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America
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3 min read

America: two nations under God?

Red, blue, and rarely purple.

Graham is the Director of the Centre for Cultural Witness and a former Bishop of Kensington.

a tattered American flag flies against a blue sky.
Mario Sessions on Unsplash.

I've just come back from the USA. A few days on the east coast was a chance to take the temperature of America after its recent election, a brief impressionistic sense from conversations, reading the runes – and the blogs. In short, I had heard much about the divided state of America. I didn’t realise quite how divided it was.  

America has always made a great deal of unity. The vision for the USA imagined immigrants from different nations across the world invited to forge a new life in a new continent, leaving behind the divisions of the old world. It was the coming together of varied States across the vast continent into one Union. The language is everywhere. Most cities have a ‘Union Square’, Street or Turnpike. The chosen name itself was the United States of America. The slogan E pluribus unum – “out of many, one” was first featured on the original 1776 design of the Great Seal of the United States and formally adopted by the U.S. Congress as the nation's official motto in 1782. The American civil war of the nineteenth century was such a trauma for the nation precisely because it threatened that union. “One nation under God” says the pledge of allegiance, recited by every American child. Yet today it feels that a more realistic description would be two nations under God. The Disunited States of America. 

The split is pretty even. 73.7m people voted Democrat. 76.4m voted Republican. That itself is no great cause for alarm. What does cause alarm is the utter divide between the two groups. New York, for example. is pretty solidly Democrat. Someone who voted Trump told me they would never admit to it publicly because of the public shame it would bring. The same is true in the red states. To admit you voted Democrat in some Southern Baptist churches in Texas would be to invite social ostracism. Many Evangelical pastors who have their doubts about Trump have to keep quiet otherwise they would lose the support of their congregations and quite possibly their jobs. As a result, the only Evangelicals that tend to criticise Trump will be academics or journalists who have little to lose. 

As a taxi driver joked, if a young Democrat goes out on a date with someone they've met on Tinder, and discover their partner voted Republican, there is unlikely to be a second date. A Christian visitor centre in Washington DC tells me that they are looking forward to Trump being President again, because the flow of evangelical Republicans visiting the capital dried up during the past four years as they felt it was Biden’s town. It’s well known that nearly 80 per cent of white Evangelicals voted for Donald Trump. Such families were more likely to come to DC to see the seat of government if they knew ‘their guy’ was in the White House.  

It seems that in the current version of the USA, who you voted for is the number one identity marker. And the two groups rarely talk. In New York I preached in an Episcopal church. The Bible readings for the day spoke of ‘wars and rumours of wars’ – ‘everything will be thrown down’ – apocalyptic texts that invited me to talk about the election in the light of Jesus. Beforehand I asked the Rector what the voting pattern of the church was. “It’s genuinely purple” he said – “a mix of red and blue, Republican and Democrat, Trump and Harris. At least here they do talk to each other.” That seemed a rare thing in this deeply divided country.  

Jesus once said: “Every kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and every city or household divided against itself will not stand.” Trump may well fix the economy and illegal immigration. Yet such deep division, especially in a nation whose identity rests of unity is perhaps a more existential threat. 

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Ambition
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3 min read

Hopes and fears for the year

Standing on the cold threshold of a new year, Graeme Holdsworth recalls past audacity and whether his aspirations are too timid.

Graeme is a vicar of Marsden and Slaithwaite in West Yorkshire. He also cycles and juggles.

A starry night sky below which a signpost is silhouetted.
Luca J on Unsplash.

Standing in the Vicarage garden, under the clear winter sky, I feel cold to my bones, as though Jack Frost has thrown his coat over my shoulders. I’ve been successfully shedding body-fat since early October when I began to cut out ‘added sugar’ foods from my diet, but it has come with a downside: I need some third-party insulation, preferably lightweight, breathable, wind, and waterproof. I love cycling under clear night skies, pausing away from towns and lights to let my eyes adjust sufficiently to see stars more in number than the sands of the sea, but my enthusiasm for winter riding is dampened by this bitter cold. 

My first truly long-distance bike ride was an overnight cycle across the North Pennines, about 300km. A good friend had turned 40 and invited me to his party at a nightclub in Glasgow. I lived in Teesside at the time and thought it would be great fun to cycle there. I loaded my bicycle bags with party clothes, a change of shoes, and an appropriately expensive bottle of whisky as a gift, then set off into the early evening sunshine. By Bishop Auckland it was raining. Passing across Yad Moss to Alston at midnight, it was snowing. 

I’m older now and experienced enough to know that there is a point where the discomfort of endurance tips over into the endurance of pain, but I still long for the adventure. Like Tolkien’s elderly Bilbo Baggins torn between the comfort of his hobbit hole, and his yearning to see mountains again: my mind returns to summer cycling and riding through the night in shorts and short sleeves. Bilbo’s first journey was one of inexperience and unpreparedness, but he faced his dragon and returned home with tales to tell. Moreover, he didn’t do it alone, he also shared the journey with those who were older and wiser, those who knew what to expect but travelled anyway. 

Will I limit my resolutions for the new year to those that can be achieved beside my metaphorical fireplace? 

As I reflect on this, I think about our church community: those whose faith has been tested by experience, and those who are afraid to take their first steps into a wider world. A mixture of people who tell stories of spiritual wonder and joy, and others who seek comfort and refuge in the familiar. I’m also reminded of the people in this local community who have needed comfort during times of suffering. My soul has become filled with experiences, and I know that there are more frightening ‘dragons’ out there than those I encounter on a long bicycle ride. 

As I stand in the Vicarage garden, shivering, I wonder if I’m at risk of becoming timid. Do my experiences, and those I’ve learned from others, teach me to tread more carefully in the year to come? Will I limit my resolutions for the new year to those that can be achieved beside my metaphorical fireplace? Do I hang up my cycling shoes for those furry lined Crocs my son bought me this year? 

As I type this I realise, I have no desire to surrender to slippers just yet: my aspirations for the year ahead are to fly recklessly in the face of my own painful experiences, to embrace boldness in cycling, faith, and ministry once again. I pray for joy in my heart, and youth in my soul. I hope that my faith filled foolishness will be infectious in our church and our community as I stand hand in hand with the Divine, on the edge of eternity… and jump together. And as for wisdom born of experience: next time I take the dog into the garden, I’ll put a jumper on.