FAITH, RACE AND BARACK OBAMA[1]
  Jul 6th 2006
  From The Economist print edition 
http://www.economist.com/displaystory.cfm?story_id=7141808 
  There could be far more like him, if gerrymandering vanished
  HOW can Americans overcome their divisions? Barack Obama, the son of a lapsed 
Kenyan Muslim, has some arresting thoughts. On the subject of tackling head-on 
“the mutual suspicion that sometimes exists between religious America and 
secular America”, THE JUNIOR SENATOR FROM ILLINOIS DELIVERED LAST WEEK ONE OF 
THE BEST SPEECHES OF HIS BRIEF CAREER.[2] 
  He told the story of a doctor who wrote to him when he was running for the 
Senate in 2004. The doctor said he might vote for Mr Obama, but was repelled by 
a line on his campaign website promising to fight “right-wing ideologues who 
want to take away a woman’s right to choose”. The doctor wrote: “I sense that 
you have a strong sense of justice, [but] whatever your convictions, if you 
truly believe that those who oppose abortion are all ideologues driven by 
perverse desires to inflict suffering on women, then you, in my judgment, are 
not fair-minded.”
  Mr Obama says he “felt a pang of shame”. The offending words, which he called 
“standard Democratic boilerplate language”, had been posted on his website by 
campaign staffers. He had them changed; not because he had changed his mind 
about abortion, but because he wanted to “extend the same presumption of good 
faith to others that the doctor had extended to me”. 
  Concerning the proper role of religion in politics, Mr Obama cautions against 
extremism of both stripes. Believers cannot abandon what they believe; but in a 
nation that includes Christians, Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists and 
non-believers, “democracy demands that the religiously motivated translate 
their concerns into universal, rather than religion-specific, values.” Even if 
all Americans were Christian, it would not be easy to decide which passages of 
scripture should guide public policy. “Should we go with Leviticus, which 
suggests slavery is OK and that eating shellfish is abomination?” he asks. “Or 
should we just stick to the Sermon on the Mount—a passage that is so radical 
that it’s doubtful that our own Defence Department would survive its 
application?” His elegantly non-committal answer: “Before we get carried away, 
let’s read our Bibles.”
  For someone so inexperienced, and whose policies are so ill-defined, Mr Obama 
is extraordinarily popular. He is only 44, but people are already begging him 
to run for president. Something about him fills a gap in American politics: he 
seems not to be faking when he talks of mending America’s religious and racial 
divides. He is that rare thing, a black politician who addresses the whole 
nation, not just an ethnic enclave. 
  That this is rare is tragic. It is also virtually inevitable, given the way 
the electoral system works. As a senator, Mr Obama is accountable to an entire 
state’s voters. But every other black member of Congress sits in the House of 
Representatives, where most represent gerrymandered [3] majority-black 
districts. Unlike Mr Obama, they need not bother appealing to whites. They need 
not worry about the ideological centre ground, either; since no Republican can 
win a majority-black district, the crucial contest is the Democratic primary, 
in which only the most passionate Democrats vote.
  Racial gerrymandering has two effects. First, and most conspicuously, it 
allows some crummy candidates to win by prodding racial sore spots. Cynthia 
McKinney, for example, a congresswoman from Georgia, seems to believe that 
every misfortune that befalls her or America is somehow rooted in racism. When 
she was reproached for punching a policeman in March, the real issue, she said, 
was that he was a racist for not recognising her. Had he realised her rank, he 
would not have stopped her as she strode past him. Ms McKinney is also known 
for her interest in conspiracy theories about the murders of Martin Luther King 
and the rapper Tupac Shakur, and about President George Bush’s supposed 
foreknowledge of the attacks of September 11th 2001. That last enthusiasm cost 
her her seat in 2002, a misfortune her father blamed on the Jews. But she won 
it back in 2004. 
  The second effect of racial gerrymandering is less obvious, but more 
important. Most members of the congressional black caucus are fine politicians. 
But the process by which they are chosen practically guarantees that they 
cluster near one pole of American politics, to the left of most Democrats and 
indeed most blacks. This makes them less influential than they should be, even 
when Democrats control the House. And they find the House a rotten launching 
pad for higher office, because running in a 60% black district is poor 
preparation for a statewide campaign. Mr Obama is the only black senator, and 
there are no black governors. 
