Janie B. Cheaney | Janie B. Cheaney

March 25, 2020March 25, 2020

The Good Infection

By now we’ve all received a crash course in infectious diseases and our hands are raw from soaping and sanitizing. (Have we ever been so aware of our hands before?) I’ve been combing the web for news, all the while reminding myself that nobody knows nothin’ yet, but I came across this bit of information that started the wheels turning in my head. I wheeled from science to theology, which is not as disjointed a track as some would think.

COVID19 is called a “novel” virus not because it’s fictional, but because it’s new. New to humans, that is; not to animals. Animals have their own viruses and are equipped to develop their own immunities, just as humans are. As human populations adapt to the peculiar RNA sequences that make up seasonal flu, so animals adapt to their own bugs and blights. These viruses almost always stay within species. But sometimes one will jump.

That’s what apparently happened in a Wuhan “wet market,” a place where live animals are sold, and often killed and eaten on the spot. A bat virus jumped to a human carrier and—in unscientific terms—dug in. Because the human immune system didn’t recognize the RNA sequencing of the foreign invader, the human became infected. And before he (let’s assume he) even knew he was sick, he had infected a number of others, and they went on to infect others, and the thing grew and grew and some people died.

One person. From just one person fever spirals out into the world, multiplying sickness and death and panic and enforced isolation and grim speculation about how many more millions will die before we acquire the immunity we need.

What makes this hyper-vigilance necessary is that the COVID19 virus is very quick: quick to spread and quick to mutate. Every flu develops singular strains, and so does this one: only quicker than most. Already it has developed at least two strains. The other cause for alarm is that it attacks human lungs and solidifies mucus, blocking air passages and causing asphyxiation. That’s why smokers, asthmatics and COPD sufferers are at particular risk.

Are you scared yet? Don’t be. Or, as beings better than I have said, Fear not. For behold, I bring you good news. We’ve already been infected by the most benevolent virus possible.

Take a deep breath. In the beginning we received our breath from God himself. And then we wrecked that ideal origin: “from one man sin entered the world.” The virus of sin is 100% contagious and in all cases fatal.

But after this had gone on for a few thousand years, long enough to prove beyond any doubt that the disease was not curable, a good contagion intervened. You might say that divine RNA jumped from heaven to earth, from God to man, just as an alien germ somehow bridged the gap animal to human in Wuhan.

The good contagion infected a handful of followers. Then a few hundred more. Then 3000 on one day. Eventually it spread, as fast as human feet and wheels and trains and planes could take it, to the ends of the earth.

I’m optimistic by nature, and at the moment I’m hopeful about how long the present crisis will last. But optimism may not be warranted; those grim predictions about millions of deaths around the globe may come to pass. But this remains: “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” Death may be sown even in my small circle. But this remains: No malevolent virus can overcome the strain of divine life that infects a believer in Christ. So take heart, and believe.

March 18, 2020March 18, 2020

Revolutionary Contentment

. . . not a call to action, but a call to being.

Luke 3: John the Baptist is the talk of town and country. He not only speaks like Elijah, he dresses like Elijah, and his words, like those of that fire-breathing prophets, send shivers down your back. All that talk about baptism by fire, and winnowing forks and axes laid to the root of the tree—no wonder people are flocking to him. Big things are about to pop, and everybody wants in on the action. But when they get down to asking about that—What do we do?—what does he say?

To scribes and Pharisees: Stop being complacent.

To tax collectors: stop being greedy.

To soldiers: cut out the extortion; be satisfied with your pay.

To people generally: stop hoarding; share what you have.

. . . that’s it?

He’s preaching repentance, aiming to present “a people prepared” to Messiah. And Messiah is soon to bear down with the axe and the winnowing fork like an avenging angel. The fiery avenger is actually what John pictures, and I assume it’s exactly what he expects. The message he preaches is a way to clear the decks and purify the righteous, before the righteous suit up and get ready to spring into action when Messiah comes.

But when Messiah comes, he speaks pretty much the same message: be content. He was supposed to lead a revolution–where’s the fire? Where’s the day of the Lord that burns the arrogant to stubble? When do we get to tread down the wicked? (All predicted in Malachi 4:1-3) Why is he talking about lilies of the field and birds of the air?

