Imagine There's No Heaven: An Intro

 Introduction

            I always hated that song.

            Which seems like a sacrilegious thing to say.

            But I don’t want to imagine there’s no heaven!

            It’s not easy if I try!

            Imagine all the people living for today?

            Are you serious?

            Obviously, this Lennon Guy just didn’t get it. Who did he think we are? Did he really think we’d all band together and save the planet? Coexist? Had he not read Lord of the Flies? Did he never see an episode of “Breaking Bad”? Had he missed the wave of dystopian visions coupled with the popularity of the good old comic book superhero of the early twentieth century? How had such a prophet, such an artist, failed to grasp our essential ugliness, our basic inability to band together for even the simple things in life like saving a goddamn whale? How had he not anticipated our reaching out for an Avenger, a Wonder Woman, a Mockingjay?

            For some reason, I really like “My Sweet Lord,” though.

Even though I’m all Judeo-Christianed out, I’ll be singing Hare Krishna... Krishna, Krishna right with George, top of my lungs.

            Damn, I love that song!

            Go figure.

*          *           *

            Launching into a book about politics and Christianity, for that’s where you’ve landed, may require authorial introduction. I mean, WHAT AM I DOING?

            Did I just say I’m writing a book on politics and God? Aren’t those two things you’re not supposed to talk about?

            I did! They are!

            Actually, if I may resort to cliché, my renewed interest in politics has been like . . . “coming home.” I was born for this moment.

I’ll surely write more later, in a better way. But here’s the abridged version: hippie Jewish parents (serious beard on dad with paisley-patterned shirts that had snaps on them, platinum blonde mom in go-go boots and macramé mini-dresses, passing joints on the floor, and Richie Havens and Joe Cocker on vinyl) who became Born-Again Christians (Calvinists, if you can believe that!), raised truly with a mix of very liberal (I knew about MLK before you did, I promise) and uber-conservative ideas (went to private Christian schools, raised pretty churchy—and I do mean churchy), got an undergrad and a grad degree in politics with the intent of working in human rights and civil rights (did an MA thesis on UN peacekeeping intervention during the nineties when we were all taking about Bosnia and Somalia), worked for three prestigious nongovernmental organizations in Manhattan (Amnesty International, the United Nations Association, and the Council on Foreign Relations), and voted for both Democrats and Republicans (first presidential candidate I ever voted for was Dukakis). Lived in South Africa for a few months in 1998 during Nelson Mandela’s presidency. Had contact with Hillary Clinton at the Council. Lengthy history with Donald Trump during my New York years. Those are my credentials for writing this book.

My husband is laughing right now.

But let’s cut the crap (because Tim will never let me live it down if I let you think I’m some sort of global bigwig). I really wanted to be a writer the whole time. Like the whole time. Moving to New York for graduate school at New York University (really?) was just an excuse to be a writer in Manhattan. More than anything, I just reveled in my depression and romantic squalor, wandering the streets of Greenwich Village, noting the trash in the gutter and the homeless by the trains and the art in SoHo, hating random weird roommates, wishing I had a dog, reading new books and returning them a week later from Barnes & Noble, and writing bad fiction. I failed the Foreign Service Exam by one or two percentage points. (The Foreign Service exam, the precursor to serving in the diplomatic corps, is like a giant SAT test offered twice a year in select spots.) What do I remember most about the test? It was at Columbia University, near that coffee shop featured in “Seinfeld.” I have a vague memory of taking the test more than once, but I’m really not so sure. I must’ve failed it again, though, if I took it. Working at Amnesty International was just a pretext to be like U2, my heroes. In all my great jobs, I was never anything more than an admin assistant with a pretty good title. I didn’t aspire to much either. I had a freakin’ Masters degree, and I really only made copies or answered calls. My lack of ambition was stunning. Stunning. I know I did a couple illegal things like use the fax machine, and I still feel bad about that. Though I was super into the anti-Apartheid movement in South Africa and I wanted to experience South Africa in the throes of Nelson Mandela’s presidency, I was there in writer-mode, spying, living, fucking up grandly, and getting ready to write it all down. I fled both New York and South Africa under dubious circumstances, and ended up doing the writing thing after all.

I had nothing to do with politics for nearly sixteen years.

Really, nothing. I married a freakin’ Republican!

But I’ve always existed on the edge of the secular and sacred in ridiculous ways, ever since I was—seriously—fourteen or fifteen, and I started going to rock concerts and wearing concert t-shirts. It was mostly the writing thing, though, which put me into close contact with deviants and other artists. Man, Christian art just sucked—and I figured this out very young. Those sappy Christian novels? Thomas Kincade? Petra? Amy Grant? I. Just. Couldn’t. Do. It. Landing on U2 was, like, one of the best days of my life. We’ll talk later about U2.

