“I cannot even begin to comprehend your position,” shouted one exasperated legislator to another. Once again, a version of the debate between free market capitalism and workers’ rights had erupted in the House chamber. But the backdrop for this recurring debate was different. The previous four nights, Black Lives Matter protests had erupted on the steps of the Iowa capitol. Young people cried out; a Black legislator was tear gassed; arrests were made. Despite COVID-19 outbreaks in our meat-packing plants, workers were forced to return to the manufacturing lines. The pandemic was killing Black and Brown bodies in our state at disproportionately high rates. Police brutality, unemployment, wage disparities, school to prison pipeline: all contributing factors to Iowa being the second worst state in the country to live in as a person of color.
As legislators took to their microphones, words were flying yet hardly heard. Emotions were raging yet far from understood. The deep chasm between political parties lay bare once again, and I began to doubt whether finding common ground was possible.
Welcome to my internal wrestling. I am a Christian, a PC(USA) pastor, a Fuller graduate, and a new state representative. I’ve spent years navigating the inter- section of religion and politics, and yet my search for answers to how to heal the political divide is just beginning. I write to you from a snapshot in time, with a few lessons learned, but mostly about a bricolage of experiences out of which I am trying to make some faithful sense.
I distinctly remember the feeling of my stomach dropping when a colleague across the aisle confronted me. “Representative James, you’re a pastor, right?” he asked. I confirmed, curious about where he was going with his question. “I’m having a difficult time wrapping my brain around the fact that you are both Christian and a Democrat.” I could tell by his face and the sincerity in his tone that he was genuinely perplexed. He, too, was a Christian—even a fellow Presbyterian. For each of us, it was precisely our Christian faith that had compelled us to affiliate with different political parties. How can this be?
My legislative colleague and I have starkly different political opinions on nearly every question that comes before us. We have different backgrounds, different upbringings, different life experiences, and—though we agree on the death and resurrection of Jesus—we would be hard pressed to be able to find any political agreement. And yet we are stuck with each other. As G. K. Chesterton observed, “We make our friends; we make our enemies; but God makes our next-door neighbor.” In the Iowa House chamber, my neighbors are quite literally the legislators on the other side of the aisle.
I had just returned from a press conference where I, along with several colleagues, had announced the cofounding of Iowa’s first bi- partisan, bicameral caucus, when I faced a barrage of negative commentary from a staffer and a friend: “You’re wasting time, Representative James. They’re bad people, the enemy. You’re not going to change them.” The words of Jesus surfaced and I replied, “You may be right. But as a Christian, I’m trying to do what Jesus said and love my enemy.” Whether they’re my neighbors or my enemies, either way, the call of discipleship is to love.
Establishing the bipartisan caucus was a controversial move, but I had found a small group of millennial legislators—senators and representatives, Republicans and Democrats—tired of the partisan divide and willing to work toward common ground. But even after a year together, our task seemed nearly impossible when no one was willing to compromise on their deeply held values. I began to wonder if maybe this was a waste of time after all.
Enter “Republican Karaoke.” My colleague in the bipartisan caucus had insisted I join him and the other Republican legislators in their sacred practice of karaoke. All the boxes of my stereotypes were checked when I walked through the door to find myself face to face with a Republican legislator in cowboy boots and hat bellowing “God Bless America.” For one evening, I danced and sang with my neighbors, my enemies. This experience led me to wonder if the first step toward healing the political divide isn’t about finding common ground but instead about discovering our common humanity.
A glimpse of our common humanity: It was almost time to gavel in; legislators walked briskly through the parking lot toward the capitol juggling coffee and files. But one Republican legislator sat in the front seat of his car, the door open, one foot on the ground. He had suddenly become sick; sweat beaded on his forehead, and he reported a crushing pain bearing down on his chest. Luckily a Democratic representative whose day job was as a pharmacist sprang into action. “You’re going to be fine,” he explained. “But you’re having a heart attack and I’m calling an ambulance.” The Republican legislator recovered and loves telling the story of “the Democrat who saved his life.” Another day: My heart ached when I read an email with the news that my Republican colleague’s adult daughter had lost her battle to cancer. On the day my colleague returned, legislators and staff wore matching ribbons to honor her daughter’s life. We were all shaped by this experience, connected to her and one another by a glimpse of our common humanity.
I can’t say that these epiphanies of common humanity directly resulted in a dramatic shift toward bipartisanship. The Iowa House remains deeply polarized, though some glimpses of hope deserve mention: the bipartisan caucus pushed through initial objections to offer unified support for mail-in voting, and late in the session, as our cities burned amid protests of racial injustice, the legislature swiftly united in support of legislation to curtail police brutality.
These moments are promising, but even so, I’m beginning to see that the call to neighbor-love in the political sphere isn’t about getting results. Love is its own end.
Lindsay James (MDiv ’07) is the State Representative for Iowa House District 99, Dubuque. Following her Fuller education and a career as a college chaplain, Lindsay relocated to Iowa. As State Representative, she cofounded Iowa’s first bicameral, bipartisan caucus and is known for her role in passing racial justice legislation.