It is a revolution, just not the kind anyone expected. Contentment itself is a radical departure from the way humans tend to operate—wasn’t it a large part of the original sin? Wanting to be like God is, by definition, dissatisfaction with being human. Jesus calls us back to Square One in the garden. But when we look around, the place is shabby and unkempt (and whose fault is that?)

It’s still a revolution: not a call to action, but a call to being.

The revolution begins not with fire, or swords, or pikestaffs, or guns. It begins with personal repentance and builds on personal renewal and will end in personal glory. Any number of persons doing it together (the church) is a revolution indeed.

Like everybody else, I have my plans, my own Pilgrim’s Progress, and barriers to that progress make me frustrated and short-tempered. I forget that the real Pilgrim’s Progress is inside of me. Square One (which I have to keep going back to) is contentment. I can truly progress only from that point.

It seems so passive. Revolutionary contentment sounds like an oxymoron. But it isn’t. It’s a radical reorienting of my natural compass. It’s getting myself into a stance where the Lord can do something with me.

I want to move.

I may not be able to.

If that’s the case, the Lord can do something with my willingness to stand still.

November 23, 2018November 17, 2018

Divesting

“Divest, transitive verb: 1) To strip, as of clothes. 2a) To deprive, as of rights or property; b) to be free of. 3) To sell off or otherwise dispose of.”

The word leans both positive and negative. To strip, or to deprive: that’s harsh. To be free of—oh joy!

If we’re blessed enough to live into old age, it’s time to strip. And be free.

There’s a book called Material World: a Global Family Portrait. The author/photographer went around the

world persuading families to empty their houses of all durable goods: appliances, dishes, books, clothing, furniture. The Ukita family stack their possessions as compactly as their tidy apartment along the sidewalk in front of their building. The Natromos of Mali—nine kids and three adults—smile from their rooftop surrounded by earthenware pots and utensils. Most of their clothes are on their backs. In northern California, the property of Regan Ronayune and Craig Cavin and their two kids sprawls across their suburban lawn: tools, toys, and toddler ware, necessities and luxuries tumbled together.

Every American house is like a little American frontier: empty space to be filled.* We tend to fill up the space we have, and then some—observe the boom in separate storage units.

Periodic moves help to clear away some of the underbrush. My husband and I moved 23 times in our first 25 years. For our early moves we got all our stuff in a pickup truck and a VW bug. For our last move, we required one-third of a cross-country Bekins trailer. At every stop on the way to our current location we filled up more space.

As for our current location, we’ve been here twenty years—long enough for the tide of our lives to turn. What that means is, it’s time to divest.

Reason one: Stuff persists. As the years pass, a kind of stratus-layer buildup takes place. The file cabinets and understair storage areas and those closet shelves that aren’t easy to reach harden like anonymous stone. What’s in there? I don’t even know anymore. Maybe detritus from my mother’s estate, or mother-in-law’s, squirreled away before I could figure out what to do with it. Like bad cholesterol in the bloodstream it’s not going away and will make itself known at some inconvenient time.

Reason Two: My kids don’t want our stuff. The inconvenient time may be when I croak, or take a serious turn for the worse, like a debilitating stroke. That’s when my children, who now have lives and families of their own, get the unwelcome responsibility of divestment dropped in their laps. In the old days, family possessions were handed down through two or three generations. Daughters may actually have wanted a grandmother’s silver, but now—who uses silver? or much less, china? Not only is cheap merchandise readily available, but tastes have broadened. Don’t assume your kids want your four-poster or steamer trunk. Ask if they do. If the response is less than enthusiastic, dump it. Let them miss you for your thoughtfulness and personality, not for the job you saddled them with.

Reason Three: The direction is toward less, not more. Tiny houses may be a short-lived fad (easier to

admire than to actually live in), but the culture is scaling down, for reasons not entirely good. (It’s fine to want to get by with less stuff; not so fine to get by with fewer babies). For now, though, that’s the trend: digital vs. material, disposable vs. durable, temporary vs. permanent.

