I was contacted a few weeks ago to serve as a volunteer “poll chaplain” — a non-partisan, non-anxious presence at a polling place on Election Day. The nonprofit that made the request hoped that such chaplains would deter hostile acts and possibly even de-escalate dangerous situations of voter intimidation.
The polls opened at 6:30 in the morning here in the Tarheel State. I was up even earlier. I walked the neighborhood and reflected on the bright moon shining over all of us — Democrats, Republicans, Americans, and everyone else in our hemisphere. As the moon faded, what would this day reveal?
The day was bright and sunny. As part of my poll chaplain uniform, I wore a clerical collar for the first time in my life. Over the course of the day, no one addressed me as Father, which was too bad because I had prepared a cheesy comeback — “Actually, my children call me ‘Dad.’”
Volunteers for the two major political parties huddled under separate tents beside yard signs for the candidates. The most striking difference was that only one group wore facemasks. I wore a white facemask — to match my new clerical collar — which I assumed identified me with one particular party in the minds of the other volunteers. So be it; it is fact that wearing a facemask is one of best practices to prevent the spread of the coronavirus. I lament that public health has become a partisan issue among divided camps.
To be true to my role as a non-partisan observer, however, I stood between the two tents and made an effort to talk to both sides. There was a lot of time to chat.
I knew that my county had the highest percentage of mailed ballots in the entire state. I was not prepared for the slow trickle of voters on Election Day. Despite the clearly marked entrance elementary school, several voters didn’t know where to go. One confessed, “I’m used to getting in a long line.”
Without a steady stream of voters, the volunteers and I did what you do when you find yourself waiting under a gorgeous Carolina blue sky — we made small talk. We also made connections. Someone’s son attended my alma mater. I’d visited someone’s home church in Pittsburgh. Someone else had attended my father’s church last Christmas Eve. Strangers became familiar, if not friendly.
Our conversation steered clear of politics, but we did talk religion, including the Heart Sutra — one of the most popular Buddhist meditation chants. I could recite the first few words from memory, which pleased a particular volunteer. An elderly woman told me about fishing in the local river, including the exact location of her “lucky spot.” I promised to try out that holy place with my kids. She smiled, “Wouldn’t it be nice to see you there? There’s plenty of fish to go around.”
To my knowledge there was nothing hostile or troublesome. I saw no signs of voter intimidation. Before I left, I posed for pictures at a social distance with volunteers from each tent.
Back home, I helped get the kids in bed and, before settling back to watch the election results, once again looked up at the moon. From childhood, many of us are taught to personify this distant, cold rock in space — the Man in the Moon. The real human faces are much closer, but I don’t always take the time to observe them, much less learn their names.
I can put names to the faces of volunteers I met at the polls: Betsy, Tom, Kim, George, Andrea, Noah, Johnny, Jana, and Ms. Betty, the fisherwoman. I couldn’t tell you the last time I’d spent a whole day hanging out with a group of people on both ends of the political spectrum.
I think of a verse from the poet Wendell Berry: I stand and wait for prayer / to come and find me here. Holy moments find us in human moments — a smile, a story, a small kindness that reminds us of what we share in common. What if there really is plenty of love to go around? As the Heart Sutra ends, Svaha — so be it.
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Photo: IStock
