where do we go from here?
three things to do before we depart
Last week, we learned—or, perhaps, confirmed—a lot about our neighbors and our nation: about how we view morality, what lines we are willing to draw, and what we are willing to compromise in pursuit of power or even the establishment of a “Christian” nation rooted in “Christian” values.
This immediate question I’ve heard repeated often is a common one: Where do we go from here? Over the past week, leaders, organizers, and activists have all proposed grand visions of resilience and protest.
Yet, if I am honest, I am not very interested in these visions. At least, not yet.
Too often, these proposals are a quick jump to action—to immediately do something big: organize, fight, resist. Rather than sitting in the mess (or considering how we got to this mess in the first place), we want to break out the mop and start cleaning with no time to waste. But if the leak’s origin is a broken pipe, no amount of mopping will make the floor clean again.
The only answer I have to “Where do we go?” is, “I don’t know. But I don’t want to be here.” I don’t want to sit under this broken pipe with a pail to catch what falls. I want to live in a country where the pipes are sturdy and the floors dry and rot-free.
Yet, this is the house we have today. It is the house that the American people—our neighbors, friends, family, co-workers—have elected to reside in for the next four years.
So what can we do while we are still here?
First, we can mourn and lament. Without rushing to action, we can take the time to say, “This isn’t good. This isn’t right. And yet this is what is.” The reality we inhabit is one wherein Donald Trump—a convicted felon found liable for fraud and sexual assault, a galvanizer of an insurrection against the foundations of American democracy, a holder (and seller) of national secrets, and a politician who has built a platform of hatred and vitriol—has been elected by the American people with an overwhelming consensus. Even more, these actions did nothing to decrease the support of American Christians. This is worthy of our lament.
Second, we can rest. Even amidst the anxiety and fear that accompany tomorrow, we can take time away from screens, newsfeeds, and questions to take a walk, read a book, or sit in silence. Rest is a necessary part of moving forward. We can’t run endlessly. Even in grief, we must close our eyes. We are in this for the long haul.
But, as Moya Harris reminds us, rest isn’t quitting. Rest is how we prepare for the work ahead.
“Resting is a strategic way to refuel and maintain clarity for ongoing work, whereas quitting means abandoning the strategy altogether. Rest is a pause, a moment of reprieve, a timeout, a seventh-inning stretch. The psalmists told us to pause — selah — when reading the psalms. On a long bike ride, you rest to catch your breath.”
Last, we can be with people. In “The Origins of Totalitarianism,” Hannah Arendt explains that destructive and death-dealing ideologies like fascism and autocracy thrive in verlassenheit—in loneliness or “abandonness.” What Arendt describes is more than a feeling. Verlassenheit describes the social isolation of the mind. It is a powerful illustration in light of our current moment.
It is right and good to be with others you love and trust. Even in silence, find opportunities to gather and remind one another that we are not alone.
Lamentation, rest, and community are all forms of active resistance—a refusal to abandon the places we are rooted in. They see the reality before us and proclaim, “This is not right.” They are not knee-jerk reactions to chaos and violence - they are the slow and steady work of building resilient communities that can stand firm amidst the cultural storms and systemic rot.
These practices also contribute to the radical work of neighbor love. These practices respond to the world around us with a simple commitment: “I’m gonna love the hell out of you.” As my Milwaukee neighbor, Garrett Bucks, writes:
I will love you today and love you tomorrow and love you on days when we have more hope and love you even more on days when we have less. I will laugh with you and cry with you. I will care about and for the kids and the elders you hold dear. I will celebrate and commiserate with reckless abandon. I will hope you tell me when I don’t hit the marks. I will ask you to keep me going when I want to give up. Because the truth is that while I’m full of belief in our collective potential, I’m also terrified and I have no guarantee that the day I die the world will be closer to liberation for all. But it’s precisely because I’m filled with equal measures terror and hope that I can’t imagine any other path than this. I will keep loving you today and tomorrow and all the days ahead of us. I will love you in your heartbreak. I will love you in your rage. And will love you one day in the future when you’re once again overwhelmed with joy. (
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Reading:
Ashish Varma, “Why Election Day Won’t Save Us: The Pseudo-Theology Behind the Ballot” (
)James K.A. Smith, “Writing is torture and it’s all I want to do” (
)Rubem Alvez, I Beleive in the Ressurection of the Body (Wipf and Stock)
Watching:
Over the Garden Wall (Hulu)