Reason Four: Freedom. Old age is the time to go deep rather than wide. To spend down portfolios and build relationships. To men what’s broken and appreciate what isn’t. To number the days and spend them wisely. Possessions become a burden the minute you no longer need them, or when your arthritic hands can’t wrangle the scissors or your fumbling brain can’t remember how to use the tools. I’m not that old yet, but it’s time to start loosening my grip, singer by finger. Soon enough I’ll have to let go.

Divest. Do it while you’re still able. Then enjoy your freedom.

*Meaning no disrespect to Native Americans; I know they were here first. But they didn’t fill up the place.

November 17, 2018

Thanks to Sarah

Sarah Josepha Hale—who remembers her? Actually, we all do, indirectly, for two reasons. One is our annual Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of November. The second I’ll get to later.

Even without Thanksgiving, she left her mark on American history, largely by having the sense to look around her, take stock of what she had, and be grateful for it. In time she gave hundreds of American women reason to be grateful too.

A girl growing up in the early days of the 19^th century didn’t have too many options, even in forward-looking, erudite New England. A smattering of education, if she was lucky. A considerate husband, if luckier still. Healthy children who lived past their infancy—jackpot. Though Sarah later wrote little about her father, she credited her mother with a strong mind and her Dartmouth-educated older brother with sharing some of his instruction. The rest of her education was the Bible and classical English authors, the base from which she started her own school for ladies in Newport, New Hampshire. A smattering of education? Check.

By all accounts, she scored well in the considerate husband department too. David Hale, a moderately successful lawyer, shared books with her and encouraged her to write for the local paper. In between babies, of course. So she was doing well with intellectual stimulation, spouse, and progeny—until her husband suddenly died, “as with a stroke,” mere days before the birth of their fifth child.

A widow’s options in 1822 were even narrower than a young girl’s. But if Sarah Hale had no funds she did have connections, and after a failed business or two she accepted the offer of an Episcopal clergyman to help start a women’s journal. The Ladies’ Magazine, published in Boston, had its ups and downs, but caught the attention Louis A. Godey, a Philadelphia publisher who was looking to mine the untapped reserves of the women’s market. He asked Mrs. Hale to come on board for a new venture, to be titled Godey’s Lady’s Book and American Ladies’ Magazine. The cumbersome second phrase was soon dropped, and Godey’s Lady’s Book became the voice of American women for the next fifty years.

Sarah had two conditions: first, rather than borrow (or steal) material from other journals, especially overseas, she wanted to develop the talents of American writers by publishing and paying them well. Second, she didn’t like fripperies or “high fashion”; her journal should be as high-minded as the editor. Mr. Godey was fine with paying extra for good writing, but his business sense checked her puritan tendencies. Women were interested in fashion, had always been interested in fashion, and always would be interested in fashion. Hence, the painstakingly hand-colored “fashion plates” that decorated each number of Godey’s. Sarah may have fumed, but got in her own licks by fulminating against tight corsets and encouraging women to pursue fresh air and exercise.

As the first successful women’s magazine ever, Godey’s Ladies’ Book used its popularity to do good while doing well—for instance, offering the first retail shopping service. Every issue featured items women could purchase to be delivered directly to them, prefiguring the mail-order catalogue, which in turn prefigured Amazon.com. While making money for the business, Sarah Hale used her influence to lobby for educational opportunities for women, including college, business schools, and normal schools (for training teachers).

She was very canny in the way she went about it, though: rather than castigating men for holding the fair sex back, she played to their interests: wouldn’t a husband come to appreciate a wife informed enough to share his business concerns? Don’t all fathers want their children to benefit from an educated mother? And if a woman chooses not to marry, it’s silly to think she will squeeze men out of their chosen professions. Elizabeth Blackwell, the first American woman to achieve a medical degree, owed much of her support to Sarah Hale, as did the Female Medical School of Philadelphia and the Ladies’ Medical Missionary Society.

She always said—and sincerely believed—that a woman’s chief place was in the home, but she saw that place as a noble calling rather than thankless drudgery. She was, it’s fair to say, the Oprah of her day. Who can tell how many women felt lifted up and encouraged by the earnest editor of their favorite magazine?

