In Our Silence

Some fragmented thoughts on post-election prayers, cooking for a friend, eating my way through Dallas, and walking on the beach

Nov 11, 2022

Friday, November 11
East Sandwich, Massachusetts

Greetings, fellow sojourner.

We just arrived on Cape Cod last night. Most years, we spend Thanksgiving here. Yesterday was a day of turnpikes and traffic, hence the tardy arrival of this week’s letter.

We made sure not to begin our trip eastward until after Election Day, because we wanted to vote in person. Our district chose Hillary Scholten, an immigration lawyer who worked in the Justice Department during the Obama administration, to represent us in Congress. She’s the first woman ever to win the Grand Rapids seat, which former President Gerald Ford once held. She will also be the first Democrat to represent Grand Rapids in Congress in more than 40 years. Despite all the predictions of a red wave nationwide, Michigan experienced something of a blue one: the Democrats swept all the executive-branch races and regained control of both the state senate and state house for the first time since the early 1980s.

In the days since the election, we’ve had NPR and CNN on nearly all the time, and I have absorbed all this news as a committed independent—neither a Democrat nor a Republican. My convictions don’t align entirely with either party. As a journalist, I haven’t wanted assumptions about my political alignments to be used to question my fairness. As a preacher, I’ve felt similarly about maintaining my nonpartisan status.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t have strong political convictions; I do. The events of the past several years, including the awful emergence of full-throated and heretical Christian nationalism, have inclined me more toward one party than the other. Still, I cherish my political independence, because I want always to remember that I aspire to a view of politics that extends beyond partisanship. Indeed, I often think about what my friend Nish Weiseth said at Evolving Faith 2018: “Politics is the single largest systemic tool that we have at our disposal with which we can love our neighbor.”

We are all political actors, whether we like it or not. To choose to ignore what’s going on in the political arena is to commit a political act; to engage, whether through educating or campaigning or advocating or canvassing or voting or even praying, is a political act. Politics is one tool, of course. It isn’t the only one. While we invest so much hope in the results of an election, we also sometimes diminish our own responsibilities as political actors in a broader sense, because politics isn’t just about government or partisan jockeying. It’s also about how we relate to one another in any setting where power is in play. Considered this way, we are all political actors with so many possibilities for working toward justice and cultivating goodness—so many opportunities to love.

Six years ago, I led prayers in the Princeton Seminary chapel on the morning after the U.S. presidential election. The result that day was not what many of us had been expecting.

My friend and professor Nate Stucky preached a beautiful homily that morning as he stood before a pile of withered sunflowers. Honestly, I don’t remember exactly what he said. But I do remember how I felt: In my uncertainty and in my fears, I was heartened by his reminder that the dead sunflowers also bore the seeds of new life. Hope was there, if only we chose to acknowledge it and to accept it.

The chapel was packed, every pew full. It would have been foolish, not to mention wrong, to think that everyone in those pews had voted the same way; they hadn’t. And in the pre-dawn hours, as I wrote and rewrote my prayers, I remembered my assignment: to lead the entire congregation in prayer, not just the ones who agreed with me, not just the ones who had voted as I had. How could I be faithful to where my heart was while also meeting all of them where they were? What words could I bring that might encourage and even unify? How could I remind us all of a God whose grace was present in that very moment—and whose love extended far beyond it?

Wherever you live, whether in the U.S. or beyond, these are strange and difficult times. Maybe the world has always been strange and difficult, and it’s only because it feels new and present to us that it strikes us as it does. Our circumstances might be different from those of our ancestors—times and technologies change. But I wonder whether our call is pretty much the same.

I dug up my prayers from that morning, and I share them (lightly edited) with you now because I think they apply as much to this moment as they did to that one. In between each section, I held about thirty seconds of silence. In a time of so much punditry and pontificating, it felt right and good simply not to speak—perhaps even to listen for the nudge of the divine.

I still find some strength and solace when I return to these words—and to the silences. Perhaps you will too.

Constant God, quiet our voices. Trouble our hearts in the ways they need to be troubled and soothe them in the ways they need to be soothed. In our silence, let us hear you whispering your reminders about life, death, and resurrection through the wind rustling autumn leaves. Tell us again, through pictures of cute puppies and the cries of newborn babies, about how you breathe new life into this world. Tell us again, through birdsong and rainstorm, about your incomparable faithfulness. Tell us again, through starlight and humanity’s colorful diversity, about your unfailing, life-giving love. Speak to us, God, and in our silence, help us to hear you.

[silence]

Gracious God, we confess that we have done evil in your sight. We’ve succumbed to fear. We have sought earthly kings and queens. We have told ourselves that the ends justify the means. We have withheld love from those with whom we disagree. We’ve claimed blindness to injustice when, actually, we’ve willfully closed our eyes. We’ve been silent in all the wrong ways—mute when we should have spoken, and speaking when we should have listened. We’ve sat on our hands, then lamented the inaction, and then, audaciously, we’ve wondered whether your hand is really moving. Through our failures—our white supremacy, our misogyny, our homophobia, our ableism, our prejudices, which are as varied as your diverse creation—we have hated what you have made: this good earth and the bodies, spirits, and souls that inhabit it. We have hated you. Receive these confessions of our sins, God, and in our silence, embrace us with your grace.