  Why polarisers prevail
  Fans of racial gerrymandering argue that the Voting Rights Act of 1965 
requires it. This is not obvious from the text, but bureaucrats and judges have 
read it that way. Fretting that racially separate voting districts depend on 
the “demeaning assumption that voters of a particular race...think alike,” the 
Supreme Court has occasionally struck down the most contorted gerrymanders 
(including, in 1995, the first district in Georgia to elect Ms McKinney). But 
most pass muster, and the civil-rights establishment is zealous in their 
defence. There was a big hoo-hah two weeks ago when House Republicans postponed 
a vote to renew for another 25 years certain emergency provisions of the Voting 
Rights Act—provisions that had originally been due to expire in 1970. This was 
wrongly portrayed as a reluctance to renew the act itself, which is permanent. 
  The right of black Americans to vote is no longer up for debate. 
Unfortunately, there is not much debate about gerrymandering either. Incumbents 
like picking their voters, whether they are black, white, Republican or 
Democratic. The practice may help polarise America along racial, religious and 
political lines, but it also helps them keep their jobs. 
  Copyright © The Economist Newspaper Limited 2006.
  =====================================================================
  ‘CALL TO RENEWAL’ KEYNOTE ADDRESS
  Wednesday, June 28, 2006
  Washington, DC
  Good morning. I appreciate the opportunity to speak here at the Call to 
Renewal’s Building a Covenant for a New America conference. I’ve had the 
opportunity to take a look at your Covenant for a New America. It is filled 
with outstanding policies and prescriptions for much of what ails this country. 
So I’d like to congratulate you all on the thoughtful presentations you’ve 
given so far about poverty and justice in America, and for putting fire under 
the feet of the political leadership here in Washington.
  But today I’d like to talk about the connection between religion and politics 
and perhaps offer some thoughts about how we can sort through some of the often 
bitter arguments that we’ve been seeing over the last several years. 
  I do so because, as you all know, we can affirm the importance of poverty in 
the Bible; and we can raise up and pass out this Covenant for a New America. We 
can talk to the press, and we can discuss the religious call to address poverty 
and environmental stewardship all we want, but it won’t have an impact unless 
we tackle head-on the mutual suspicion that sometimes exists between religious 
America and secular America.
  I want to give you an example that I think illustrates this fact. As some of 
you know, during the 2004 U.S. Senate General Election I ran against a 
gentleman named Alan Keyes. Mr. Keyes is well-versed in the Jerry Falwell-Pat 
Robertson style of rhetoric that often labels progressives as both immoral and 
godless.
  Indeed, Mr. Keyes announced towards the end of the campaign that, “Jesus 
Christ would not vote for Barack Obama. Christ would not vote for Barack Obama 
because Barack Obama has behaved in a way that it is inconceivable for Christ 
to have behaved.” 
  Jesus Christ would not vote for Barack Obama.
  Now, I was urged by some of my liberal supporters not to take this statement 
seriously, to essentially ignore it. To them, Mr. Keyes was an extremist, and 
his arguments not worth entertaining. And since at the time, I was up 40 points 
in the polls, it probably wasn’t a bad piece of strategic advice.
  But what they didn’t understand, however, was that I had to take Mr. Keyes 
seriously, for he claimed to speak for my religion, and my God. He claimed 
knowledge of certain truths. 
  Mr. Obama says he’s a Christian, he was saying, and yet he supports a 
lifestyle that the Bible calls an abomination.
  Mr. Obama says he’s a Christian, but supports the destruction of innocent and 
sacred life.
  And so what would my supporters have me say? How should I respond? Should I 
say that a literalist reading of the Bible was folly? Should I say that Mr. 
Keyes, who is a Roman Catholic, should ignore the teachings of the Pope? 
  Unwilling to go there, I answered with what has come to be the typically 
liberal response in such debates - namely, I said that we live in a pluralistic 
society, that I can’t impose my own religious views on another, that I was 
running to be the U.S. Senator of Illinois and not the Minister of Illinois. 
  But Mr. Keyes’s implicit accusation that I was not a true Christian nagged at 
me, and I was also aware that my answer did not adequately address the role my 
faith has in guiding my own values and my own beliefs.