That’s probably Sarah Hale’s greatest legacy, in spite of her many good works and institutions she helped establish. Still, she’s best known for is promoting Thanksgiving as a national holiday. She persisted through three decades and five presidents until Abraham Lincoln, who may have had fewer reasons to feel thankful than most, wrote out a proclamation establishing the day we’ve celebrated in November ever since.

Two picture books about Sarah Hale have been published in the last decade: Sarah Gives Thanks, by Mike Allegra, and Thank You, Sarah by Laurie Halse Anderson. The titles might give you a hint of the approach: the first presents a hard-working, determined woman growing old gracefully surrounded by her family. The second makes Sarah’s crusading spirit the focus: a feminist icon charging the bulwarks of masculine privilege. Just a guess, but I think the former description is more likely. Sarah Hale’s activism, if that’s the word, was quiet, firm, and tenacious. She worked with what she had and probably accomplished more actual good for women than other feminist firebrands.

Oh, and her other legacy: “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

November 13, 2018

The “Nothingness” of Idolatry

A deep dive into the etymology (history and development) of the word idol:

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the Greek eido’lon (Latin idolon) encompassed the notion of

image in many forms: phantom, idea, fancy, likeness. The Septuagint (Greek translation of the Old Testament, completed around 250 B. C.) appropriated the Greek word to refer to a carved representation, and that’s the usual sense in Hebrew. But the Hebrew word saw’, occasionally translated idol, means a falsehood, a vain thing, a “nothing.” An idol is, in the contemptuous Hebrew sense, “nothing,” and prophets like Isaiah had a lot of fun with the idea: cutting down a tree to carve it, cooking your food over the scraps, then bowing down to it (see Is. 44:12-17).

But an idolatrous “nothing” doesn’t seem like nothing to an idolater, and that’s the danger of it.

One intriguing use of the Greek applies the word to a reflection in water or a mirror. Other classical uses include an effigy, a counterfeit, an imitation, an insubstantial appearance (such as a shadow), a mental fiction or fantasy, a false conception. The wisdom of etymology subtly unfolds—who would have guessed this many shades of meaning for a word usually associated with crude images made from wood, metal, or stone?

Take “reflection.” Aside from the myth that gives “narcissism” its name, this form of idolatry is a cartoon image, the smitten individual gazing at himself in a mirror while surrounded by fluttering hearts. We’re too sophisticated for that, or almost. I’m old enough to remember a video that made the rounds during the 2004 election: John Edwards, the Democrat candidate for V-P, taking 14 minutes to comb his hair in front of a mirror just before his one televised debate. (To be fair, he possessed exceptional hair.)

Most of us don’t fall in love with our reflections. But we do project, and the things we love become part of us, and when we pursue them, we pursue that which feeds, builds, expands, and often flatters us. It’s possible to fall in love objectively—that is, for the object itself. An aspiring ballerina loves dance for its own sake, as an athlete loves the game, a reader loves literature, a hiker loves mountains. But in time the temptation to identify with the object of our affection can overtake us. We no longer pursue out of love, but out of pride, possessiveness, or position. Get two or more enthusiasts together and clock how long before arguments break out. The more vehemence, the greater the personal investment.

When does enthusiasm become idolatry? That’s hard to say. When life makes no sense without it, when it brings pain—even when it dries up, suddenly and completely, because it couldn’t sustain your passion forever.

Idolatry is tricky, twisty, and deceptive. And ultimately, an illusion—a “nothing” after all. The only sure remedy is Reality Himself.

November 3, 2018November 3, 2018

Establish the Work of Our Hands

Here’s a newsflash from the world of medicine.

A Professor of surgery at London’s Imperial College, with the delightful name of Roger Kneebone, reports that he’s concerned about the increase in surgical students who lack certain vital skills. Can you guess which ones? Not diagnostic acumen or imaging analysis—many of these students ace their exams and blaze through their diagnostic computer programs.

But they don’t know how to sew. And they aren’t too proficient in cutting, either—which, if you need to have your appendix out and patched up again, might be a skill you’d want your surgeon to have.

How does a bright young person get through medical school, all the way to the surgical theater, without learning how to stitch up a kitchen wound or dog bite? How did she even get through kindergarten without learning how to cut along a straight line?*

We see a similar decline in the States, too: even kids who aren’t aiming at brain surgery for a career find themselves stymied when it comes to doing laundry or even folding clean clothes.

