The triumph of Sojourners

In the latest "Sojo Mail," the frequent email newsletter that the progressive evangelical organization Sojourners sends to its subscribers, founder Jim Wallis reports that there was a "substantial shift in religious voters in the midterm elections." Calling the recent election a "moral values election," Wallis can barely contain his excitement as he notes that finally, FINALLY American Christians are beginning to realize that sexuality and "the family" are not the only "moral values" they should be concerned about when visiting the polls. Twenty-nine percent of white evangelicals voted Liberal, up eight percent since 2004. Forty-one percent of evangelicals as a whole voted Liberal, while Catholics voted fifty-five percent Liberal. Polls also show that the war in Iraq was the top "moral issue" for religious voters, who also considered poverty and social justice the most pressing national social concern.

As I digest these stats, I too have a hard time containing my excitement. I'm excited that "Voting God's Politics," Sojourners' massive pre-election pamphlet campaign, was successful in its attempt to get Christians around the country to think outside of the Republican box that's been confining them since the Reagan era. Just two short years ago, during the dark days after Bush was voted back into office, NPR reported stats revealing that the Christian Right and their stance on "moral values" (ie, abortion and homosexuality) had played a notably large role in keeping him there. Now, thanks to the tenacious activism of Jim Wallis and Sojourners, the tide of radical Conservatism is waning, and Christian progressivism is back in the mainstream--perhaps for the first time since the 1970s. I'm impressed that they've managed such a widespread impact. It's great to have idealistic optimists on your side.

I'm an idealistic pessimist, which means that while I firmly--even dogmatically--stand behind the activists of the world and the Liberal values foundational to their causes, it's often difficult for me to mobilize. (It also means that I'm profoundly unhappy most of the time.) Ever since I realized I was a Liberal about five years ago, I've been caught between arguing vehemently with Conservative friends and family members and convincing myself that they'll never change their minds, that America will soon be run by Hitler in a cowboy outfit and there's nothing I can do about it. Most of the time I pull off something in between, asking questions that others avoid asking, throwing in my point of view when it would be easier to stay silent. Mike has done a better job (he's an optimist, after all): he manages to argue in a congenial kind of way and challenges Conservative Christians at church to compare Jesus' values with the Bush administration's. He even--gasp!--placed "Voting God's Politics" brochures next to the Conservative-leaning info the church displays every year. But both of us have, I think, done our share of influencing, and as I read Wallis' comments on the election, I remembered how many friends announced their decision to vote Democrat this time, and, even more importantly, their decision to vote at all in seemingly uninteresting mid-term elections. And while Bush's sinister character makes a pretty good argument against Conservatism on its own, I can't help but think that some of that was our doing. (Correct me if I'm being too egocentric here, OK?)

Either way, I'm excited that there's finally a light at the end of the Bush tunnel. What lies beyond him, and whether that light is natural or artificial, is still uncertain. But my hope for even a few years' reprieve just won't die, even if it is mixed with caution and cynicism.

Finally, Saturdays are fun again! (a photo essay)

I don't exactly have a nine-to-five job, so usually I wind up working on Saturdays. But yesterday I flippantly declared, "To hell with work!" Well, OK, not totally. I cleaned the bathroom and did some laundry, but that doesn't involve grading essays or coming up with lesson plans, so it doesn't really count as "work" right now. But after that was over, I set up the Christmas tree (even though I am technically against putting up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving), ate a large plate of pasta for dinner, and then went to see Death Cab for Cutie and Ted Leo and the Pharmacists at the (horrible) Rostraver Ice Garden. Here are some highlights:


The Christmas tree went up early this year because it was stored in our creepy basement that must be avoided at all costs, since zombies live there. Since Mike had to venture down to put some stuff away, he decided to bring the tree up to save himself another life-threatening trip. Here it is, taking up too much space in our teeny living room.

Immediately after the tree was placed in its stand, Alice PhD began investigating. For some reason, she thought the light bulbs smelled delicious and tried to eat them.

Here are Mike and I, shoving our faces full of spaghetti, swilling cheap wine, and being masters of our limited domain.

As I mentioned previously, the Death Cab show was unfortunately held at the Rostraver Ice Garden, which sucks in a number of ways. The acoustics are horrible, and you have to stand on ice covered by a thin carpet the entire time, meaning that numbness travels from your feet up your body as you stand there. A friend pointed out that the numbness wasn't so bad, as this was the first show she'd ever been to where her feet hadn't hurt the entire time. But they hurt twice as much later as they began to thaw. However, one great thing about the Ice Garden was the cheesy Disney movie-esque ambiance, which is represented by the sign in the above photo. Makes you want to rent The Mighty Ducks, doesn't it?