  Now, my dilemma was by no means unique. In a way, it reflected the broader 
debate we’ve been having in this country for the last thirty years over the 
role of religion in politics. 
  For some time now, there has been plenty of talk among pundits and pollsters 
that the political divide in this country has fallen sharply along religious 
lines. Indeed, the single biggest “gap” in party affiliation among white 
Americans today is not between men and women, or those who reside in so-called 
Red States and those who reside in Blue, but between those who attend church 
regularly and those who don’t.
  Conservative leaders have been all too happy to exploit this gap, 
consistently reminding evangelical Christians that Democrats disrespect their 
values and dislike their Church, while suggesting to the rest of the country 
that religious Americans care only about issues like abortion and gay marriage; 
school prayer and intelligent design. 
  Democrats, for the most part, have taken the bait. At best, we may try to 
avoid the conversation about religious values altogether, fearful of offending 
anyone and claiming that - regardless of our personal beliefs - constitutional 
principles tie our hands. At worst, there are some liberals who dismiss 
religion in the public square as inherently irrational or intolerant, insisting 
on a caricature of religious Americans that paints them as fanatical, or 
thinking that the very word “Christian” describes one’s political opponents, 
not people of faith. 
  Now, such strategies of avoidance may work for progressives when our opponent 
is Alan Keyes. But over the long haul, I think we make a mistake when we fail 
to acknowledge the power of faith in people’s lives—in the lives of the 
American people—and I think it’s time that we join a serious debate about how 
to reconcile faith with our modern, pluralistic democracy.
  And if we’re going to do that then we first need to understand that Americans 
are a religious people. 90 percent of us believe in God, 70 percent affiliate 
themselves with an organized religion, 38 percent call themselves committed 
Christians, and substantially more people in America believe in angels than 
they do in evolution.
  This religious tendency is not simply the result of successful marketing by 
skilled preachers or the draw of popular mega-churches. In fact, it speaks to a 
hunger that’s deeper than that - a hunger that goes beyond any particular issue 
or cause. 
  Each day, it seems, thousands of Americans are going about their daily rounds 
- dropping off the kids at school, driving to the office, flying to a business 
meeting, shopping at the mall, trying to stay on their diets - and they’re 
coming to the realization that something is missing. They are deciding that 
their work, their possessions, their diversions, their sheer busyness, is not 
enough. 
  They want a sense of purpose, a narrative arc to their lives. They’re looking 
to relieve a chronic loneliness, a feeling supported by a recent study that 
shows Americans have fewer close friends and confidants than ever before. And 
so they need an assurance that somebody out there cares about them, is 
listening to them - that they are not just destined to travel down that long 
highway towards nothingness. 
  And I speak with some experience on this matter. I was not raised in a 
particularly religious household, as undoubtedly many in the audience were. My 
father, who returned to Kenya when I was just two, was born Muslim but as an 
adult became an atheist. My mother, whose parents were non-practicing Baptists 
and Methodists, was probably one of the most spiritual and kindest people I’ve 
ever known, but grew up with a healthy skepticism of organized religion 
herself. As a consequence, so did I. 
  It wasn’t until after college, when I went to Chicago to work as a community 
organizer for a group of Christian churches, that I confronted my own spiritual 
dilemma. 
  I was working with churches, and the Christians who I worked with recognized 
themselves in me. They saw that I knew their Book and that I shared their 
values and sang their songs. But they sensed that a part of me that remained 
removed, detached, that I was an observer in their midst. 
  And in time, I came to realize that something was missing as well—that 
without a vessel for my beliefs, without a commitment to a particular community 
of faith, at some level I would always remain apart, and alone. 
  And if it weren’t for the particular attributes of the historically black 
church, I may have accepted this fate. But as the months passed in Chicago, I 
found myself drawn - not just to work with the church, but to be in the church. 
  For one thing, I believed and still believe in the power of the 
African-American religious tradition to spur social change, a power made real 
by some of the leaders here today. Because of its past, the black church 
understands in an intimate way the Biblical call to feed the hungry and cloth 
the naked and challenge powers and principalities. And in its historical 
struggles for freedom and the rights of man, I was able to see faith as more 
than just a comfort to the weary or a hedge against death, but rather as an 
active, palpable agent in the world. As a source of hope. 