I cuss a lot.

Say fuck and they run like hell.

And yet I’m a big prude. Ask Tim.

Don’t.

As I said earlier: Go figure.

And so I’ve teetered, politically, artistically, on the brink of liberal and conservative, sacred and secular.

When Trump ran for president, my past came crashing down on me. I went nuts. It was, truthfully, personally horrible. I lost friends, like really. I no longer speak to numerous people. I am not welcome in some groups. I think I probably jeopardized my kids’ private school education by going against the evangelical crowd in opposing Trump. My husband and I don’t talk about it much, but we know I’m in part responsible for the lack of tax donations one can get for private education in Arizona.

Alas, with a heavy heart—I joke wildly, ruthlessly—I turn back to politics to write this book.         

*          *           *

            It’s so boring, so remarkably boring, to talk about theoretical principles. I mean, your eyes will glaze over. I’ll lose you. I’ll lose all of you, and I barely even had you. Look, I know my audience: you’re mostly liberals, writers, artists, do-gooders, academics. There are other stragglers, a few conservative voyeurs, some loyal friends who read my stuff no matter what, my mom. That about covers all ten of you. Do I risk the smarmy, high-falutin bullshit in order to make sure we’re on the same page?

            Alas, this is a book on politics and religion. As always, despite my religious orthodoxy, I write largely for a secular audience. As always, I offer the same reason why: the art is better. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

            So how is this related to John Lennon?

            Liberals philosophically embrace the idea that human nature is essentially good. With such a belief, it just might be possible to throw down the weapons, call a truce, and imagine there’s no heaven. It’s understandable, then, why a good liberal might favor a little intervention or a bit of imposition to put into place a good idea. The external help might do the trick. Give a boost to the good.

            Did I lose you?

            So John Lennon might say, Hey, we’re all good people here. We can do this.

            Conservatives, on the other hand, embrace the idea that human nature is essentially flawed (Christian Conservatives would say fallen). We’ll never stop fighting. We can’t. What we can do is focus on our own transformation. Personal transformation precedes global transformation. Individualism, personal responsibility.

            Libs, I’m with you a lot, but you must grasp this: A real conservative wants world peace. They just don’t think you can force it. Humans are transformed from within (Christian conservatives would say redeemed by Christ). If change isn’t from within, it’s not going to last.

            I lost you!

            That’s it. For now. Just a little theoretical groundwork. And an admission: I’d identify myself as a moderate. Whatever that means.

            It means I think you’re all crazy.

            I barely remember this one teacher in high school. I’ll change her name. Lou-Anne Drag. Lou-Anne literally taught me nothing.

            Except this one thing.

            I attended this weird little church school in a creepy neighborhood with a mix of overqualified and underqualified teachers that resulted in, well, the proliferation of the conservative principle that one is personally responsible for one’s own welfare. Kids could sink or swim. Smart kids excelled. Dumb kids floundered. Actually, they disappeared—I’m not kidding—like harmless spiders disappearing into crack and crevices in the wall. Smart ones moved on to Stanford or small private colleges on the east coast. Dumb kids became unwed moms. Smart kids became scholars. Dumb kids sold drugs. I don’t know what happened to the average kids.

            I was a smart kid. I did okay.

            Lou-Anne Drag was not a good teacher. But still: I think about her.

            You’ve learned, of course, that all Christians are Republicans. (Trump taught you that for sure, yes?)

            People were talking about Jimmy Carter. The usual huffing and puffing, the usual disapproval. He was for abortion.

            Listen, I’m against abortion. That’s not the point.

            One kid said, “He’s not a Christian.”

            Lou-Anne Drag looked exasperated by the Christian dismissal. She liked Jimmy Carter (of whom I knew nothing except he was a peanut farmer). She said, under her breath, “You can’t say that. People believe things. We just don’t know . . .”

            And then she faded out.

            We never discussed it again. I did not become pro-choice. I did not embrace relativism (“well, it’s not right for me; it may be right for you”).

            But she had introduced something subtle. In Lou-Anne Drag’s obviously lefty ways, I got some messages. Jimmy Carter, Democrat, could very well be a Christian.

            It was this moment of munificent humanity. A generosity of spirit. Not relativism, but fallibility.

Christians are inconsistent.

That’s what I learned that day.

            So what does this moderate believe, politically speaking? I believe John Lennon had no clue what he was talking about. Humans will never get it right, ever ever. Unless—wait for it, Secular Friends—we undergo REDEMPTION. Wow. I’m tip-toeing around it because I never write like this. Yeah, I’m talking Jesus.

            That said, I offer caveats:

            I promise to never proselytize obnoxiously. I find it offensive and dumb.