Cooking? They can probably manage the microwave, but can they turn on an oven?

Changing the oil every 2000 miles? Forget it. In fact, they often do.

Yes, I’m pushing 70, so I’ve earned the right to rag on kids these days, just as my father used to rag on me for my taste in music and my mother for the way I wore my hair. But this looming scandal in the medical field, like the shortage of skilled craftsmen here in the U.S., is more than a cultural trend. It’s a symptom—one of many symptoms—of a shift in thinking that grew up with digital technology. It’s the idea that we don’t really need our hands any more. Just our fingers. Manual labor is a thing of the past, meaning manual skills are no longer necessary. Musicians, dancers, sculptors, and painters may follow their dream through the arts, but those who are not gifted in those pursuits can sit back and be entertained with a swipe of the screen.

This is a deeply gnostic belief, and it ties in with other popular contemporary illusions like transgenderism. It’s why some school districts have eliminated shop and home ec classes, pared art, music, and drama programs and cut back on recess time. We live in our heads, and “knowledge” is the only thing that matters. The future (supposedly) belongs to “knowledge workers,” not electricians and carpenters.

But no one lives in a virtual world, as much as some misfits and sociopaths may think they do. There’s no real disconnect between brains, hands, feet, and that incorporeal being otherwise known as Soul. God made us to be integrated beings, hand and mind working together. What he has joined, no man can pull asunder without great damage to both.

To work in this way is a tremendous honor, because in doing so we imitate Creator. God may not have “hands,” as we understand them, but he is so active in the world–making, unmaking, and recreating–that Bible writers can’t help but speak of “the hand of the Lord.” Even in an act as basic as turning over a row in the garden and planting seed, we follow in his metaphorical footsteps. Angels, so far as we know, don’t make anything, or certainly no material thing. That privilege belongs to us.

So put down the phone or tablet (as soon as you finish reading this!) and go make something. Take a pottery class. Draw a tree. Build a birdhouse, or paint one. If nothing else, figure out how to thread a needle and sew on a button. Apply the workings of your mind to the skill of your hands, then teach someone else to do the same. Ask the Lord to establish the work of your hands (Ps. 90:17), and rejoice in following his creative, productive ways.

*In Surprised by Joy, C. S. Lewis wrote of his own lack of ability to cut with scissors. It was a strange disconnect between his very acute intellect and the parts of the brain that controlled small motor activity. As a child, many a project begun hopefully had to be abandoned with tears. He never learned to drive or do math, either, which suggests an interesting connection between manual dexterity and figures. The Canadian writer Robertson Davies was the same way.

October 30, 2018

Leaving God Out of Account

What business have you reciting my statutes,

Standing there mouthing my covenants,

Since you detest my disciplines

and thrust my words behind you? . . .

You are leaving God out of account; take care! Psalm 50:16-17; 22

This reminds me of my dialogue with a liberal friend from college, even though “mouthing” and “reciting” are not fair descriptions of her heartfelt love of the covenants. The question is, whose covenant? God’s extension of grace and mercy through Jesus Christ is built on a foundation stretching back through millennia. The beloved covenants of today are (apparently) brand-new, sweeping away the old because it’s no longer needed. Or because we’ve evolved into a more caring and accepting society. Some of God’s words she treasures; others she thrusts behind her. Or rather, rationalizes or explains away.

She’s not the only one of course; it’s the spirit of the age. Even those who talk about God every day can “leave him out of account.” He’s the Facebook meme of a silhouetted figure on a ridge with hands raised in triumph, or sunbeams raying out from clouds. He’s the beauty, the wind, the sunrise, and every good feeling. He is not the muscle, the hot iron, the oil-slicked, invisible gears that make the earth move and history pop.

He’s the mountaintop we climb for inspiration, not the valley where we live our lives and make our daily decisions based on everything but what he actually says. This can be outright rebellion (I know what he says and I reject it). But more often it’s sheer frivolousness: I’m okay, God’s okay; he’s fine with me as I am with him. Even with God brooding directly over them and history dogging their every step, Israel failed to take him into account.