  And perhaps it was out of this intimate knowledge of hardship—the grounding 
of faith in struggle—that the church offered me a second insight, one that I 
think is important to emphasize today.
  Faith doesn’t mean that you don’t have doubts. 
  You need to come to church in the first place precisely because you are first 
of this world, not apart from it. You need to embrace Christ precisely because 
you have sins to wash away - because you are human and need an ally in this 
difficult journey.
  It was because of these newfound understandings that I was finally able to 
walk down the aisle of Trinity United Church of Christ on 95th Street in the 
Southside of Chicago one day and affirm my Christian faith. It came about as a 
choice, and not an epiphany. I didn’t fall out in church. The questions I had 
didn’t magically disappear. But kneeling beneath that cross on the South Side, 
I felt that I heard God’s spirit beckoning me. I submitted myself to His will, 
and dedicated myself to discovering His truth.
  That’s a path that has been shared by millions upon millions of Americans - 
evangelicals, Catholics, Protestants, Jews and Muslims alike; some since birth, 
others at certain turning points in their lives. It is not something they set 
apart from the rest of their beliefs and values. In fact, it is often what 
drives their beliefs and their values. 
  And that is why that, if we truly hope to speak to people where they’re at - 
to communicate our hopes and values in a way that’s relevant to their own - 
then as progressives, we cannot abandon the field of religious discourse. 
  Because when we ignore the debate about what it means to be a good Christian 
or Muslim or Jew; when we discuss religion only in the negative sense of where 
or how it should not be practiced, rather than in the positive sense of what it 
tells us about our obligations towards one another; when we shy away from 
religious venues and religious broadcasts because we assume that we will be 
unwelcome - others will fill the vacuum, those with the most insular views of 
faith, or those who cynically use religion to justify partisan ends. 
  In other words, if we don’t reach out to evangelical Christians and other 
religious Americans and tell them what we stand for, then the Jerry Falwells 
and Pat Robertsons and Alan Keyeses will continue to hold sway.
  More fundamentally, the discomfort of some progressives with any hint of 
religion has often prevented us from effectively addressing issues in moral 
terms. Some of the problem here is rhetorical - if we scrub language of all 
religious content, we forfeit the imagery and terminology through which 
millions of Americans understand both their personal morality and social 
justice. 
  Imagine Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address without reference to “the 
judgments of the Lord.” Or King’s I Have a Dream speech without references to 
“all of God’s children.” Their summoning of a higher truth helped inspire what 
had seemed impossible, and move the nation to embrace a common destiny. 
  Our failure as progressives to tap into the moral underpinnings of the nation 
is not just rhetorical, though. Our fear of getting “preachy” may also lead us 
to discount the role that values and culture play in some of our most urgent 
social problems.
  After all, the problems of poverty and racism, the uninsured and the 
unemployed, are not simply technical problems in search of the perfect ten 
point plan. They are rooted in both societal indifference and individual 
callousness - in the imperfections of man.
  Solving these problems will require changes in government policy, but it will 
also require changes in hearts and a change in minds. I believe in keeping guns 
out of our inner cities, and that our leaders must say so in the face of the 
gun manufacturers’ lobby - but I also believe that when a gang-banger shoots 
indiscriminately into a crowd because he feels somebody disrespected him, we’ve 
got a moral problem. There’s a hole in that young man’s heart - a hole that the 
government alone cannot fix.
  I believe in vigorous enforcement of our non-discrimination laws. But I also 
believe that a transformation of conscience and a genuine commitment to 
diversity on the part of the nation’s CEOs could bring about quicker results 
than a battalion of lawyers. They have more lawyers than us anyway.
  I think that we should put more of our tax dollars into educating poor girls 
and boys. I think that the work that Marian Wright Edelman has done all her 
life is absolutely how we should prioritize our resources in the wealthiest 
nation on earth. I also think that we should give them the information about 
contraception that can prevent unwanted pregnancies, lower abortion rates, and 
help assure that that every child is loved and cherished. 
  But, you know, my Bible tells me that if we train a child in the way he 
should go, when he is old he will not turn from it. So I think faith and 
guidance can help fortify a young woman’s sense of self, a young man’s sense of 
responsibility, and a sense of reverence that all young people should have for 
the act of sexual intimacy. 
