some “skin in the game” and not just being a bystander who observes, judges, or resists what many believe to be a broken political system.  If the system is indeed not just flawed but broken, it will be necessary for more Christians (and others of good will with similar aims to advance human dignity and the common good) to go from spectators to participants in the political system, just as President Obama urged in his farewell speech in Chicago.  President Obama insisted:

“For all our outward differences, we, in fact, all share the same proud title, the most important office in a democracy: Citizen … that’s what our democracy demands.  It needs you.  Not just when there’s an election, not just when your own narrow interest is at stake, but over the full span of a lifetime … If something needs fixing, then lace up your shoes and do some organizing.  If you’re disappointed by your elected officials, grab a clipboard, get some signatures, and run for office yourself.  Show up.  Dive in.  Stay at it.”

An exemplar for this practice of faithful discipleship is Cesar Chavez.  Chavez is perhaps best known for his organizing work with Mexican Americans, Filipino Americans, and later the United Farm Workers, the first successful farm worker union in US history.  Chavez was inspired—both in faith and organizing—by Fr. Donald McDonnell, who encouraged his work to defend human rights and the dignity of labor.  Also motivated by the examples of Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Chavez embraced nonviolence, leveraged the power of strikes and boycotts, and delivered protections for farm workers who previously had no real power in the produce industry.  Chavez brings to life a form of liberating theology that has its roots in Pope Leo XIII’s 1891 encyclical Rerum Novarum, which reads, “Everyone’s first duty is to protect the workers from the greed of speculators who use human beings as instruments to provide themselves with money.”  In explaining the strikes and boycotts he organized, Chavez observed, “The fight is never about grapes or lettuce. It is always about people.”

Chavez was committed to grassroots organizing as a form of cultivating a sense of belonging, of fellowship, and solidarity.  He also recognized it as necessary to effect social change.  Social change is a process that follows collective movement by creating momentum; Chavez contends, “Once social change begins, it cannot be reversed.  You cannot uneducate a person who has learned to read.  You cannot humiliate the person who feels pride.  You cannot oppress the people who are not afraid anymore.  We have seen the future, and the future is ours.”

Community organizing is the rent we pay for this future.  Collective action is the down payment we owe to have some “skin in the game.”  We are stronger together, which means that whatever the cause that is close to our hearts—whether combating racism, mass incarceration, immigration, human trafficking, child abuse and neglect, mental illness, sexual assault, domestic violence, hunger, homelessness, violence and war, capital punishment, environmental degradation, the dignity of life in all forms, or poverty in all its intersecting issues, in the US and globally among so many other issues—there are countless responsible and effective organizations that will help you get involved.   There’s even a “shy person’s guide to advocacy” to equip and empower the most timid among us.  As Chavez would often chant: “Si se puede!” Together, we can.

St. Augustine wrote, “Hope has two beautiful daughters; their names are Anger and Courage.  Anger at the way things are, and Courage to see that they do not remain as they are.”  Anger is often directed at a perceived injustice.  There are faith leaders marshaling that anger and leading resistance (see, for example, the “100 Days of Justice” organized by Faith in Public Life).  But as anger might fade or give way to weariness, I would argue that what we need now more than ever is courage.  The virtue of courage eschews the twin extremes of cowardice and brazen foolishness; with prudence it seeks to do what is good, right, true, and just even when it is risky.  Lutheran theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer would remind us that there is no “cheap grace” in faithful discipleship, only the costly grace that delivers us through suffering to joy when we share life in Christ.  Faithful discipleship always implies some risk and this is certainly no time to run from it.

These five practices—cultivating prayer for shalom, practicing prophetic imagination, growing in advocacy, initiating inclusive dialogue and relationships, and participating in community organizing and collective action—are concrete avenues to be faithful to the demands of discipleship.  As we enter the era of President Trump, the world needs our witness to these shared beliefs, values, habits, relationships, practices, responsibility and accountability.  God is calling and empowering us to share in and spread the shalom that reflects who God is and what God wants for all creation.  It is up to us to be faithful to this call by doing what we can wherever we are—as disciples, as churches, as citizens, as a country.  If the country is divided, if our leaders are bigoted, dishonest, or corrupt, if apathy and anger have taken control, then we must roll up our sleeves and get to work.

We are the ones we have been waiting for.


Peace Requires Interfaith Solidarity

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On September 20th, Pope Francis joined thousands of pilgrims in Assisi for the World Day of Prayer for Peace.  This event commemorated the 30th anniversary of the gathering that brought together pilgrims from all over the globe and invited the world’s religions to join their hearts, minds, and hands in becoming peacemakers.  At that gathering in 1986, Pope John Paul II highlighted the “common nature, a common origin and a common destiny” of all people and called for collaboration between individuals and nations to forge common ground in a shared aspiration for peace.  John Paul II urged that this work be undertaken through prayer, humility, and “a commitment to serve all.”  He also acknowledged that Christians are required to complete acts of penance for the sins of omission and commission that have kept them from answering the call to be peacemakers in the world.