Another seemingly great thing about the Ice Garden was the time-out box and the enviable view it offered to short people like me. I watched Ted Leo's set and a fraction of Death Cab's from this spot, and it was temporarily glorious, as you can see from the picture below.

At this point, a raunchy echo developed that made it sound as if there were a drum-and-bass dance party being held in the back portion of the rink. My ass was asleep by then anyway, so we moved to the floor, which really wasn't that bad. People weren't obnoxious at all, which isn't something I can say about any show I've been to in the last few years, or possibly any show EVER. I'm usually, at some point during the show, stuck behind the tallest, fattest, smelliest guy in the room who dances wildly, beside teenage couples making out, and in the midst of an impromptu path between the stage and the bathroom and/or bar. But that didn't happen this time. Ted Leo was great, and Death Cab played every song I wanted to hear, so my $35 wasn't wasted (although it was DEFINITELY a rip-off).

So that was my Saturday. It wasn't amazing, but it was good, and that's more than I can usually ask for.

What the Business Professor Said.

As a person who is completely incompetent at any academic or professional field but the humanities, I've been guilty of sneering at business-y types who happen to have a more practical kind of knowledge. While these individuals, who understand mysterious real-world ideas like inflation and investment, are out there making tens of thousands of dollars more a year than I do (because their knowledge can, in fact, be used by corporations to make money), I watch my bank account dwindling and smugly think, "Well, at least I can understand texts and their cultural significance"--a skill that, unfortunately, has no cultural significance of its own these days. Which is why, sometimes, the business types can get under my skin.

All of this to provide background for my run-in with an unnamed business professor. This man teaches before me in the same classroom, and repeatedly breaks an unspoken academic code: he teaches for too long and then takes forever to pack up his laptop, Wall Street Journal, and other business-y accessories (it's almost like he's Business Ken or something). I was mildly annoyed for a while, but didn't really care: after all, I break codes of conduct on a pretty regular basis, advertantly or inadvertantly. So, aside from some occasional eye-rolling, I was tolerant.

Then, one day, he turned on me. I entered the classroom early with a student. Business Ken was packing up his laptop; I nodded hello and then ignored him. My student, a really nice, smart kid, asked me when I was going to return his last essay. I told him when, and we began comparing and contrasting the difficulties of grading papers with the difficulties of writing them. The student had a hard time believing that grading papers could be as difficult as writing them, and asked me what could be so hard about it. As I began to tell him that assigning grades was the most difficult part, Business Ken turned to me abruptly and began to tell me off. Rapidly and with great agitation, he condescendingly informed me that I only felt that way about grading because I was young and inexperienced, and that I had to learn to set and keep high standards whether my students met them or not.

I've never been any good at controlling my facial expressions, especially those produced by annoyance, surprise, and anger. Business Ken's unwanted lecture caused me to feel all of these things simultaneously, and I'm sure he knew it immediately. However, he continued his harangue, undaunted by my "die, bitch" expression. When he stopped to take a breath, Wall Street Journal and laptop securely in hand, I simply told him that he could ask my student (who had witnessed the lecture) about my standards. The student backed me up by confirming that they were quite tough, and Business Ken left the room.

As a vertitable infant on the teaching end of academia, I appreciate advice from experienced professors who are in my discipline and who know and respect me. I do not appreciate drive-by lectures by Business Ken, who has probably never graded a paper in his life. And I certainly do not enjoy being lectured in front of my students, whom I lecture (kinda) every other day. Luckily, my student agreed that Ken had stepped out of line. He laughed and remarked that Ken was probably trying to be fatherly, since I'm young (and look even younger). This made the situation even worse from my point of view, given my difficult past relationship with my own father. I could barely concentrate, and I had to somehow teach a class.

And so, I stumbled through my lesson plan for that day as I allowed Business Ken's voice to merge with the other hateful and demeaning voices already blaring (on a loop) in my brain. It took me all afternoon and evening to quiet the self-hating babble, which gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Mike had to remind me (again) that those voices are telling lies, and (again) to stop being so fucking crazy. Thanks to his obstinate normalcy, the self-loathing induced nausea went away.

But the general feeling of self-hatred remained. It wasn't until Sunday, when I retreated to the chapel after the Hot Metal service, that I could ask for help--and be willing to receive it. I was reminded of Peter clamoring out of the boat when he saw Jesus strolling by on the sea that night--and sinking until Jesus convinced him to get the hell over himself. So, I decided to try to do that (getting over myself, that is) once again.