Mit brennender Sorge

I wake up today with a feeling of deep foreboding, for today is the day on which — it seems likely — the Republican Party will be grievously wounded by surging Trumpism.  And the damage that will probably be done to American conservatism will be deep and lasting.

There is a chance that we’ll avoid these things, but the poll numbers aren’t encouraging.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve found the news almost unendurable.  Every time I turn on the radio or the television, I either hear the voice of Mr. Donald Trump or the voices of people talking about Mr. Donald Trump.  And the level of American political discussion has reached levels of crassness and superficiality that I haven’t seen before in any of my thirteen decades.

So I’ve been turning to other things.  A couple of weeks ago, for example, we attended a recital at BYU by the wonderful American soprano Renée Fleming.  We spent the weekend before last with friends at the Monterey Jazz Bash by the Bay and, last night, we attended a good performance by the Utah Opera of Verdi’s Aida.  I’m grateful for music.

Instead of my usual obsessive news-watching, I’ve been watching mysteries before going to bed and spending time with some classic novels that I’ve long wanted to read.

And now, most of all, I take comfort in the promises of Easter, in the triumph of a king whose kingdom is not of this world.  Politics is transitory; other things matter much more.  The permanent things.  The first things.  As much of what I passionately believe in, politically, seems poised to sustain its worst defeat since at least 1964, I remind myself that, ultimately, politics is not what matters most, not what will last the longest.  And that helps.