“Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Senator Chris Coons of Delaware reached for the words of Psalm 30 as he reflected on the results of the midterm elections. In Kansas, newly elected Senator Adam Hamilton, a United Methodist pastor, invoked the parable of the Good Samaritan and its call to love our neighbors as ourselves. And in Michigan, Abdul El-Sayed, the first Muslim elected to the United States Senate, invited his supporters to turn Inshallah, “God willing,” into Alhamdulillah, “Praise be to God.”
These were among the many expressions of religious conviction woven into election-night speeches across the country. They were more than ceremonial acknowledgments of faith or expressions of personal gratitude. They represented something increasingly rare in our political discourse: leaders drawing openly upon religious traditions to invoke a larger communal vision and to articulate their sense of calling to public service, their commitments to community, and their understanding of the dignity of every human being.
The midterm elections have generated considerable analysis about the strength of our democratic processes, the shifting political landscape, and the issues that motivated voters. Much of that analysis has focused, understandably, on affordability, economic inequality, and the growing pain experienced by individuals and families struggling to make ends meet.
But something larger was also at stake. These elections raised fundamental questions about the kind of nation we aspire to become, the rights and responsibilities we hold toward one another, and the moral commitments necessary to sustain a democratic society.
And they may have opened an important opportunity to reclaim the place of faith in our public discourse.
For much of the last decade, progressive political movements have struggled to speak both critically and appreciatively about religion. Understandably concerned about the ways religious language has been employed to justify discrimination, exclusion, and the restriction of rights, many progressive politicians have become reluctant, or simply unable, to articulate the positive contributions of religious traditions to our shared political life.
That reluctance has created a vacuum.
Into that vacuum have stepped movements that seek to define the relationship between religion and public life primarily through nationalism, whether Christian nationalism or other forms of religious nationalism. In the process, the public understanding of faith has become increasingly associated with the defense of boundaries, the assertion of particular identities, and the preservation of power.
Yet the religious traditions that have shaped our nation offer a far richer and more complex moral vocabulary. They contain powerful calls to hospitality, compassion, justice, mutual responsibility, and solidarity. They invite us to acknowledge both the beauty and potential of our nation and its profound shortcomings. They remind us that our obligations extend beyond those who share our identities, convictions, or interests.
These are not exclusively religious values. But they are deeply religious practices, cultivated over generations through communities of faith, sacred texts, rituals, and traditions of moral reflection.
To surrender this language is to abandon one of the most powerful resources available for rebuilding our common life.
There is also an important challenge here for progressive movements themselves.
Over the last decade, we have witnessed both the necessity and the limitations of identity politics. The insistence that the experiences of historically marginalized communities be recognized has been essential to advancing justice. Movements for racial equity, gender equality, LGBTQ+ rights, immigrant justice, and the recognition of other historically excluded communities have expanded our understanding of whose lives, voices, and experiences matter.
These gains must not be diminished or abandoned.
Yet identity alone cannot provide the foundation for a shared political future. When political commitments become organized primarily around the protection or advancement of particular communities, we risk losing the capacity to articulate a larger vision of the whole society. We may become increasingly skilled at naming our differences while losing the language necessary to describe our interdependence.
The challenge is not to move beyond identity by erasing difference, but to move through our particular identities toward solidarity.
That requires recognizing that the dignity of each community is inseparable from the dignity of all. It means understanding that justice for one group cannot be sustained in a society that tolerates the systematic dehumanization of another. And it requires a moral imagination capable of holding together both the particularity of our experiences and the universality of our shared humanity.
Religious traditions, at their best, offer precisely such a framework.
Consider the Good Samaritan. The power of the parable is not simply its encouragement to be kind. It is the way Jesus disrupts the boundaries through which people define who deserves their concern. The Samaritan, an outsider in the eyes of the original audience, becomes the embodiment of neighborly responsibility.
Rev. Hamilton referenced Martin Luther King Jr.’s sermons on the Good Samaritan, where King pointed out that the religious leaders were concerned about what would happen to them if they helped, while the unexpected Samaritan asked instead what would happen to the man by the side of the road if he did not help.
The question is not simply, “Who is my neighbor?” It becomes, “To whom am I willing to become a neighbor?”
That is a profoundly political question.
It asks us to consider not only what might happen to me if I take action, but what will happen to another if I do not. It transforms solidarity from a sentiment into an obligation, and human dignity from a political ideal into a sacred commitment.
The results of an election, however consequential, cannot accomplish this transformation on their own.
As several candidates acknowledged in their acceptance speeches, election night represents only one moment. The more demanding work lies ahead.
That work will unfold not only in legislative chambers and government offices, but in neighborhoods, community organizations, board rooms, union halls, and the basements of churches. It will take shape in the response to growing hunger, the defense of newcomers and those seeking refuge, and the mobilization of communities confronting powerful economic interests and widening inequality.
Faith communities have a particular responsibility in this work, not because they possess exclusive access to moral truth, but because they have long cultivated practices of gathering, organizing, caring, grieving, and imagining possibilities beyond the present.
At Pacific School of Religion, we have increasingly described our work as contributing to the regeneration of an ecosystem. An ecosystem does not renew itself simply by preserving existing structures. Even as some forms break down, their elements can nourish the emergence of new life. Renewal requires recognizing what must be released, what must be preserved, and what new relationships can make possible.
Our democratic life may be entering a similar moment.
Political analysts will understandably interpret the midterms through the familiar metaphor of a pendulum swinging between competing visions of government and society. But a pendulum eventually swings back. If we are to build something more enduring, we must attend to the relationships, institutions, and covenantal commitments that sustain communities beyond any particular election cycle.
We must learn again how to reach across differences, cultivate trust, and recognize the humanity of those with whom we disagree. This does not require abandoning convictions or overlooking injustice. Rather, it requires the difficult spiritual discipline of holding our commitments firmly while remaining open to the possibility of relationship and transformation.
And it requires acknowledging that there is still weeping in the night.
For many, the losses of recent years have been profound. Rights have been threatened, institutions weakened, relationships fractured, and trust eroded. An election does not erase those experiences, nor should the celebration of political victories diminish the grief of those who continue to suffer.
But the promise of joy in the morning is not that our troubles have suddenly disappeared. It is that we may find renewed courage to face them together.
Perhaps this is the opportunity before us: to reclaim a public language of faith and conviction that honors our differences while calling us into a larger solidarity.
The commitments of diversity, equity, and inclusion must remain central to that vision. But DEI cannot be reduced to institutional policies, political slogans, or competing claims for recognition. At its deepest, it is a moral and spiritual commitment to the dignity of every human being, the equitable sharing of our common life, and the creation of communities in which everyone truly belongs.
The strength of our diversity depends upon our capacity for solidarity. And the strength of our solidarity depends upon our willingness to honor our diversity.
The morning after the election offers an opportunity. What we build together in the days ahead will determine whether that opportunity becomes lasting renewal.