But he took them into account—and you and me, too. That can be good news, or very, very bad.

October 16, 2018

Invasive Love

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;

His love endures forever . . . .

Psalm 136:1

Psalm 136 notably includes the refrain, “His love endures forever” in every alternating line. The Hebrew verb translated “love” is hesed. Some translations focus on the “forever,” making use of a linking verb (e.g., “His love is everlasting”). Speaking as a non-scholar of Hebrew, I’m sure that’s grammatically correct, but might not be the best interpretation. God’s hesed (often translated “steadfast love,” “lovingkindness,” “unfailing kindness,” “mercy,” etc.) endures. More than that, it actively endures. It’s not a feeling extended toward us, but a tool (or weapon) continually wielded on our behalf.

Suppose Psalm 136 read something like this:

His thoughts dwell longingly on us.

His love is everlasting.

He rehearses our many excellent qualities.

His love is everlasting.

He’s already picked out the ring.

His love is everlasting.

Tomorrow he intends to pop the question.

His love is everlasting.

Though human-like emotions are attributed to God (our emotional nature comes from him, not the other way around), they are not manifested in ways especially human, like a besotted young man contemplating the girl who’s captured his heart. Almost all the non-refrain lines in Psalm 136 are active. Even violent: He struck down, brought out, divided, overthrew, led out, killed, gave, remembered, rescued. “Mighty wonders” are the tokens of his love. Steadfast love is not a generalized benevolence, but a frightfully specific, focused, burning, overpowering force.

In English, love is both a noun and a verb. In Hebrew, hesed implies action—a reaching, searching, interfering kindness that speaks more of the lover than the object. It invades our space and shakes us awake, bundles us up and pulls us out of destruction. It outlasts time, and endures. Endures conflict, indifference, disobedience, rebellion . . .

Most of all, it endures us.

October 5, 2018October 4, 2018

Recovering a Heritage of Hymns, Part Four

To Sum It Up

Here are three reasons to re-think the contemporary model of congregational singing:

The music. The free-flowing, repetitive character of many praise choruses is designed to make it easy for unchurched people to join in. However, the opposite may be true. The lack of a substantive melody line leaves little for minds and voices to grasp. The tunes are no sooner sung than forgotten, especially since the music is never shown in musical notation. It’s written to be sung to standard guitar chords, which is helpful to worship leaders but difficult for the congregation—who end up “singing along,” rather than singing.
The words. Contemporary worship songs rightly fix on God: His glory, majesty, uniqueness, and faithfulness. Typically they are sung at the beginning of worship during a period that lasts 15-20 minutes while the congregation stands. The words are often meditative and repetitive, for the obvious purpose of creating a mood for worship. However, there are other biblical reasons for singing. Scripture ordains singing for instruction, for encouragement, and for admonishment (Col. 3:15-17, Eph. 5:18-21). The lyrics can be recalled on the road and in the home, while working or walking and talking with our kids. As the Lord takes pleasure in his people, so they should take pleasure in him: “Let the godly one exult in glory, let them sing for joy on their beds” (Psalm 149:5).
The history. Discarding the old disconnects contemporary Christians from some of the best in their history: musically, theologically, and spiritually. The foundation of Western music, including the best of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and Tchaikovsky, is the church. Until recently, the Christian songbook included songs from the earliest days of the church all the way up to the present. Now, the ever-changing video screen overwhelmingly features the lyrics and melodies written just yesterday, and many of those will be gone tomorrow.

Again, I’m not suggesting that the church discard all contemporary worship songs. I’m only saying that we already know what stands the “test of time,” and it’s in those hymnbooks stored in the church basement. Some contemporary songs will stand the test of time as well, and we can let time have its say. There’s a reason why Christians still sing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” and “Holy, Holy, Holy” and “Blessed Assurance.” There’s a reason why little children–the world over–still sing “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know.” The Holy Spirit has been at work in the church all through the ages, and these songs are a testimony to His work. Let’s not let them go.

This is the final post in a series on Christian musical heritage. The previous posts are

One: A Tuneful History

Two: Why Let It All Go?