[silence]

Loving God, grow our trust and gratitude, even amid division and trial. We thank you that when we don’t know how to pray or even believe the words, you meet us there. We thank you for answering our despair with your hope. We thank you for friends to hold hope for us when we can’t hold it ourselves. We thank you that you define victory and loss differently from how our broken world does. We thank you that you move ahead of us, walk alongside us, and come behind us to clean up our messes. We thank you that, as surely as the sun greets the earth each morning, you greet our confessions of sin with your reassurance of acquittal. Soften our hearts, God, and in our silence, help us to know all that you have done and all that you’re doing for us and in us.

[silence]

Merciful God, we take comfort in your diverse character—a mother’s strength, a father’s tenderness, a friend’s faithfulness, a servant’s humility, the power of the Almighty, the imagination of the Creator, the wisdom of the most Wonderful Counselor. Return us regularly to holy silence so that we may better know your ways. Help us be attentive fellow travelers—companions to the lonely, compassion to the hurting, joy to the brokenhearted, solidarity to the downtrodden. Humble and bless this community. Humble and bless this land. Humble and bless our leaders. We draw courage from your mercy, God, and boldness from your love. We offer these prayers in the precious name of Jesus, the one who saves us from ourselves.

Amen.

What I’m Cooking: Last weekend, I had the opportunity to cook for the Rev. Dr. Wil Gafney, who has been a faithful friend and, through her illuminating work, a great teacher to me. She invited a couple of her Ph.D. students to join us for dinner, and, as is my habit, I cooked way too much. Dr. Gafney does not own a rice cooker, so I packed one. She doesn’t have a wok either, so I tucked one of those into my luggage too, along with a bag of rice, a couple of good knives, and a cutting board.

Perhaps one day I’ll write about why I occasionally travel to cook, given all the inconvenience as well as the disorientation of being in someone else’s kitchen. The short version is that it’s a way of showing my respect, admiration, and love.

One of the dishes I made was braised short rib with daikon radish. It was based loosely on this Bon Appetit recipe. A change I made, suggested by some of the wise commenters: I did my long braise at 300 degrees in the oven rather than on the stovetop. I love dishes like this one, not just because of the rich flavors that develop over the hours but also because of how they remind us that some good things just can’t be rushed. Even with the finest ingredients, sometimes you also need time.

What I’m Eating: There is so much good food in Texas. It can be easy to forget the beauty of its cultural diversity. Dallas gave me the perfect opportunity not just to cook for my friend but also to eat very, very well. Some highlights:

*Breakfast tacos at AG Texican. Proprietor Abel Gonzales made his name frying things—Coke, PB&J, cookie dough, even butter—at the Texas State Fair. (His nickname: Fried Jesus.) I got one barbacoa taco and one with chorizo and potato, but unquestionably, the star was the brisket, bacon, and egg. The house-made salsa added some bright and welcome relief.

*Brunch at Encina. I had the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten—beautifully fluffy, butterscotch-sweetened blue-corn pancakes topped with cajeta and a dollop of salted butter. Along with a couple of strips of perfectly crispy bacon, there was also a tiny jug of maple syrup, because why not live your best, most indulgent life at brunch?

*Happy hour at Uchiba. Sure, you could pay $100 per person for the fancy, ten-course omakase menu at Chef Tyson Cole’s famed Uchi, but upstairs at Uchiba, you can indulge for much less—especially during happy hour every day between 5 and 6:30, when a slew of items are available at a discount. One unexpected favorite: the nasu nigiri, a dollop of sushi rice topped with a piece of Japanese eggplant so luscious and creamy that I ended up ordering it again immediately.

*Dinner at Petra & the Beast. Chef Misti Norris is a perennial James Beard award nominee who runs this cozy BYOB place with a beautifully concise menu. One surprising star: the braised pig tails. The menu did not tell us they were fried! This is not a complaint! Don’t be scared off by the name: They were just nuggets of pure, fatty, porky goodness, braised in sweet tea until tender and then fried to a perfect crisp.

*Barbecue from Cattleack BBQ. Okay, so technically, I didn’t eat anything at Cattleack this time. But I have before—and it’s some of the best barbecue I’ve ever had. Cattleack, which consistently features on Texas Monthly’s list of best barbecue places in Texas, is only open Thursdays, Fridays, and the first Saturday of every month. Before my trip, I pre-ordered a whole brisket and four links of sausage to bring home. When I arrived to pick up my order at 9:45 a.m., there were already a few dozen people waiting in line for the doors to open for lunch at 10:30.

I always like to know what’s on your minds. How are you feeling in the wake of the U.S. elections? Where are you finding hope, and where might you be struggling for steadiness?

Notes of a Make-Believe Farmer

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