We meet outside my apartment at seven in the morning on a freezing cold Saturday. We're Facebook friends, but total strangers; three idealistic pilgrims on a quest to the faraway land of Iowa, that frigid empty wasteland that will decide our nation's next president.
As soon as we're on the highway, a sense of excitement permeates the car. We don't know each other, but we already know we have the most important thing in common: a passion for social and political change, a desire to be a part of what Bernie calls a political revolution.
It's funny; the whole trip, we refer to the man we're doing this all for, a man we've never met, by only his first name. Bernie. "Did you hear what Bernie said about institutional racism?" "My favorite thing about Bernie is his passion. He exudes passion without even trying." Like he's a mutual friend that introduced us all.
We realize somewhere along the way that's exactly what he is.
Somewhere around the great Mississippi River the conversation turns to Dr. Cornel West, an activist and professor who refers to himself as a "Revolutionary Christian." He's been out stumping for Bernie, and is another figure we all admire. We agree that he is a shining example of all Christianity can be.
Then we ask each other. "Are you religious at all? Spiritual?"
None of the answers are simple. I'm a progressive Christian struggling with what God means; he grew up in a Reform Jewish household and flirted with the Baha'i faith; she is a convert from Christianity to Islam.
Is there more to this than just our progressive politics? Is there something guiding us on our path? We agree that no one religion has a monopoly on God, faith, spirituality, enlightenment, or any other synonym for religious experience. That there's something common among our differing faiths, maybe even to all faiths.
Maybe there's something spiritual about the presidential campaign of U.S. Senator Bernie Sanders.
Michael talks about the spiritual joy of selfless service to others, and the genuineness of Bernie's smile. It makes sense to us. Crystal, hesitant at first to even reveal her faith, speaks of the damage that America has done to people of her faith all across the world, and the hope that under President Sanders, those wounds might begin to heal. That America may well become the country we all grew up thinking it was.
I'm quiet, but I think about Jesus. My hero. The man who went against the religious institutions of his day to heal the sick, regardless of their socio-religious standing (universal healthcare, anyone?) I think of his indictments of wealth and greed, of his good news to the poor. Of the distributive economic and social justice of his Kingdom of God.
When we arrive at Bernie's campaign office in Iowa City, the temperature is in the single digits and the office is bustling with more strangers. Some are old; many are young, like us. Smiles and hugs are abundant. Within moments, we've been drafted into the ranks of these Sanders soldiers, marching into the ice to knock on doors.
Most people ignore us, or aren't home. Some are rude, ordering us to get off of their property. A small few are enthusiastic to see us, inviting us in for a few moments to warm up, pledging to caucus for Bernie, thanking us for what we're doing. We find friendly faces even among the uninitiated; Democrats for Hillary and Republicans alike thank us for being involved, admire our bravery against the freezing temperatures, and listen to what we have to say. A few even promise to think it over.
When it gets too cold and dark to canvass, we return to the office. It feels like going home, and we're struck again by the community among these supporters, united by their desire to change the world, enabled by a disgruntled septuagenarian who managed to hold onto enough idealism for all of us. We sit down to eat together, strangers only in name, and again I'm reminded of Jesus and his open commensality. Then it's time to get to work making phone calls.
We leave the next day more energized than when we'd come, even though we hardly slept. We want to stay. We say goodbye to our new friends, promising to come back before the caucus if our lives allow. We tapped into something out in that cold, hustling for our dear brother Bernie Sanders and his message of love and hope.
Love for our fellow human beings, meaning the desire to see everyone succeed, everyone taken care of, everyone treated with the dignity our humanity entitles us to. Hope that political action can be enough, that our country isn't too far gone to take back. Hope that the vision of a world marked by economic and social justice, first preached by the prophets of ancient Israel, then fought and died for by Jesus of Nazareth, next articulated by Muhammad, and continually championed by heroes from all faiths all over the world, can and will be realized.
That vision of love and hope is older than, and will continue after, Bernie Sanders. But what Senator Sanders has done is give a voice to the politically disenfranchised and disenchanted all across America. Idealistic? Sure. Improbable? Maybe. But every great thing humanity has ever done was at one point improbable. Out in those cold Iowa streets, doors slamming in our faces, new friends at our sides, we felt anything was possible. That's because anything is possible.
A Christian, a Muslim, and a Jew go canvassing for Bernie Sanders. It's not a joke. It's a political and spiritual revolution.