Three: Intentional about Singing

October 2, 2018October 2, 2018

The Judge on the Altar

I don’t write about politics much, because it’s a trap. It’s too easy to see your own “side” as the good guys and the other side as mendacious maniacs (or pick your own alliteration). Worse, it’s too easy to hunker down in the mosh pit and convince yourself that this is the good fight: this bill before Congress, this election, this next Supreme Court Justice. There may certainly be elements of a good fight in any of these, but the real fight is taking place on another level altogether.

Having said that, I’m going to make a political observation. The Democrat party, as a whole (not convicting all Democrats) seems to have sunk their fortunes into a grab bag of propositions that can be lumped together under the heading of “Identity Politics”—IP for short. IP weaves the academic pursuits of latter-day Marxism, deconstructionism and intersectionality among strands of feminism, Black Lives Matter, LGBTQ identity, and other aggrieved groups who haven’t even worked up to being aggrieved yet. Its policies lean toward statist solutions (i.e., big government; welfare; socialist tendencies). In the interests of bipartisanship, I agree that IP would never have taken hold without some justification. Forms of oppression has tainted our country, and injustice lingers on. I disagree about causes and solutions, and I strenuously disagree that oppression is the whole story. But that’s the problem: to many on the far side of IP, oppression is the whole story.

Identity Politics has become a cult. Its sacred history is a catalogue of oppression by white men, its eschatology is the emasculation of white men, its creed is White Men Are Oppressors, and its high priesthood is the Democrat leadership—many of whom are white men, redeemed by sacred rhetoric. Its high religious festivals are elections, both general and mid-term; its ethic is protest and resistance; its holy relics include abortion (as a symbol of a woman’s control over her destiny).

Cults have their heroes and villains and sacrificial victims. Last week we witnessed a ritual sacrifice, complete with ceremony, theater, laying on guilt, and one “lamb without blemish.”

Let me say at the outset, I don’t know the facts of the Ford-Kavanaugh case. Nobody does, except the accused and the accuser, and possibly not even those two, given the tricks that memory plays over time. But adherents of the cult were presented with the perfect victim: not only white and male, but a preppie! Not just privileged, but super-privileged! Not merely a boy scout, but a devout Catholic! Not just innocent of the charge (so he claims), but a virgin at the time! (So he claims.) Everything that radical leftism hates and longs to pull down was sitting before them in that committee room, and they knifed him.

He had his defenders, and won a procedural victory when the Senate Judicial Committee voted him out on strict party lines. But he’s bleeding, and if he makes it to the Supreme Court, he’ll bleed for the next decade at least (if not impeached by a Democrat majority). The cult has worked itself into an ideological frenzy on the merest suggestion. Among the accusations and conclusions I’ve encountered: he was probably drunk at the hearing, he falls into seething rages, he can’t be trusted to coach his daughter’s basketball team, he may have run a high-school rape ring, he got blind drunk at parties in college and there’s just no telling what he did or can do.

I’ve bumped into these allegations without even looking for them; just imagine what I’d find at fever swamps like Think Progress and Democrat Underground. They came not from anonymous angry birds on Twitter, but from mainstream journalists and pundits and authors. Brett Kavanaugh is no longer a man to them—he was never a man, but a symbol of white supremacy in all its wickedness. He’s the merciless slave-owner, the callous CEO, the ogre of the boardroom, the . . . the . . Republican.

The Halifax Chronicle Herald, Bruce MacKinnon

This cartoon was making the rounds over the weekend: Lady Justice, her scales knocked askew, flat on her back, held down with one hand over her mouth by a faceless attacker labeled “GOP.” Yeah, well—what about assumption of guilt, and lack of evidence, and equality under the law, which is why justice is supposed to be blind? To the IP faithful, “procedure” means “stonewalling.” What do they want? A conviction! When do they want it? Now!! And they’ve got it. In another age, they would be yelling, “To the guillotine!”—so we can be grateful for the procedural niceties that remain to us.

Just consider these cartoons, presented from opposite sides of the story. Which has the most emotional punch? Which has the most rational appeal? Can there be any reconciliation between these two views?

“But love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven.” The great reconciler is at work, but he only works through one heart at a time. Views aren’t reconcilable, but people are.