Pope Francis echoed these sentiments and spoke of the need “to bring about encounters through dialogue, and to oppose every form of violence and abuse of religion which seeks to justify war and terrorism.”  In what seems to be a denunciation of the ideology of ISIS, Francis continued by stating: “We recognize the need to pray constantly for peace, because prayer protects the world and enlightens it.  God’s name is peace.  The one who calls upon God’s name to justify terrorism, violence and war does not follow God’s path.  War in the name of religion becomes a war against religion itself.  With firm resolve, therefore, let us reiterate that violence and terrorism are opposed to an authentic religious spirit.”

Francis emphasized the need for “a greater commitment to eradicating the underlying causes of conflicts: poverty, injustice and inequality, the exploitation of and contempt for human life.”  Despite these large-scale problems, the pope called on each and all to take up the practices of praying for peace, encountering others with respect, and joining in dialogue.  “Everyone,” Francis insisted, “can be an artisan of peace.”

Francis’ words speak to the desires of so many people today who long for peace (or, as the hashtag goes, #ThirstforPeace).  His call to be peacemakers resonates through Scripture, from the Beatitudes (Mt 5:9) to the apostle Paul’s description of what it means to be Christian as being “ambassadors of Christ,” charged with “the ministry of reconciliation” (2 Cor 5:17-21).  Discipleship pivots on the work of peace-making—healing wounds, restoring right-relationship, and forging unity across diversity—continuing to heed the Jewish teaching (in the Mishnah) that holds followers of Yahweh accountable for the work of tikkun olam, “to repair the world.” Read More


Sports, Solidarity, and #BlackLivesMatter

gdfgEarlier this week, ESPN hosted its annual award show, the ESPYS.  This year’s show—usually a lighthearted celebration of sports’ greatest athletes and accomplishments from over the previous year—got off to a poignant and powerful start.  Four of the NBA’s top stars, the Cleveland Cavaliers’ LeBron James, Dwyane Wade (who recently joined the Chicago Bulls after 13 years playing for the Miami Heat), the NY Knicks’ Carmelo Anthony, and LA Clippers’ Chris Paul, joined together in a call to action in the face of escalating racial tensions and heartbreaking violence, including the tragic shootings that killed 49 and wounded dozens of others at the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Alton Sterling and Philandro Castile by police officers, and the sniper attack in Dallas that gunned down five police officers and wounded seven others.  In this three-and-a-half minute moving speech, these world-class athletes told their peers and fans that we need to join together to “educate ourselves, explore these issues, speak up, use our influence and renounce all violence and, most importantly, go back to our communities, invest our time, our resources, help rebuild them, help strengthen them, help change them. We all have to do better.”

In making this claim, these four men communicated their desire to pick up the mantle of other activist-athletes like Jackie Robinson and Jesse Owens, Billie Jean King and Arthur Ashe – and especially the recently deceased Muhammad Ali, perhaps the most courageous activist among all those in the pantheon of sports heroes. Anthony and Paul are less known for their social views, although Carmelo did share some mighty words on this summer’s violence just last week.  Wade and James made headlines for their demonstrations after the deaths of Eric Garner and Trayvon Martin a few years ago, but James was criticized for his silence in the wake of the shooting of 12-year-old Tamir Rice in Cleveland.  Read More


From the Francis Moment to the Francis Movement: Mercy is the Way Forward

Now that Donald Trump is the presumptive Republican nominee for President and Hillary Clinton has math firmly on her side to win the Democratic nomination, the next six months of politics is going to be contentious if not outright ugly.  Not just because we’re heading into an election that no one wants, but quite simply because Trump and Clinton are the two leading candidates Americans describe as potentially “terrible” presidents: 44% of Americans think Trump would be terrible (as opposed to 10% who’d argue he’d be “great”) while 30% in the US say Clinton would be terrible (compared with 11% contending she’d be “great”).  By the evening of November 8th (or in the early hours of November 9th), a large portion of our country will be disgusted with the election results.

This is beyond the typical political polarization we keep hearing about, including the latest figures from the Pew Research Center.  A few examples: 61% of Republicans think defense spending should be increased, compared with only 20% of Democrats; 74% of Republicans are seriously concerned about the threats posed to national security by refugees from Syrian and the Middle East, while only 40% of Democrats concur; when it comes to global warming, only 26% of Republicans worry about the impact to the US,  a fraction of the 77% of Democrats; on the issue of increasing foreign aid, only 32% of Republicans offer their support, compared to 62% of Democrats.

To be sure, ideological differences are to be expected between rival political parties.  But as illustrated by these striking images, a divided Congress can bring politics to a standstill.  And I don’t just mean the Republican stonewalling of President Obama’s nominee for the Supreme Court, Merrick Garland.  As Trent Lott and Tom Daschle have argued, the lack of compromise, chemistry, leadership, and shared vision can bring our political system to a crisis point.  The anger of the American populace has been palpable in this election cycle and certainly some of the appeal to candidates like Trump is the old “throw the bums out” angst.  As philosopher Martha Nussbaum has observed, underneath this anger lurks fear and helplessness, and if this continues to go unaddressed, there’s potential to unleash a “dangerous rage in a way that might do great damage to the American people in the long run.”

So what is to be done?  If so many Americans consider our political system to be so dysfunctional and find the presidential nominees so repugnant, what is the way forward? Read More