The Evil Debate

Yes, Tuesday’s presidential debate was awful—it’s been called a low-point for democracy. But I think there is a subtle toxicity to be wary of in the response of extreme moral outrage now filling the newsfeeds. Why? 

Moral outrage implies I am superior to these men, that I have clean hands. I'm not, I don't. I wish I were incapable of such rancor, disrespect, blatant lying, racism, and captivity to power... but I believe in the chastening biblical truth that I am quite capable of such things, and more. I believe each of us is (Rom 3:10). 

Where is evil located? “Trump. Biden. Republicans. Democrats. Police. Rioters.” True enough. Evil is certainly lurking, to varying degrees, in politicians, in political parties, and in policies. Yes, because evil has established an outpost in every single human heart. Yours. Mine.  

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn put it best: “If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”

As I reckon with my own—less nationally televised—failures, I come to recognize that moral outrage alone won't heal our country, any more than shame heals my own heart. 

Who is to blame for the debacle? Yes, individuals have ultimate responsibility for their choices, yet it would delight the dark powers if we failed to see this as a mirror for the community of our country, then to consider our own imperfections in this marred reflection. This is how things like systemic racism work: When the devils lurking in us as individuals gather into structured communities, a hellish synergy takes place, and the cherished, protected sins of our private lives form the bones and sinews of far more powerful, far more public, forces of destruction. Our sins—each of them—have stretched the sinews and hardened the bones of this Godzilla.

Though this analysis is quite bleak, it is in fact “the dark before the dawn” (Andrew Peterson). To begin with, this means I do not look down upon Biden, Trump, Republicans, or Democrats. “They”—whoever that is—are not below me, but beside me. This does not erase all moral realities, as if we are all actively cooperating with evil in the same way and measure. We are not, and some evils we encounter do rightly outrage us, yes, especially those living in our own closet. We are right to be disappointed with this public debacle, but our response should not be without remembering that we are capable of deeply disappointing behavior ourselves, or indeed that our collective behavior has fed the monster. 

Our inescapably shared condition of imperfection reorients us to what a more realistic hope is and to what a more fruitful response might be. It means that if there is not a power to change my heart—the human heart—there is no politician, party, or policy that will ever deliver the anti-racist, justice-saturated, baby-thriving, prison-breaking, immigrant-loving, law-abiding utopia God has oriented us to desire. Our hope is in Jesus, not because if we legislate his teaching, America will suddenly be healed, but because there is no other Godzilla-crushing power, no other heart-melting-and-remaking-grace, no other death-destroying-life-giving-Spirit-indwelling reality that has filled two millennia with billions of testimonies that go like this: But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved me, even when I was dead in my trespasses, made me alive together with Christ (Eph 2:4-5). In other words: God’s grace changed my heart. 

What of a more fruitful response? Responding to this ugly icon with nothing more than extreme moral outrage simply frames it and hangs it over our mantle. It becomes another excuse not to humble myself, repent, and go about the far more meaningful work of turning my tiny plot of scorched earth into a garden. 

As the story goes, The Times once sent out an inquiry to famous authors asking the question, “What’s wrong with the world today?” The best reply came from the brilliant Christian philosopher and writer G.K. Chesterton: “Dear Sir, I am. Yours, G.K. Chesterton.”

Though normally reserved for penitential seasons which we are not technically in, recently at Advent we have been beginning our worship on Sunday mornings by confessing our sins. This is a liturgical reminder that humility comes before healing. It orients us to the reality that evil outposts are also in my heart, and that the only real hope of the world is repentance—please Lord, lead us to repentance on a grand scale—and the grace of God. And so, we pray:

Most merciful God,

we confess that we have sinned against you 

in thought, word, and deed,

by what we have done, and by what we have left undone. 

We have not loved you with our whole heart;

we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.

We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.

For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ,

have mercy on us and forgive us;

that we may delight in your will, and walk in your ways, 

to the glory of your Name. Amen.

+ Fr. Jordan Kologe