November 5, 2024, is a date that will stay with me, like 9/11 or January 6 or December 8, 1980—the date of John Lennon’s murder outside the Dakota, his residence in New York City. These moments are hard, unyielding, like a row of spears making up a fence between nations.
November 5 is different from those. They were catastrophes, from the Greek for a sudden down-stroke, like the slash of a sword. By contrast, the time leading up to November 5 was a steady downpour, experienced as both dread and hope, daybreak revealing either the wreckage of a flood or the blessed end of a drought.
Adventists often view the news through a projector that throws today’s events up on a world-screen. Karl Barth’s advice to begin the day with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other is surely true for many in our community, me included.
In the weeks following the election, I read analyses of “what went wrong” and “where do we go from here?,” the worst of them in a told-you mode that only exposed how trite their second-hand observations were. The best of them were thoughtful, if rueful, about what was taken for granted before and what could be lost after. I kept reading them, painful though it was. The Washington Post, The New York Times, The Atlantic, The Guardian, Christian Century—there was no lack of commentary from sources that made an effort to be truthful and accurate. Collectively, we were on rewind.
As a counterbalance to the news, I follow the Bible texts of the Lectionary in my daily devotional study, looking, I suppose, for some connection between Scripture and current events. More than that—some revelation from beyond the scrum of politics and commerce. In The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats’ poem, he warns, “The best lack all conviction, while the worst/Are full of passionate intensity.” And then the cri de coeur: “Surely some revelation is at hand;/Surely the Second Coming is at hand.” My Adventism instinctively sniffs the air at those words.
Lately, texts from 1 and 2 Samuel have been part of the Lectionary readings, passages which, in their generality, sound like today. Malfeasance in high office, betrayal of sacred trusts, the violence of those driven by greed and ego. Walter Brueggemann, in his commentary, says the Books of Samuel stand midway between the brutality of tribal life in Judges and the oppressive social order of First and Second Kings. While they offer scant comfort, they cause me to confront that parallel universe without pride or prejudice. And, in spite of the darkness of those days, God never gives up on His people.
Since the election, I’ve talked to or heard from friends on both sides of the aisle, so to speak. Some are fervent in their praise, thanking God for placing his servant in the White House again. Others, those with whom I agree, are devastated by what lies ahead and do not see God’s intervention in the results of the election. Still others believe that God tipped the scales in favor of election winner in order to drive the country to repentance in preparation for the Second Coming.
This is tricky business, this extrapolation of God’s intentions from current events. Yeats echoes the natural impulse of many to forecast the Second Coming from the moral catastrophes of the present. There was a time as a teenager when I, with some reluctance, fell into line with those who were sure the chaos of the 60s meant that Jesus’s return was just around the corner.
Even though it seemed some end was near, some rough beast “slouching toward Bethlehem,” I had only to remember all the catastrophes throughout history, each of them bringing the end for millions, in order to step back from thinking this was the end to end all beginnings. After all, what of the genocides throughout history, the persecutions of Christians under Nero, the Crusades, any version of the “slaughter of the innocents,” the Holocaust? In all times and places, there have been those who lived through the end times, suffering because of their faith or suffering alone, apart from any faith whatsoever.
By comparison my personal life was easy, my future comparatively secure. There were always, it seemed, so many suffering more than I, so many seeing their worlds ending while mine was just beginning. My grandparents passed away in their nineties, disappointed that they had not lived to see Jesus return on the clouds of glory, but sure in their faith that they would rise to meet the Lord in the air.
Adventists know disappointment. After all, we celebrate behind our hands October 22, our Great Disappointment, when we learned that “we do not know the day nor the hour,” and that no human knows this, not even Jesus. That should help to clear the underbrush around disasters and catastrophes, no matter how severe. Charts and tables aside, what really matters in the midst of present apprehension and disappointment, this pause between past and future?
Recently, I learned that disappointment derives from Middle French, desappointer, meaning “to remove from office,” and from Classical Latin, punctum, for “a hole made by pricking.” It’s a vivid image. To disappoint someone is to remove them from their position of authority by puncturing them like a balloon. It would be fascinating to trace how “I disappoint you” changes from a threat against someone to its opposite, so that now we say, “I’m sorry I disappointed you,” meaning that we let another person down in a way we now regret.
Here’s what matters to me in these days of disappointment. First, I need to accept that, for millions of people in this country, the election brought them what they fervently wanted. I don’t fully understand it—I don’t think I ever will—nor will it change my deepest convictions about how humans should live with each other and with the world. But humility covers a multitude of sins, as Thomas Merton said. And it is the beginning of knowing.
Second, this is, for me, a real test of taking Jesus at His word. The kingdom is among you, he said. I have to believe that and act on it, live and breathe it. This is the most important thing I will do with my life. It’s the kingdom of God, not some version of Christian nationalism or another utopian vision. And “though the wrong seems oft so strong/God is the ruler yet.” Going forward, we enter the country where God already lives—and for that I am profoundly grateful.
Here’s something else I’ve learned. I found it in Freeing Jesus, a book by Diana Butler Bass, that my Believers and Doubters class at Sligo Church is studying. She suggests we substitute “kin-dom” for “kingdom,” recognizing how foreign that metaphor may be for us. Kin-dom means family, those we have responsibilities toward as well as ties of love. This impossible, beautiful, redemptive state in which the barriers and chasms between people become the reason for bridges. What we must build daily as we long for eternity.
Barry Casey is the author of Wandering, Not Lost, a collection of essays on faith, doubt, and mystery, published by Wipf and Stock (2019). His recent work has appeared in Brevity, Faculty Focus, Detroit Lit Mag, Fauxmoir, Humans of the World, Lighthouse Weekly, Mountain Views, Patheos, Pensive Journal, Rockvale Review, Spectrum Magazine, The Dewdrop, The Purpled Nail, and The Ulu Review. He holds a Ph.D. in Philosophy of Religion from Claremont Graduate University. He writes from Burtonsville, Maryland. Email him at: [email protected]