Dying to Believe

November 5th, 2008.

We gathered, about 12 all together, in a tiny living room
in a tiny apartment. We were on the second floor.
Below people began screaming, so we went to the windows.
My mom called. She was crying. East Coast got word first.
Then they--John Stewart and Steven Colbert--announced it.
You won.
My living room companions clapped. Some yelled.
Some jumped up and began running around. I just wept and wept. I couldn't believe it.
You won.

The acceptance speech put us all in check; you knew the work cut out for you
and didn't hesitate to tell us about it. Further humbled by your grace,
the spirit of reverence for responsibility took hold. For a moment we were silent.
The screaming below got louder and louder, so we hit the streets.
We passed around ideas of where to go: Jack London Square?
City Hall? 20 minutes later we joined other political wanderers
at the corner of Broadway & Grand, right outside Luka's Taproom.

All the colors and queers began drumming, dancing and sanctifying the intersection.
Oakland's finest were in full effect. No censoring or controlling the movement that night.
The people owned the pavement, for once. Police officers put up their barricades for us, for you.
They actually let us get rowdy. People wrapped themselves in American Flags and circled
the community. Black people held each other like tearful lovers reuniting after years apart.
The old long-haired white hippie left-overs from the 60's crowded together with candles.
Even the punk-rock bandits poured in offering shouts of joy.
You brought us all there, that corner in Oakland, on that day.
You won.

In the middle of the celebration I recalled the moment I turned the corner on you.
When John Legend sang at the National Democratic Convention, he used these words:
"I'm dying to believe that you're out there."
As a theologian I reflected upon the rhetoric of hope,
the possibilities for transformative political leadership,
a shift in my generation's attitude toward agency and change--all the things you stood for
and all things bigger than you.
We wanted justice.
We wanted diversity in leadership.
We wanted grass roots movement.

People worked tirelessly for you, dying to believe that what you offered might actually come true.
And it did: that night when you won. We danced our assess off and screamed our lungs
into scratchyness the next morning. On the corner of Broadway & Grand, we prayed
our gratitude for the "new thing" happening because of your willingness to lead us.

December 2nd, 2009
$1.08 trillion total funding for "both" (as if we're only occupying 2 countries) wars through fiscal 2010.
30,000 troops on their way to Afghanistan as of your declaration last night.
98,000 proposed U.S. troop level in Afghanistan in total.

I don't think you want this, deep down. Somebody must own you. I say institute the draft, right now.

This morning I saw the headlines--I was leading an Advent workshop last night
and couldn't hear your speech (how ironic)--and felt a gut-wrenching spiritual ache.
The ache of disillusionment.
The ache of wondering if we all got fooled into thinking it'd be different.
The ache of wondering if you got fooled into thinking you'd be different.
The ache of pondering how it feels to be a citizen today
given how it felt to be a citizen on the corner of Broadway & Grand on November 5th 2008.

I'm dying to believe that you're out there, that you are still the person I worked so hard to elect,
that you care about the working class, and people of color and you wouldn't sacrifice
your principles to put them on front lines for money or any other pimped out virtue.
I'm dying to believe that you're out there, that you think about Iraqi, Afghani and Pakistani
children when you look into Malia and Sasha's eyes.
I'm dying to believe the hope we birthed wasn't a waste.