A Sunday Morning Apology for Evangelism in this Election Year

Oh,  but it is in the blood,  this desire to convert those one thinks are wallowing in sin, in doubt, in error, and in pain,  this desire to  urge repentance,  to explain, correct, convert, convince, to save—in short: to evangelize.

And I?  Well, almost as if in confirmation of these  strong tendencies in myself,  and following in certain  Christian  traditions that have been strong  in my ancestors,  I reflect that I even named the heroine-narrator of my first novel Evangeline.

I always recall grandfather Walker, son of a Scottish immigrant, who in all sincerity told me that Alexander Campbell was the discoverer of the true religion.   Do we not each of us—even the atheists—feel as if we are believers in true religions, ones that deserve our evangelistic endeavors toward the salvation of our friends?

So this morning, thinking on these things, I send you out these non-evangelical greetings, sending you cheer and best wishes.  Abandoning if only temporarily an assertion of political and social thoughts and accusations, and thinking of you my friends as the sun comes up,  I’ll set myself the task of thinking of what old poem of mine I might append below that may entertain or inspire, but which hopefully does not offend and does not preach—at least not too much.  Then I shall send it on to all of you.

[Pause to Search through The Gift……This one suggested itself]

Walt Whitman

When we hear him singing his immortal lines We feel some ever-pressing need to join His triumphant march, foot-tapping to his rhythms, Reveling in the slow, melodious journey Forward and fearlessly into time, now urgent, Now calm, now assured, but always and always A consistent tempo suitable for modern man, For modern woman at her tasks working, For youths at play, for old people facing death — Sentient beings all facing death, all foot-tapping To the rhythm or missing the great beat. We want to sing out our inheritance from him, Forcing his work upon people as a fanatic forces, As the evangelist insists And the singer lets forth his proud voice. Surely this is his reincarnation: Lashed by his own hand firmly to the wheel, Around and around he turns, Now out of the sea and singing, Now under the waters and dying, Now outward and upward, undaunted, The songs from his mouth loudly pouring! Up to the apex and down again, Always with joy and always declaiming, Forever loved by those who will listen, Forever despised by those who will not.