by James K.A. Smith
Let’s be honest: This is a difficult year to talk about faith and politics. The fragmentation of our electorate coupled with the devolution of political discourse to new lows of mud-slinging tweets and frustrating choices has generated despair and disengagement.
And yet, the Bible won’t let us off the hook here. The Scriptures won’t let us retreat into secluded, apolitical enclaves. Instead, Scripture admonishes us to care about and remain invested in politics. Consider, for example, the simple admonition of 1 Timothy 2:1-2: “I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings should be made for everyone, for kings and all who are in high positions, so that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and dignity.” The epistle enjoins us to pray for “kings and all those in authority” — though certainly not only those in authority (we’re to pray for everyone). But this isn’t just a vague admonition to pray. We are specifically directed to pray in certain ways: not only intercessions and petitions, but also thanksgivings. But why? To what end?
Not so that “our side” can win, or so that “we” can take over, and not in order for us to instantiate kingdom come. Furthermore, it’s important to recognize that “praying for” those in authority isn’t simply a pious way to ratify what they say and do. Prayer is not some holy “cover” for the reigning regime. Praying for those in authority can include praying for them to see the injustice of their ways, for them to be increasingly open to wisdom, for them to be surrounded by wise counsel, for them to have the courage to make decisions that are true and good beautiful not just decisions that will secure their own power and party and interests.
But, in fact, the letter writer of 1 Timothy answers our question even more directly. Why pray for those in authority? What’s the point? Notice the author’s explicit rationale in the next phrase: “so that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and dignity.” (The New English Bible translates that last clause a little differently: “so that we may lead a quiet and tranquil life, free to practice our religion with dignity.”) That doesn’t sound like taking over the world, if you know what I mean. It doesn’t sound like an agenda for “transforming culture” or “taking back” culture or making Rome great again. We’re not praying to win. We’re praying for the authorities to give us room to “lead a quiet a tranquil life.”
Now, that could be mistakenly heard as a call to run for the hills, to retreat into spiritual versions of gated communities, sequestered from the messiness of “politics” and the world — as if heavenly citizenship was of no earthly good. But of course heavenly citizenship is citizenship. Paul’s language is intentionally and unapologetically political. The point isn’t to become apolitical; the point is to become political otherwise. We aren’t praying to ratify the king, nor to overthrow the king because we already serve the King of kings.
The church as polis
Because the political language of kingship, citizenship and “reign” is so woven into Scripture and the language of Christian worship, it is easy for its political import to slide over our attention. This requires a renewed liturgical catechesis that wakes us up to the political claims embedded in our worship. Think of such an exercise like the “decoder” games that children used to find in cereal boxes: the pictures on the back of the box also carried hidden messages that couldn’t be seen with the naked eye. But the treasure inside was a decoder device that, when used to magnify the cereal box, unveiled hidden messages and scenes.
We do well to run a kind of “political decoder” over the familiar language and practices of Christian worship. The goal of the exercise is to “reveal” what’s been right in front of us all along: a gospel that revolves around a Lamb on a throne who has made a people “from every tribe and language and people and nation” to be “a kingdom and priests to our God, and they shall reign on the earth” (Revelation 5:9-10). This is not the language of a merely “spiritual” message that promises escape from the vicissitudes of political life; it is the good news of another politic. We are not liberated from politics; we are liberated by a King who makes us citizens of a polis whose lamp is the Lamb (Revelation 20:23).
This sensibility is woven into our worship, even our daily worship. For example, during Epiphany — a season of unveiling, recalling the three kings who paid homage to Herod’s infant rival — I was struck by the opening passages in the Book of Common Prayer’s morning prayer rite:
Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your rising. Isaiah 60:3
I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth. Isaiah 49:6b
From the rising of the sun to its setting my Name shall be great among the nations, and in every place incense shall be offered to my Name, and a pure offering: for my Name shall be great among the nations, says the Lord of hosts. Malachi 1:11
As we awake, this rite awakens us to the cosmic politics of Jesus’ reign. Our morning prayers are also political rites, by which we participate in what the King is doing, praying “thy kingdom come,” looking forward to the when the nations will walk by the light of the Lamb and the nations of the earth will be welcomed into the heavenly polis (Revelation 21:24-26).
