Why I will not be watching: Inauguration Day Reflections

Eight years ago, I poked my head out of my little apartment on a Minnesota lake in what felt like the middle of nowhere, and was greeted by a crystal-clear sky and minus-10 degree temperature. I had arrived the previous night for a four-month sabbatical stay at the Collegeville Institute for Ecumenical Research on the campus of St. John’s University, where I was intending to write a book and be a “resident scholar,” whatever that meant. I had arrived late in the evening, had not yet met anyone, and was already missing Jeanne and the dogs. Some people on this bitterly cold morning would have headed for the common area a few doors down to meet and greet other new arrivals (our official activities were not scheduled to begin until dinner that evening), but I did what any extreme introvert facing the prospect of meeting a dozen or so strangers all at once would have done—I turned around and went back inside my apartment. Not only was I not ready to meet new people, but the day ahead was going to be filled with “must-see TV.” It was Tuesday, January 20, 2009—the day that Barack Obama was to be inaugurated as the 44th President of the United States. I did not intend to miss a minute of it.

For the millions of Americans who voted for him, Barack Obama represented hope, change, renewal, and evidence that this country actually had, incrementally, changed for the better in its attitudes and actions. For most of my life I had told people that I thought the first woman President was more likely to happen in my lifetime than the first African-American President–the rise of this dynamic, multi-ethnic man to the highest elected position in the nation not only proved me wrong, but seemed also to prove that we had collectively made progress. I had tears in my eyes more than once on that Tuesday eight years ago, as Aretha Franklin and Yo-yo Ma performed, a record crowd cheered, and the new President was sworn in. I remember feeling particularly happy for my two sons, one of whom had actively campaigned for Obama. The convoluted and tortured election of 2000 had been their first opportunity to vote in a Presidential election; I was worried at the time that the debacle might sour them forever on political engagement. Yet here we were, eight years later, celebrating a day of historic importance.

I believe Barack Obama has been a fine President. This is not primarily because of his many positive accomplishments, achieved in the face of the most concerted and organized opposition imaginable from his political adversaries. Given the visceral resistance from some quarters, for reasons that often failed to rise above entrenched racism, it is remarkable that the 44th President of the United States achieved anything politically or economically at home or abroad. But what I will always be grateful for, and what I will remember this President for until I die, has nothing to do with political achievements or failures.

Last week Jeanne and I watched any number of retrospectives on the past eight years of the Obamas in the White House; I was reminded again and again of President Obama’s grace, intelligence, sense of humor, honesty, and strength of character. These qualities never wavered as he inherited an economic disaster not of his making, faced two terms worth of “just because” resistance at every turn from lawmakers who never seemed able to accept what happened in November 2008 and 2012, questions about whether he is truly an American citizen, and a clear refusal in some quarters to accept that an African-American had been elected President—twice. His Presidency was not only scandal free—his family provided a model for us all to aspire to. I agree with Vice President Joe Biden, who said last week that he believes Michelle Obama to be the greatest First Lady in our history. I will miss Barack Obama as President, not because I agreed with every one of his decisions (I didn’t), but because he has been an exemplar of the sort of personal character and strength needed in the Oval Office.

I will not be watching the inaugural events today. This is not unusual—I did not watch either of George W. Bush’s inaugurals, and I doubt I watched much, if any, of Ronald Reagan’s. I apparently only watch the inaugurals of Presidents who I voted for. But this is the first time that my not watching seems to be principled. I am worried for our country because the man who takes the oath of office today has demonstrated none of the personal characteristics of quality and character that were on daily display during the outgoing President’s eight years in the White House. I believe that our country is strong and resilient enough to withstand just about anything a given President might do or try to do, but am not as confident that our country has not taken a large step backwards in its commitments to the issues that I, both as a Christian and a human being, consider to be indispensable components of freedom and justice.

Donald Trump’s presidency is unlikely to have a strong, direct impact on Jeanne’s and my lives. But “how will this affect me?” has never been the most important question to ask when considering our country’s future. How would I be feeling today if I were not white? If I were Muslim? If I were an undocumented resident of our country? If I were a woman? Everyone, of course, must answer such questions for themselves—as I consider them, I find nothing to celebrate today. I hope that I am wrong. I hope that Donald Trump surprises me and turns out in actions to be very different than the man that his words have shown him to be. But at the moment, as I wrote in this blog the day after last November’s election, I am feeling “the weight of this sad time.”

The Weight of this Sad Time

I’ll be spending today preparing my classes for next week, getting ready to watch the Friars play the #1 team in the country tomorrow on television as well as the Patriots’ game tomorrow night, and—when I think of it—sending a quick prayer out for our country and for all who are fearful about what the upcoming weeks and months may hold. But that’s just me.

 

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