            If you want to know about the Christians in the public arena who I admire most, I’d point to MLK, Marilynne Robinson, Bono, the late Johnny Cash, and good old Jimmy Carter. Yes, I think Bono can be a little obnoxious. So what? I can be too.

            I do not think the idea that personal responsibility implies that we let others sink or swim, pay for their own food or die starving, get straight As or buy cheap beer, take the right meds or die of disease is tenable in any Christian worldview. I think there’s this weird tension between operating as if certain principles were already in place and recognizing that we are far from the ideal. This is murky-sounding. I’ll talk more about this later, in terms of my marriage and the Church. Really personal stuff. Tim will kill me. Or will he?

            The current political situation has Christians acting all cut-throat, and I’ll compare it to a bad marriage.

            I’m weirded out by the evangelical embracing of Trump. I feel a little like I lost my, um, earthly home.

            My own political struggles do creep into my perspective and I should be forthright about them. I find liberation theology a little seductive. I’m confident in my anti-Trumpian ways. I struggle with guns. On this, I part ways with most people I love. I acknowledge that I might be wrong. But no one’s convinced me yet.

            And now I will tell you some stories.

            This is how I see it happening, chapter-by-chapter.

--The black doorman in my grandparents’ building in Chicago, and BBQ ribs at Don & Charlie’s (my childhood!)

--I’ll probably skip college in Tucson, except for a few comments on my earrings and the New York Times and the Amnesty International candlelight vigils and how I got my U2 reputation. Plus, I went to the Soviet Union. Oh, but I do need to talk about the frat party when I wore my MLK shirt! Introduction to Scott Hyder!

--My undergrad semester in Brooklyn, during which I met and got yelled at by Dr. Betty Shabazz, Malcolm X’s widow. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think she might’ve been cra-cra. During that semester, I also encountered my own racism. I insulted this black guy from Columbia University. And I witnessed a couple interesting things that happen when you’re a hot black woman, hanging with your white friends. Plus, I went to Bed-Stuy with this old black guy I was friends with. I say “old,” and he was probably the age I am now. Crap. He’s probably dead now. I guess a lot happened that semester.

----My Masters degree at NYU and how I knew I wasn't cut out for this ever and I tried to hit on a prof but it didn't work. Man, may I just tell you how much I SUCKED in political science grad school?????? (It warrants multiple question marks.) I’ll talk a little about game theory, which spelled disaster for me.

--My internship and first New York job at Amnesty International, which resulted in my novel. This beginning of my politics career was really the end of my politics career.

--Using the toilet in Trump Tower, and gambling at his casino in Atlantic City. Interestingly, I have found multiple references to Donald in my own PUBLISHED work that preceded his political career.

--I should probably write a little something about my work at the UN-centric NGO, but really the big thing is that I got fat and wrote a lot. I worked for a slimy guy (hit on interns), who was also a Cambodian refugee (he’d been in the US for a long time)—putting me in an awkward moral quandary: can I not like the refugee?

--My stint at The Council on Foreign Relations which involved a funny encounter with Newt Gingrich and giving Hillary Clinton Diet Cherry Coke. Newt watched me get in trouble. I was still fat, writing, illegally using the copy machine. 
--A “free lance,” real-ish job that took me to Communist China!
--My stint in Nelson Mandela's South Africa. I actually did write a book. Which you should go buy now.
--I went to Castro’s Cuba! With my mom!
--That time, early in our marriage, when Tim told me that if I loved Socialism so much, I should move to Canada; and I called him a racist. I called him a racist when we were standing in our old kitchen. He flipped out on me.

--My own political disengagement, which lasted for years. Interestingly, it paralleled a very bad time in my marriage and resulted in some very serious church upheaval. Do I think these are related? I do.

--Philando Castile. He gets a chapter.

--Taking my girls out of their private Christian school for the day to attend a Michelle Obama speaking engagement. I think I may need to address the pain part of all this. My own fall from grace and isolation. I put on a pretty good face and I’m a fighter, but I’ve sort of alienated myself, in all honesty.

--Election Day 2016 when Tim and I ate lunch from a taco truck to celebrate the inevitable loss of Trump, only to be completely stunned . . .
--U2 THEOLOGY. I mean, it runs through-out this narrative, but Laura Cerny-Ciaccio and I, thirty years later, are attending a U2 concert with my kids. Ironically, Laura is much more hippie-chick/grassroots than I. The girl has chickens! This book isn’t complete without some U2.

--There are a bunch of people I hope to talk to.

I will start with the pot, with the maracas and the music, the cat named Gandhi, the dog named Baba Ram Das, the Bob Dylan and Cat Stevens.

            I will write this for you, for me, for John Lennon. All we are saying is give peace a chance.