Some thoughts on violence and empathy

This is who we are, not who we’re called to be.

Hey everyone. I try to keep my posts limited to movies; it’s where my expertise lies. But I cannot stop thinking about the events of last Saturday and I’ve been wrestling with my own response, and I sat down at a Panera tonight and this came out. It’s thoughts on politics and thoughts on religion, and it’s my own confession of sin. If you want to skip on, I totally understand – and I’ll have reviews of Twisters and another Summer of ‘94 entry later this week. But my hope is that maybe this can be helpful to someone. 

Saturday night, we were out for dinner with my parents when news broke about the attempted assassination of Donald Trump. Within a few minutes, the TVs at the restaurant were tuned to cable news, and almost everyone in the restaurant had their eyes tuned to it.

Judging by the reactions – which were not just, appropriately, shock at the news but also elation at Trump raising his fist and chanting “USA” – the neck of the woods in which we were dining was largely conservative and supportive of the former president. There was a palpable feeling of concern and fear that their candidate could have been killed. 

But I confess, I did not initially share that sympathy. And I say that to my shame. 

It’s not that I wished the outcome were different or that I didn’t condemn the action. Political violence is evil and only makes things worse. And no matter my criticisms of the former president, he is a human being. He is deserving of life and dignity. It was an evil event with tragic outcomes – including two people dead and several wounded – and it should be vociferously condemned. I believed that at that moment and I still believe it. 

But at that moment, while I disapproved of the actions, I couldn’t summon much sympathy for the presidential candidate. 

Part of it was that I was well aware of Donald Trump’s own history of encouraging political violence and laughing at its victims. There was the time he suggested “second amendment people” could solve his Hilary Clinton problem. The moment he asked whether police could just “shoot them in the knees” in regard to Black Lives Matter protesters. Joking when Nancy Pelosi’s husband was attacked with a hammer in their home. There were the moments on the campaign trail where he mocked a disabled reporter and led chants of “lock her up,” and of course his encouragement of the insurrection on Jan. 6. This all followed a career before politics when he was known for publicly calling for the execution of the now-exonerated Central Park Five and famous for calling Rosie O’ Donnell a “disgusting pig.” Tragic as it may be, I couldn’t muster much emotion when the political violence he energized was returning to its source. 

I’ve often said that my biggest problem with Donald Trump was never his politics – although I disagree with many, but not all, conservative positions. It was that, as a Christian, I couldn’t approve of the glee with which he tore down others. Followers of Christ believe that each human being bears the image of God. To trample on that image in others is one of the worst sins in which we can partake. Jesus went so far as to say calling your brother “a fool” was tantamount to murder. 

And yet, if I can’t find empathy for a man who nearly lost his life and would have left his wife a widow and his children fatherless, am I any better? In fact, if I don’t believe that Donald Trump is a confessing Christian (and I don’t), and I do confess Christ, shouldn’t I be worried about my own hardness of heart? Isn’t the bar higher for me? Who am I if I can’t be concerned for someone I disagree with, especially as someone who follows a teacher who commanded us to love our enemies? 

A few nights ago, my wife and I were out for drinks with some friends and the conversation turned toward politics. It was a good conversation, proof that we can agree and disagree with friends, be curious and civil, and find middle ground. It was a blessing. And during that conversation, we talked about how politics has become an idol for many. 

I’ve been very open about this tendency on the Right, which has openly claimed the name of Jesus and married it with views and discourse that seem antithetical to many Christian teachings. And it’s not hard to find many people talking about how evangelicals have traded the God of peace, love, mercy and compassion for a rhetoric of anger, lies, greed and cruelty. And I think there is a lot of validity to that argument. 

We don’t talk about it as much on the Left, mainly because it’s a side not as openly aligned with religion. In fact, many (but far from all) of my friends who vote Democrat identify as atheists. They don’t worship anything, they say. But, of course, they forget the words of David Foster Wallace: 

"In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshiping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of God or spiritual-type thing to worship — be it J.C. or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother-goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some infrangible set of ethical principles — is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive."

Politics can be a god. And I’ve seen that in my friends. There is a fervency in their political beliefs that stirs up deep anger. And sometimes, that’s not a bad thing. When you’re fighting for the rights of others, passion is admirable. But I’ve seen the way it’s turned friends and family against each other, with people not speaking to parents or neighbors because of how they vote. And I’ve seen how, when that god is threatened, people on both sides believe the sky is falling and the end is nigh, searching for answers as to why this cannot be real life. We saw a great deal of it during Trump’s presidency when people rioted in the streets and turned to QAnon to create an alternate reality. But I’ve seen people on the Left – including many who describe themselves as Christian – panic that this is the end of democracy, that the center cannot hold, and turn to conspiracy theories to evade having any sympathy for anyone on the Right (the amount of people I follow and respect immediately jumping to conspiracy theories about false flags on Saturday was especially disheartening). 

But I’d be lying if I said this was affecting everyone but myself. Earlier this year, I felt that I was in a good place in regard to my political anxiety. I have my beliefs, I know who I’m voting for. But, I reminded myself, I’m not just a citizen of the United States. I’m a resident of the Kingdom of Heaven, and I rest in the belief that God raises up rulers, sometimes in blessing and sometimes in judgment. And yet, as the debate unfolded two weeks ago, I found myself pulled back into political debate and panic, posting frantically about the need for Joe Biden to step down and how we couldn’t let Trump win. In the process, I felt old anger rising toward my friends and family members who voted for Trump, and my anxiety over the fate of our nation made my head spin again. 

My struggle with empathy on Saturday was a stark reminder that the idol of politics was once again wrapping its way around my heart. And I must confess it, pray over it, and fight not that the political battles will be fought but that the struggle for my own heart and conscience will center on Christ’s healing and grace, and that I will be strengthened to love and serve people on all sides of the political aisle. 

Throughout the weekend, as leaders took to their various platforms to warn us about the dangers and evils of political violence, they reiterated the phrase “this is not who we are.” In the words of Tim Robinson: “Are you sure about that?” 

Our nation was founded in violence and rebellion. Division has often been woven through our history. We have nurtured a culture of distrust, tension, fear and violence. Every day, men, women and children are shot and killed in schools, churches, shopping malls and parks. This often happens at the hands of the same type of weapon used on Saturday – a weapon championed by many of the people at that rally. It’s a tragic, awful cycle. It’s a dark and evil place to be. It’s the result of placing our hope in power, wielding fear as a weapon, and treating those on the other side as enemies. It’s evil and it’s sad. But it’s absolutely who we are. 

But we can be better. We must be. 

On social media on Saturday and Sunday, I posted several words from pastors and theologians who shared reminders that the way of violence was not the way of Jesus. I realized even then that those words of truth were contradictory toward my feelings. John Lennon once said of his past that he was once a violent man who learned not to be violent and regrets that violence. I was once – and sometimes still am – an uncompassionate and hard-hearted man who is learning to be loving and compassionate, and I regret that lack of compassion. 

We cannot lose empathy. We cannot give into division. We cannot hate those who we disagree with. This isn’t just about preventing political violence; it’s about promoting love and understanding. We must recover our shared humanity and love, especially those who, like me, claim to follow the God-man who said to love our neighbors. Make friends – good friends – with those on the other side of the aisle, with lifestyles you don’t understand. Be curious, not judgmental. Be kind. Let’s stop being what we are and start being what we are called to be.