I lay awake this morning wrestling with something a friend told me yesterday: that where she lives in Idaho, wearing a mask in public earns you ridicule. I felt so angry when I heard this.
If refusing to wear a mask is really about liberty, then why make fun of someone who chooses to wear one? The answer is clear: for many, masks are not really a symbol of liberty. They’re a tribal symbol.
Isn’t it strange, we said. You’d think conservatives would be the ones conforming and liberals the ones flouting convention. Why are conservatives the ones breaking the rules about wearing masks?
Initially, she said, the prepper community in Idaho was hoarding masks. They tend to be on the far right politically, and they wore masks before anyone else did. But then science and public health officials began recommending masks, and President Trump started questioning them. His refusal to wear one politicized them. Now they’re tribal.
As I lay awake this morning, stewing in my anger, I thought about all the ways we’re in danger.
We’re in danger from the non-mask-wearers, the selfish people who decide their “freedom” is more important than our lives, or the lives of our parents, or our grandparents.
But the danger is within me, too. I’m in danger of getting sick, yes—but my heart is also in danger, already infected. Examining the deep well of anger that was keeping me awake, I knew this danger had already arrived.
I’ve been so worried about COVID-19, and so worried about our democracy. Our voting system is being undermined and our President threatens not to accept election results. We’re in danger of losing it all, all the peace and security we’ve enjoyed in this once-stable nation.
And yet, this morning I saw that I’d already lost something I hold almost as precious.
When President Trump was diagnosed with COVID-19, I spoke these words to Ron: “Good. I hope he dies.” A day or two later, I related those words to my family in an email, amazed at my own callousness. “I have never been so totally unsympathetic about another person and so totally unconcerned about my own lack of sympathy,” I wrote. Others agreed.
Trump is a vile, despicable person—even some of his staunchest supporters agree on this. I have little doubt that if Biden were the infected one, Trump would be crowing about Biden’s weakness and making fun of him. I have no sympathy for this vile man, no space in my heart to offer him compassion.
So I was surprised to read that Biden had extended Trump well-wishes, as had Bernie and various other Democrats. Could they be serious? Was this just a calculated move to demonstrate good behavior and earn points with moderates? Maybe.
But then I saw this Facebook post from a liberal Christian friend:
So the President and First Lady have COVID, as well as more than one of the people they work with.
How should one respond? With compassion.
How should Christians respond? With compassion.
I urge you to respond with compassion for the President, for the First Lady, for their staff, for GOP leadership, even if others do not.
I urge you to respond with compassion for all those infected with COVID, even if others do not.
I urge you to respond with compassion for all who have lost family or other loved ones to COVID…
I urge you to examine yourself to see how you have responded to this pandemic in less-than-compassionate ways.
May God help me to do all of the above myself and to keep on doing these things.
These words bored a little hole into the hardened shell of my heart. I’m not Christian, but I respected the simplicity and power of their message. Since childhood, I’ve felt a deep connection to Jesus and have been moved by his teachings, and moved by the kindness of many Christians I’ve known.
Jesus would have offered compassion to Trump.
I then remembered the teachings of great spiritual and social leaders who have also lived from a place of compassion.
MLK said: “Let no man pull you so low as to hate him.”
Ruby Sales calls on the wisdom of her enslaved ancestors: “I love everybody, I love everybody, and you can’t make me hate you in my heart; you can’t make me hate you in my heart.”
Sometimes, when the Dalai Lama refers to the Chinese leaders who murdered his people and forced him into exile, he calls them “My friend, the enemy.”
And as I recalled all these teachings, I recalled that their purpose is redemption and empowerment. When you are pulled so low as to hate another person, that person has won.
So for me, one grave danger has already arrived. Democracy has not yet crumbled, but my heart has fallen into bitterness. I’ve already been pulled low, been conquered in this way.
This thought troubles me. But even so, when I go looking for compassion, I still can’t find it. I keep peering around, looking over my shoulder, looking under my clothing and turning out my pockets, but coming up empty-handed. Where is my compassion for Trump? Biden must be a far bigger person than me.
But I think just recognizing the danger is a step in the right direction.
When I notice vindictiveness rising up in me, I can turn away from feeding it. I can instead seek compassion—through loving-kindness meditation, the teachings of wise leaders like Tara Brach, or working to understand conservative thinking. Through practice, I believe I can find my way back to an open heart.
I’m so very angry at Trump, and I’m often angry at those who turn a blind eye to his shortcomings. And anger is appropriate, galvanizing, healthy. But there’s a difference between redemptive, galvanizing anger and the cold, bitter hardness I sometimes feel, a hard-heartedness that sucks my soul and leaves me small and shriveled.
I refuse to resign myself to hard-heartedness. I refuse to believe most of Trump’s supporters are bad people, even now. I still have faith in the basic goodness of most people and in the power of compassion. I’m committed to finding my way back.
Friends, we are in danger. Our bodies are in danger from COVID-19, our nation is in danger from eroding democracy, but our hearts are in danger, too. We’re at risk of being consumed by hatred of the Other. For the sake of our souls, we must find our way out.
