The Audacity of Hope

political, economic, and social as well as spiritual life; it understood in an intimate way
the biblical call to feed the hungry and clothe the naked and challenge powers and
principalities. In the history of these struggles, I was able to see faith as more than just a
comfort to the weary or a hedge against death; rather, it was an active, palpable agent in
the world. In the day-to-day work of the men and women I met in church each day, in
their ability to “make a way out of no way” and maintain hope and dignity in the direst
of circumstances, I could see the Word made manifest.
And perhaps it was out of this intimate knowledge of hardship, the grounding of faith in
struggle, that the historically black church offered me a second insight: that faith
doesn’t mean that you don’t have doubts, or that you relinquish your hold on this world.
Long before it became fashionable among television evangelists, the typical black
sermon freely acknowledged that all Christians (including the pastors) could expect to
still experience the same greed, resentment, lust, and anger that everyone else
experienced. The gospel songs, the happy feet, and the tears and shouts all spoke of a
release, an acknowledgment, and finally a channeling of those emotions. In the black
community, the lines between sinner and saved were more fluid; the sins of those who
came to church were not so different from the sins of those who didn’t, and so were as
likely to be talked about with humor as with condemnation. You needed to come to
church precisely because you were of this world, not apart from it; rich, poor, sinner,
saved, you needed to embrace Christ precisely because you had sins to wash away—
because you were human and needed an ally in your difficult journey, to make the peaks
and valleys smooth and render all those crooked paths straight.
It was because of these newfound understandings—that religious commitment did not
require me to suspend critical thinking, disengage from the battle for economic and
social justice, or otherwise retreat from the world that I knew and loved—that I was
finally able to walk down the aisle of Trinity United Church of Christ one day and be
baptized. It came about as a choice and not an epiphany; the questions I had did not
magically disappear. But kneeling beneath that cross on the South Side of Chicago, I
felt God’s spirit beckoning me. I submitted myself to His will, and dedicated myself to
discovering His truth.
DISCUSSIONS OF FAITH are rarely heavy-handed within the confines of the Senate.
No one is quizzed on his or her religious affiliation; I have rarely heard God’s name
invoked during debate on the floor. The Senate chaplain, Barry Black, is a wise and
worldly man, former chief of navy chaplains, an African American who grew up in one
of the toughest neighborhoods in Baltimore and carries out his limited duties—offering
the morning prayer, hosting voluntary Bible study sessions, providing spiritual
counseling to those who seek it—with a constant spirit of warmth and inclusiveness.
The Wednesday-morning prayer breakfast is entirely optional, bipartisan, and
ecumenical (Senator Norm Coleman, who is Jewish, is currently chief organizer on the
Republican side); those who choose to attend take turns selecting a passage from
Scripture and leading group discussion. Hearing the sincerity, openness, humility, and
good humor with which even the most overtly religious senators—men like Rick
Santorum, Sam Brownback, or Tom Coburn—share their personal faith journeys during
these breakfasts, one is tempted to assume that the impact of faith on politics is largely