good government {the wild truth about the vote that makes the difference}
“Good government…what is that, anyway?”
Kevin says this as we unwrap for the day, as he laces his shoes, puts his keys in his pocket. He saw the sign while running, his breath coming hard, the knit cap on his head a dot bobbing down Fall streets, his thoughts lost in the loud chatter of dry leaves shaking, falling in the brisk wind. Vote so-and-so, for good government.
And so the question, and God’s answer—whispered deep while the leaves rattled, which had little to do with candidates and everything to do with a single, daily vote; not a popular one.
It’s the use of the word good that actually makes us laugh, not the candidate or his or her plans, but our overwhelming mis-use of an idea. Not even Christ would allow the people to call him good (Luke 18:19), but we spin entire lives on the I’m a good person platform, noting all the purposeful signs of our goodness. It’s the way our society works. We live by resumes and performance reviews, by accolades, by things we do because we should but not so much because we live to.
We pull to the curb, asphalt crunching beneath the tires, my youngest sitting next to me, looking older–every day older, smiling, laughing with me over some silly shared joke. I wish her the best day, a day lived knowing she’s God’s daughter, and just like that, she hops out of the car, hoisting her book bag up on her shoulder. Light catches the pendant her best friend gave her, the one dangling from her backpack zipper.
And it’s the little things that remind me who governs her heart.
Little things, like the way she pauses on the sidewalk a few steps away while I am telling Adam that I love him, while two or three student safety patrolers twirl absently like dandelions caught in the crisp morning breeze. It doesn’t occur to Zoe that someone else will do it, that someone else could. She watches, not knowing I have turned back to see her, her eyes fastened on Adam’s feet, until her brother steps out of the road and onto the sidewalk. Her blue eyes sweep up to his face, reading it, and then I see a tiny, gentle, almost imperceptible nod and her lips curve just slightly up, the reflection of his safety showing up on her face. Then she turns solidly and purposefully on her heels and walks into the building, allowing him his independence.
When I mention this to her later, telling her how pleased I am to see her love Adam so, to see her put him first, she shrugs, surprised and a little uncomfortable. “But Mom, that’s just—I just do that. I mean, I don’t really think about it. It’s not really anything special. It’s just…my normal thing.”
She says this, and a thousand verses flood my heart, scripture about receiving the kingdom like a child (Mark 10:15), about the one who would be the greatest being the servant of all (Mark 9:35), about the beloved ones to whom He will say, “Come, take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you (Matthew 25:34).”
Every time I read of that last group, the same refrain echoes deep. They don’ t know. They don’t even know.
In a few days, we’ll elect a president, and the political spin makes me dizzy and nauseous. It makes me sad, the way we take our blessing—this freedom, and use it as an excuse to be ugly to each other, to declare we know hearts and motives, to accuse and oversimplify and slander. Billions of dollars spent building personas could be used to feed the hungry, quench the thirsty, clothe the naked. We fret and worry about the popular vote, how someone else will take something away from us by voting themselves into the majority behind the winning candidate. We shake our heads, point fingers, declare our personal agendas more important. I pray my way to the voting booth, thinking, “We don’t really know a thing about these people.”
I wish for a real view of each potential leader’s just what I do, of their normal, of their not-anything-special breathing. I listen for reports of something beautiful, hidden deep, some evidence of sacrificial, unselfish love that goes unseen because they don’t even know it’s worth noting. I keep waiting for someone to say, “Why do you call me good?”
Intensely, God has spoken to me about the choice that really changes, about the only good government, and the longer He speaks, the more I know that I am not good, but He is.
Matthew 25. Reading, listening deep, I look around the throne room at the gathered nations, souls of every shade, every shape, and so much story—worlds different, all the sights and sounds of our living. And He moves toward the throne, all dressed in lightening and fire, Him in all His glory bright—the power and blinding brilliance of heaven, angels flashing, moving with Him (Revelation 1: 14-18). And we fall as one, bowing knees, pressing ourselves low, and it doesn’t feel low enough. And He begins calling our names, voice like water rushing, and sends some right, some left.
And I wonder, to which side He’ll gesture when He speaks my name.
I want to be in the group gathering at His right hand, the ones to whom He speaks first, the ones to whom He says, “Come, take your inheritance.” Because these are His, the ones to whom He also says, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
I lift my eyes from the page, thinking how I always want these right-wing radicals to nod graciously, to smile brightly and say something like, “Oh, it was our pleasure, the least we could do.” They should be gracious, grateful He noticed.
But they don’t know. I look back at the page, reading, and they stand there looking at each other. I feel it, how uncomfortable they feel to be standing up at all when He’s there, and they fumble for words. His attention makes them uncomfortable, because they feel unworthy of notice.
“Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?”
I’m thinking about how I always remember, always know, how I congratulate myself on sacrificing something. “Oh, come on,” I’m thinking, embarrassed.
They don’t know. They live breathing Christ, following, until the doing is their normal thing. They don’t even know why He bothers mentioning it. And that’s good government, to be governed by the only One truly good, until loving is just what we do, until it’s the breath that goes unnoticed.
Christ has to tell them. I tap my finger below the words, the place where He says, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”
These kingdom people, the God-governed ones, they don’t seem to need my mantras about how I’m really serving Christ, not the difficult or dirty or inconvenient person in front of me. They don’t seem to need programs or work groups or any sort of organization to motivate them, either. They love and serve and pour themselves out for those, for the least right in front of them, because that’s what it means to be governed by His Spirit, and it’s so much like breathing that He has to tell them they have actually been serving and loving Him. They just love. It’s nothing special. It’s just what they do.
And that’s what I want for my normal thing, NOT any more the left-standing telling Him, the pointing out, “But look what I did for you, didn’t you see ,” and Him telling me I didn’t for the one of the least, and so I didn’t for Him (Matthew 25: 31-46). If all my doing is for the ones who are and who have, it falls far short of His heart, and with every fiber of my being I want to stand there fumbling on His right, just wishing He’d let me bury my face at His feet.
I close my eyes, asking. It strikes me hard, the truth that this is the governing of the Spirit: the serving and loving without even thinking it worthy of notice; when feeding the hungry and quenching the thirsty and welcoming the stranger and clothing the naked and nursing the sick and visiting the imprisoned is just what I do, because He governs my heart. When He has to tell me I served Him that way, and I don’t even know, because I’ve simply been living, breathing Him, doing my normal thing.
And I smile, wanting to be not gracious but utterly surprised that He notices my breathing, that He speaks of my living.
Kevin and I clasp hands, looking deep, agreeing together, one heart echoing the other over this truth.
This vote, this daily dying, only this changes this ruined place: I choose, this moment, this step, to be governed by God.