Christian worship is already, inherently a political act. The proclamation of the Word is the rehearsal of a liberation narrative by a royal priesthood, the announcement of an euangleion that rivals Caesar’s. The Table is a revolutionary meal in which even the “are-nots” (1 Corinthians 1) are invited to sit at the King’s table. The weekly gathering of the saints is a rite that rehearses their heavenly citizenship.
And the church’s worship is not just an “alternative” polis of a secluded enclave; it is always already a political intervention in “the world.” The doxological claim “Jesus is Lord! (Iesus kyrios!)” is at once a political act that refuses to say Caesar kyrios!
Relativizing politics
Now I think there are a couple important, practical consequences of this:
- Christians, whose citizenship is in kingdom come, should never treat partisan alliances as their ultimate political identities. Those whose citizenship is in heaven should never treat their political choices as their ultimate identities. This is the great temptation in our secular age: Because we have practically abandoned the eternal and heavenly, we have absolutized the temporal and earthly. We treat the penultimate as if it were ultimate. And when that happens, we don’t merely disagree with our opponents, we demonize them. “Not so with you,” as Jesus puts it. Our purview is bigger. We pledge allegiance to a risen, ascended King. Our politics are different. And so the political machinations of the meantime, while important, are not ultimate. They don’t define us. And they don’t define those we disagree with either. Let us not then treat them as if they did. Let’s save demonization for the real demons that beset us.
- Christians, who pledge allegiance to a risen King, should be characterized by a kind of “holy ambivalence” when it comes to politics. In this context, I often think of a line from the Avett Brothers song “Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise” that envisions “when your life doesn’t change by the man that’s elected.” Imagine being a people who don’t think a presidential election means either the salvation of the universe or the end of the world. Imagine being a people who have a loooooong perspective on such matters, who are tied to an ancient people that have managed to “live peaceful and quiet lives” across the centuries, whether in kingdoms or democracies, under persecuting tyrants and benevolent queens. This news cycle, this election season, this year, this Congress — these are all blips in time for a people who are looking for kingdom come. And so we shouldn’t be surprised by anything. We shouldn’t feel like our world is collapsing. We should, instead, cultivate a kind of healthy distance — not being aloof or indifferent, but nonetheless exhibiting a kind of “holy ambivalence” that isn’t so absorbed by the present moment. We are a stretched people who are older than this campaign and look for a kingdom well beyond it.
For the sake of our neighbors
But we can’t be simply distant and aloof and neutral, precisely because we are called to love our neighbors, and that means caring about the systems and structures and policies that affect them. We have to realize that our neighbors are affected by politics and the policies we make. This is why the Scriptures regularly hold up the plight of widows, orphans and strangers — aliens and immigrants — as a test case for a society. Our political decisions do affect whether our neighbors are educated and protected, nourished and cared for. And so, while Christians should have a kind of holy ambivalence about partisan politics, we nonetheless remain invested in politics as a way to love our neighbors. In “Resurrection and Moral Order,” British theologian and ethicist Oliver O’Donovan wrote, “True neighbourliness requires the recognition of the supreme good simply in order that we may see the neighbour for what he is. But that means that our pursuit of the neighbour’s welfare has to take seriously the thought that he, like ourselves, is a being whose end is in God. To ‘love’ him without respecting this fundamental truth about him would be an exercise in fantasy.”
To love your neighbor is to desire their flourishing, which ultimately also involves hoping they find themselves in God — as emphasized in 1 Timothy 2:4-5. You’ll also hope for policies that help them flourish as God has made them. This is why we can’t simply avoid political life, and why we need Christians to continue to answer the call to public office. Our neighbors, especially the most vulnerable, need us working on their behalf.
Conclusion: Be not afraid
Our most revolutionary, political act is to hope. I have been meditating lately on a remarkable insight by the novelist Marilynne Robinson: “Fear is not a Christian habit of mind.” To be a Christian is to be a person who engages in politics, but without fear. Fear drives us to panic, and no one makes good decisions when panicked. We overestimate some threats and ignore others. We can’t see clearly, and we’re prone to being manipulated by those who would foment our panic.
But we ought not be a panicked people. Our King has told us over and over again, “Be not afraid.” You have already heard good news that brings great joy. The King is alive, is seated on his throne, and he reigns. And not only that: he is also interceding for you at the right of his Father. “Be not afraid.”
James K.A. Smith is professor of philosophy at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan and editor of Comment magazine. His most recent book is “You Are What You Love: The Spiritual Power of Habit.”
