Liberal or Conservative: Looking for a fresh label

A few years ago I flew out to visit my sister and her family. When I was introduced to my sister’s book club friends, one of them wanted to know if I was one of those “liberal media types.” She apparently assumed that because I wrote for a newspaper, I was a leftie and could be lumped in with the commie hordes of broadcasting.

I asked The Forb once why he read the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, but never the local paper in which my column appeared.

“I don’t read that rag,” he said. “Too conservative for my tastes. Besides, I get enough of you here every morning.”

It’s funny how those labels get thrown around and stuck on people. The Forb sounds like he despises political conservatives, but in practice he hates both conservatives and liberals and speaks boldly about his views. He is an equal opportunity despiser.

As I sat with Winnie this morning in The End of Time, I watched Father Gene come in and sit down, his warm smile bringing grace to the room. What was he? Since he didn’t take a hard line on same-sex marriage, but responded with reflections on theology and the Bible, was he a liberal or a conservative? I didn’t know.

As I thought about it, the labels as we use them today only serve to describe opposing agendas. But at their heart, the descriptions both have value and should, ideally, work together in creative tension.

At its best, conservative means that there are traditions and practices that have value, and they should be protected—conserved. There is a built-in caution in conservatism that is concerned about abandoning the past too quickly in favor of things that may not have lasting value.

At its worst, conservative means fearful protectionism, naming demons and villains when its sacred ground is challenged.

At its best, liberal means that all ideas may come to the table for consideration. Traditions may still have value in this sense, but they shouldn’t lock us into the past, but rather give us motivation to engage the future.

At its worst, liberal means to embrace “progress” at any cost, regardless of history and consequence. In this way to be liberal is to be like budding flowers that have been severed from their roots. They’re attractive for awhile, but soon will be discarded for freshly amputated pretties.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that I want the best of both those categories if I have to have anything at all. Being locked into one or the other is suffocating to me, and risks being linked to people and ideologies that do not speak for me.

I need a new label. Liberative? Conservatal? How about person? Or human? Or maybe just Maxwell.

I was disturbed from my reverie by Winnie sniffing as she leaned her head on my shoulder. She was crying. I put my arm around her and looked at her face.

“What’s going on, Winnie?”

“I miss my mom,” she said. I handed her my paper napkin and she wiped her eyes.

“I know,” I said. I thought about the funeral service, and the people in her hometown, and wondered if she had any contact with them. I remembered the imposing figures of her father and brother, and tried to imagine what comfort they might send her way.

“Have you heard from your family?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, and I won’t.”

“They won’t contact you?”

“No,” she said. “And I don’t want them to.”

As much as my heart was surrendering to Winnie, I still realized that there was much under the surface that I didn’t know or understand. She was a much more complex person than I thought when we first met at the café. I was content in the knowledge that I was simple and shallow. She probably had me figured out before our first kiss.

I made it my intention to rattle some of the family skeletons in her closet.

The American Flag and Church

Winnie and I sat together at our booth, holding hands and sipping our coffee. We hadn’t really talked too much about this relationship that was happening to us, and I was fine with that. It was enough for me just to be with her and enjoy our moments of intimacy, which so far consisted of hand-holding and the occasional smooch. I was happy to delay any further complications.

We watched out the window of the café as city workers adorned streetlights with American flags and patriotic banners, getting things ready for the annual Fourth of July celebration that would stir the hearts of the nation and give a much needed boost to beer sales. I usually spent the Fourth at home alone watching movies or getting caught up on my columns, but this year could be different. I decided that I would do something that Winnie wanted to do, even if it meant suffering through a fireworks show. However, I wasn’t quite prepared for her request when she spoke it.

“Maxwell, would you like to come to church with me this Sunday?”

Because I am a cynical writer, I have chosen churches that are very different from the kind to which Winnie is accustomed. But no matter the church, I have always avoided showing up with the faithful on Sundays where the celebration of national holidays might possibly meld with the body and blood of Christ, causing him to bleed red, white, and blue. I have a real problem with that, so I usually find something else to do on those days.

“Is there something special happening this Sunday, Winnie?” My faked innocence was just a panicky attempt to dodge her question.

“Oh, you know,” she said, “just the regular church service, but with some extra American flags and songs like God Bless America and The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Things that churches do on the Fourth of July.”

I knew it. I would rather have my skin peeled off with a rusty corkscrew than sit through a church service like that.

It’s not that I don’t love my country—it has nothing to do with that. It’s just that I don’t think Jesus is any more partial to people in America than he is to people in Taiwan or Lithuania or anywhere else. It’s great to be thankful to live here and all, but these church services border on nation-worship, and it gives me the creeps.

I remember reading about how the Nazis managed to convince the state churches in Germany to take down their crosses in the sanctuaries and replace them with swords, and to remove the Bibles from their altars and display Hitler’s Mein Kampf instead. I’m not making any comparisons here, except to say that we humans can screw up worship in the blink of an eye if we aren’t careful.

I don’t even like seeing American flags displayed in churches. Again, it isn’t because I am against the country—I just don’t see the point. You display a flag for different reasons: To show that you are on US territory (unnecessary, in my view, when you are already in the US), or to stake a claim (like when Russia planted a flag on the sea floor under the north pole), or to prove that you are patriotic (which it doesn’t do). None of those are good reasons to put up a nation’s flag in a church.

Also, when you look up “flag protocols” on the Internet (the font of all knowledge), you learn that when a flag is displayed in a church, it has to be given prominence over any other flag, including the flag of the Christian church (where in the heck did that come from?). If the American flag in a church demands dominance, I think the message is not a good one.

So, I am re-cementing my commitment to avoiding church at all costs on the Fourth of July. That’s it. End of discussion. I turned to Winnie to give her my answer.

“Sure, Winnie. I’d love to go with you.” I am such a wuss.

She leaned her head on my shoulder and squeezed my hand. “You are so sweet, Maxwell. How about instead we go to the lake and have a picnic? Then afterward maybe we can go see a movie.”

I’m pretty sure that I love Winnie.