There is no rest in the land. This is the year of highly charged-politics. 2016 is an election year. It is a year of caucuses, speeches, rallies, debates, campaigns, personal attacks, smears. lies, the digging for dirt, and the slinging of mud. This is the year for incessant polling, endorsements, traveling from state to state, meeting to meeting, from one rubber chicken dinner to the next, from one press conference to the next. It is the year for strategizing in war rooms, closed door sessions, wheeling and dealing, and back rooms filled with wall to wall cigar smoke. It is the year for surveys that will tell the candidates what they should wear, what colors look best on TV, what to say, and how to say it--southern drawl, midwestern cadence, or the Yankee, "Youse guys."
In a democracy, there is no rest for the weary. They're tired, I'm tired, we're all tired, and the election is still months and months away.
THE SLAVE DRIVER
But truth be told, all of the above didn't suddenly burst on the scene; it didn't begin in January 2016. No, all of he aforementioned began much earlier, when the most recent President was declared the winner four years ago. Some candidates have been planning and running for more years than the last inauguration; while others have been running all their lives, living with the goal of one day moving into the White House. Such is the nature of political ambition for high office; the lust for power embedded in human nature is a hard-driving taskmaster.
As Richard Brookhiser writes, "Politics never rests, even among friends and allies. Even when they agree, there are still slight shades of difference that may deepen over time. New or ignored questions arise on which they differ greatly. And there is always ambition." Such is the nature of the political beast.
"Yes," we say, "a hearty amen to that." The political animals never rest. That's the way of the world, the way of democracy, always on a forced march to power. Democracy, like Las Vegas, never sleeps.
WAIT. WHAT?
Wait. What? The way of the world, you say? Yes, that's the way of the nation whose blood vessels pulsate with democracy. Restless, roiling factions form, foment, and erupt over the land. James Madison, Founding Father, thought factions (the word back then for political parties) unjust, but unavoidable; he thought them to be corrupt and corrupting. In his view, they lead to commotion and war.
George Washing was stern about it: "Let me warn you in the most solemn manner against the baneful effects of the spirit of party."
THE INVASION
Somewhere, somehow, at some time, for some reason, democracy came into churches and with it the ways of the world, bringing with it the aforementioned strife-filled environment. Democracy invaded the church and with its fists of steel turned it political. Democracy was a wild boar, loose in the vineyard. Somewhere, somehow, at some time, for some reason, democracy forced churches to elect and dismiss their pastors, elect and dismiss elders and deacons, and conflicts were born as factions formed in view of a coming vote.
THE INEVITABLE
The hand to hand combat was inevitable. After congregations had imbibed the heady wine of democracy, they became so intoxicated that they began to vote on anything and everything, issues big and small. They cast their votes for and against God's will, for and against buildings, for and against bricks or siding, for or against a sign in the church yard with electric or hand-placed letters. They went to the ballot box to vote yea or nay, for or against vans, buses, or private transportation. They finished with a raising of hands for or against red for the auditorium carpet. It's all in a day's work when democracy invades a church.
And along with those indeterminable motions and seconds to motions, those references to the church constitution and arcane by-laws as if those were Scripture, came the dreaded factions and the white hot passions were loosed in the meetings. Brothers and sisters in Christ battled one another in one business meeting after another with emotions as heated as if they were voting on seceding from the Union.
Brothers and sisters in Christ yelled at each, demeaned each other, questioned the motives of each other, attacked each another, held secret meetings against each other, initiated anonymous mailings against each other, spread rumors and innuendos against each other, and called down the wrath of God on each other. (Their meetings would make Jimmy Hoffa proud; the only things he'd recommend would be the distribution of baseball bats to liven the discussion and knives to slash tires to warn the other side.)
Brothers and sisters on the losing side of the vote stormed out the building, finding doors to slam on the way, all for the sake of adding an audible, annoying, and intimidating exclamation point to their frustration. Their dramatic departure had a purpose of serving notice: "You people had better vote the way I say next time!" After all, who likes to lose? Who wants another exit with an outburst of anger? But the steel fists of democracy must always and ever be busy creating jubilant winners and wounded, angry losers.
SUNDAY COMES AROUND
After the rancor of the meeting, on the very next Sunday, the hypocritical congregation gathers, clothes neatly pressed and well dressed, pretending the meeting happened. The secretary will clean up the minutes of the meeting so that last Sunday's blood-letting will read as if it were an afternoon Amish tea. Yet, as they look around, they see pews filled with the walking wounded and some pews empty because those weary of the warfare inherent in democracy have left the building, never to return. They swear to it and they mean it; they will never return. And they don't. After all, how many business meetings are edifying? (I Cor. 14:26)
SOMETHING IS OUT THERE
Once democracy settles an issue, the scarred veterans who stay know one thing: there's another controversy coming; they don't know when; they don't know why, but they know it will come. In a democracy, things to vote on are always out there, being birthed and nurtured in the darkness by someone or some faction. One day, a new issue will be the one who knocks. And if its knock goes unanswered, it'll break down the door and force another meeting, another vote, more malevolence, and more factions. Issues are omnipresent and eternal.
In a democracy, there's no rest for the weary.
And so it goes, ad infinitum, ad nauseam, until the church finally dwindles down to nothing; only the battle-hardened veterans remain to pour the coffee and read the censored minutes of the last meeting.
WHERE DOES ALL THIS COME FROM?
Enter the ignored letter from James. His epistle, as all epistles, gets right to the point as to the origin of all this meeting mania: "This . . . is not that which comes down from above, but is earthly, natural, demonic. For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there is disorder and every evil thing." He's echoing Isaiah who wrote: "The wicked are like the tossing sea, for it cannot be quiet, and its waters toss up refuse and mud."
The solution? It's in Philippians 2, but the practical application of Paul's directive in that chapter is as neglected as James 3.
The sad thing is that democracy is too much with us. Democracy is ingrained in the American psyche. To deny democracy's knock on the church door is unamerican.
If your church is a democracy, you know what I'm talking about. You've been there and you know you'll be there again . . . soon.
In the words of John Calvin, "Good luck," because there's no rest for the weary.
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