As my “founding friend” David French and I covered in a recent podcast, this has been an incredibly crazy summer for our nation. The American political landscape has been marked by an unprecedented series of ups and downs and rapid reversals of direction. Unlike many seasons where you could log off only to find most things unchanged upon your return, anyone who checked out during July or August returned to a totally altered landscape (“Wait, who was shot?! Who stepped down?! Who’s now on the ballot?!) and, as the election and its aftermath loom, it seems like the roller coaster ride is just continuing.

We need to, as they say, buckle up.

What do I mean by “buckle up”?

I don’t mean “brace for impact” or “make your voice heard” or even “VOTE!” Given the reality that our individual actions can only tilt the electoral outcome in infinitesimal ways (at best), it’s wise for us to ask how we can traverse this next season given what we already know about the turbulent terrain around us. 

In recent months, my personal spiritual journey has been shaped by a regular devotional reading of the Psalms. One recurrent type of Psalms is the “Psalms of Pilgrimage” which were originally meant to be sung and prayed by Israelites as they traveled to Jerusalem for religious festivals. The geographic terrain of their pilgrimage was the ancient version of a roller coaster: the route was marked by numerous sharp climbs on mountains and sudden descents into valleys. 

One such “Psalm of Pilgrimage” is Psalm 84. Pay particular attention to verses 5-7:

Blessed are those whose strength is in you,

in whose heart are the highways to Zion.

As they go through the Valley of Baca

they make it a place of springs;

the early rain also covers it with pools.

The descent into the “Valley of Baca” is the dramatic location for the travelers’ experience. The actual location of this valley is debated and not precisely known—some scholars believe Baca was “a gloomy, narrow valley where brackish water trickles out” while others also point to locations that were especially dry and barren. But whatever the precise geographic coordinates, the passage seems to convey a dramatic contrast between the observable terrain around them and how the pilgrims transform their experience of it: 

“As they go through the Valley of Baca, they make it a place of springs” (v. 6).

Put another way, while the terrain does not change and certainly remains difficult, the inner life of the pilgrims remakes the experience. While there may fall some “early rain” that mirrors this transformation, the important movement happens internally: “in whose heart are the highways to Zion” (v. 5). In other words, there is always a double journey: the tumultuous terrain in the world around us and a parallel highway to God in our hearts. 

These two journeys — the outer and the inner — are correlated but not identical. Most importantly: the inner journey takes precedence such that an experience of “brackish water” or barren landscape is made into “a place of springs.”

What does this double journey look like for us in the fall of 2024? 

First and foremost, I think it means that followers of Jesus must take special care to cultivate their inner lives. I can already feel in myself the temptation to fixate on the undulating movements of the latest polls, and how my inner anxieties and hopes quickly follow suit. I am reminded of Jesus’ teaching that what I take in with my eyes will shape the contours of my inner being (Matt. 6:22), which then raises the question: Where will my eyes go? Will the Gallup poll or the Psalms take precedence? Where will your eyes go?

Perhaps a practical step for us all to take is to map out a consumption plan for the fall. What will we read? Watch? Listen to? Whose voices will take precedence in our ears? How much of this consumption is likely to transform our experience of this challenging political valley into “a place of springs?” 

When the valley comes be mindful of when and how you descend. Ask yourself: “When and where am I most likely to addictively consume political news? Is it at night, right before I go to bed? Is it when I am feeling a bit bored and go to my smartphone for a stimulation hit?” At that point of descent, what is a spiritual move you can make to switch over to your internal “highway to Zion?” We all need a plan for this valley – and for finding our way out of it to the better highway. Otherwise, we run the risk of getting swayed here and there. Now is the time to buckle up. 

Anticipating grief

The “Valley of Baca” in Psalm 84 highlights a second call to prepare ourselves. Indeed, “Baca” in Hebrew is used for both the noun “balsam” and also the verb for “weeping.” The conjoined meaning stems from how a balsam tree oozes resin akin to people shedding tears. In the poetic usage of Psalm 84, the “Valley of Baca” can be read as the “Valley of Weeping.”

Weeping is what we do when we are confronted with a loss that triggers grief. And make no mistake: the election season of 2024 will result in a loss. By definition, an election means one side wins and the other side loses. On the night of November 5, 2024, loss will afflict roughly one-half of the country. You know these people. You likely live, work, eat, and play with these people. They are probably all around you. And this electoral loss — whichever side must suffer it — will feel emotionally devastating to some of them, and maybe to you, too. Some of us will literally be weeping as the results come in

What does it mean to anticipate this inevitable experience of grief? Your side may lose, leaving you in a state of lament and how you will prepare yourself for this possibility is one thing to consider. But here’s another: what happens if the other side loses? For many of you reading, you can already envision a sibling, parent, grandparent, co-worker, fellow church member who will be weeping in such a scenario. What will you do then? What is your role vis-à-vis these people you love?

In this situation, the Scriptures are clear about our obligation: none of us are meant to weep alone. The experience described by Psalm 84 and other psalms of lament is almost always a collective one and we are commanded to “weep with those who weep” (Rom. 12:15). Much like 2024 does not exempt us from loving our neighbor, Paul did not insert a footnote to this command that exempts us from weeping with “them” while we party on with “us”. 

How do we do it?

How will we be able to weep with someone on the other side if and when they lose? This is an incredibly difficult task and I have no formula or easy answer. But I do know this: the answer starts with asking the question now, well ahead of election night. How you relate to those people now will determine whether or not you’ll have enough standing then to be present to their grief. 

I also believe that whatever God-ordained pathway you discern and begin to travel will feel counter-cultural. It will feel a bit strange. But it starts by doing what so few do: simply talking with that person who disagrees with you now to acknowledge the inevitability that loss will be experienced by one of you, and to agree about how each of you would wish to be comforted if the grief happens to fall upon you. The other person may ultimately decide they want to be left alone (and so may you), but asking that question in the right spirit conveys a desire to prioritize relational care over partisan differences. Initiating such a conversation may feel strange at first, but I wonder what it could unlock.

Scripture is clear: we are not meant to weep alone. The “highway to Zion” is a wide and welcoming one. This spiritual journey is meant to transform the political valley that divides the winner from the loser. On this highway, we are created by God to be strapped to one another even across the divides. Let’s buckle up together and make this fall “a place of springs.”

Warmly,

Curtis