“I cannot even begin to comprehend your position,” shouted one exasperated legislator to another. Once again, a version of the debate between free market capitalism and workers’ rights had erupted in the House chamber. But the backdrop for this recurring debate was different. The previous four nights, Black Lives Matter protests had erupted on the steps of the Iowa capitol. Young people cried out; a Black legislator was tear gassed; arrests were made. Despite COVID-19 outbreaks in our meat-packing plants, workers were forced to return to the manufacturing lines. The pandemic was killing Black and Brown bodies in our state at disproportionately high rates. Police brutality, unemployment, wage disparities, school to prison pipeline: all contributing factors to Iowa being the second worst state in the country to live in as a person of color.
As legislators took to their microphones, words were flying yet hardly heard. Emotions were raging yet far from understood. The deep chasm between political parties lay bare once again, and I began to doubt whether finding common ground was possible.
Welcome to my internal wrestling. I am a Christian, a PC(USA) pastor, a Fuller graduate, and a new state representative. I’ve spent years navigating the inter- section of religion and politics, and yet my search for answers to how to heal the political divide is just beginning. I write to you from a snapshot in time, with a few lessons learned, but mostly about a bricolage of experiences out of which I am trying to make some faithful sense.
I distinctly remember the feeling of my stomach dropping when a colleague across the aisle confronted me. “Representative James, you’re a pastor, right?” he asked. I confirmed, curious about where he was going with his question. “I’m having a difficult time wrapping my brain around the fact that you are both Christian and a Democrat.” I could tell by his face and the sincerity in his tone that he was genuinely perplexed. He, too, was a Christian—even a fellow Presbyterian. For each of us, it was precisely our Christian faith that had compelled us to affiliate with different political parties. How can this be?
My legislative colleague and I have starkly different political opinions on nearly every question that comes before us. We have different backgrounds, different upbringings, different life experiences, and—though we agree on the death and resurrection of Jesus—we would be hard pressed to be able to find any political agreement. And yet we are stuck with each other. As G. K. Chesterton observed, “We make our friends; we make our enemies; but God makes our next-door neighbor.” In the Iowa House chamber, my neighbors are quite literally the legislators on the other side of the aisle.
I had just returned from a press conference where I, along with several colleagues, had announced the cofounding of Iowa’s first bi- partisan, bicameral caucus, when I faced a barrage of negative commentary from a staffer and a friend: “You’re wasting time, Representative James. They’re bad people, the enemy. You’re not going to change them.” The words of Jesus surfaced and I replied, “You may be right. But as a Christian, I’m trying to do what Jesus said and love my enemy.” Whether they’re my neighbors or my enemies, either way, the call of discipleship is to love.
Establishing the bipartisan caucus was a controversial move, but I had found a small group of millennial legislators—senators and representatives, Republicans and Democrats—tired of the partisan divide and willing to work toward common ground. But even after a year together, our task seemed nearly impossible when no one was willing to compromise on their deeply held values. I began to wonder if maybe this was a waste of time after all.
Enter “Republican Karaoke.” My colleague in the bipartisan caucus had insisted I join him and the other Republican legislators in their sacred practice of karaoke. All the boxes of my stereotypes were checked when I walked through the door to find myself face to face with a Republican legislator in cowboy boots and hat bellowing “God Bless America.” For one evening, I danced and sang with my neighbors, my enemies. This experience led me to wonder if the first step toward healing the political divide isn’t about finding common ground but instead about discovering our common humanity.
A glimpse of our common humanity: It was almost time to gavel in; legislators walked briskly through the parking lot toward the capitol juggling coffee and files. But one Republican legislator sat in the front seat of his car, the door open, one foot on the ground. He had suddenly become sick; sweat beaded on his forehead, and he reported a crushing pain bearing down on his chest. Luckily a Democratic representative whose day job was as a pharmacist sprang into action. “You’re going to be fine,” he explained. “But you’re having a heart attack and I’m calling an ambulance.” The Republican legislator recovered and loves telling the story of “the Democrat who saved his life.” Another day: My heart ached when I read an email with the news that my Republican colleague’s adult daughter had lost her battle to cancer. On the day my colleague returned, legislators and staff wore matching ribbons to honor her daughter’s life. We were all shaped by this experience, connected to her and one another by a glimpse of our common humanity.
I can’t say that these epiphanies of common humanity directly resulted in a dramatic shift toward bipartisanship. The Iowa House remains deeply polarized, though some glimpses of hope deserve mention: the bipartisan caucus pushed through initial objections to offer unified support for mail-in voting, and late in the session, as our cities burned amid protests of racial injustice, the legislature swiftly united in support of legislation to curtail police brutality.
These moments are promising, but even so, I’m beginning to see that the call to neighbor-love in the political sphere isn’t about getting results. Love is its own end.
Lindsay James (MDiv ’07) is the State Representative for Iowa House District 99, Dubuque. Following her Fuller education and a career as a college chaplain, Lindsay relocated to Iowa. As State Representative, she cofounded Iowa’s first bicameral, bipartisan caucus and is known for her role in passing racial justice legislation.
Maria Fee, director of Brehm Cascadia, shows how the arts can inspire Christian liturgies of reconciliation—fostering people’s connections with their neighbors and with God