  I am not suggesting that every progressive suddenly latch on to religious 
terminology - that can be dangerous. Nothing is more transparent than 
inauthentic expressions of faith. As Jim has mentioned, some politicians come 
and clap—off rhythm—to the choir. We don’t need that. 
  In fact, because I do not believe that religious people have a monopoly on 
morality, I would rather have someone who is grounded in morality and ethics, 
and who is also secular, affirm their morality and ethics and values without 
pretending that they’re something they’re not. They don’t need to do that. None 
of us need to do that.
  But what I am suggesting is this - secularists are wrong when they ask 
believers to leave their religion at the door before entering into the public 
square. Frederick Douglas, Abraham Lincoln, Williams Jennings Bryant, Dorothy 
Day, Martin Luther King - indeed, the majority of great reformers in American 
history - were not only motivated by faith, but repeatedly used religious 
language to argue for their cause. So to say that men and women should not 
inject their “personal morality” into public policy debates is a practical 
absurdity. Our law is by definition a codification of morality, much of it 
grounded in the Judeo-Christian tradition.
  Moreover, if we progressives shed some of these biases, we might recognize 
some overlapping values that both religious and secular people share when it 
comes to the moral and material direction of our country. We might recognize 
that the call to sacrifice on behalf of the next generation, the need to think 
in terms of “thou” and not just “I,” resonates in religious congregations all 
across the country. And we might realize that we have the ability to reach out 
to the evangelical community and engage millions of religious Americans in the 
larger project of American renewal.
  Some of this is already beginning to happen. Pastors, friends of mine like 
Rick Warren and T.D. Jakes are wielding their enormous influences to confront 
AIDS, Third World debt relief, and the genocide in Darfur. Religious thinkers 
and activists like our good friend Jim Wallis and Tony Campolo are lifting up 
the Biblical injunction to help the poor as a means of mobilizing Christians 
against budget cuts to social programs and growing inequality. 
  And by the way, we need Christians on Capitol Hill, Jews on Capitol Hill and 
Muslims on Capitol Hill talking about the estate tax. When you’ve got an estate 
tax debate that proposes a trillion dollars being taken out of social programs 
to go to a handful of folks who don’t need and weren’t even asking for it, you 
know that we need an injection of morality in our political debate.
  Across the country, individual churches like my own and your own are 
sponsoring day care programs, building senior centers, helping ex-offenders 
reclaim their lives, and rebuilding our gulf coast in the aftermath of 
Hurricane Katrina.
  So the question is, how do we build on these still-tentative partnerships 
between religious and secular people of good will? It’s going to take more 
work, a lot more work than we’ve done so far. The tensions and the suspicions 
on each side of the religious divide will have to be squarely addressed. And 
each side will need to accept some ground rules for collaboration.
  While I’ve already laid out some of the work that progressive leaders need to 
do, I want to talk a little bit about what conservative leaders need to do—some 
truths they need to acknowledge. 
  For one, they need to understand the critical role that the separation of 
church and state has played in preserving not only our democracy, but the 
robustness of our religious practice. Folks tend to forget that during our 
founding, it wasn’t the atheists or the civil libertarians who were the most 
effective champions of the First Amendment. It was the persecuted minorities, 
it was Baptists like John Leland who didn’t want the established churches to 
impose their views on folks who were getting happy out in the fields and 
teaching the scripture to slaves. It was the forbearers of the evangelicals who 
were the most adamant about not mingling government with religious, because 
they did not want state-sponsored religion hindering their ability to practice 
their faith as they understood it.
  Moreover, given the increasing diversity of America’s population, the dangers 
of sectarianism have never been greater. Whatever we once were, we are no 
longer just a Christian nation; we are also a Jewish nation, a Muslim nation, a 
Buddhist nation, a Hindu nation, and a nation of nonbelievers.
  And even if we did have only Christians in our midst, if we expelled every 
non-Christian from the United States of America, whose Christianity would we 
teach in the schools? Would we go with James Dobson’s, or Al Sharpton’s? Which 
passages of Scripture should guide our public policy? Should we go with 
Leviticus, which suggests slavery is ok and that eating shellfish is 
abomination? How about Deuteronomy, which suggests stoning your child if he 
strays from the faith? Or should we just stick to the Sermon on the Mount - a 
passage that is so radical that it’s doubtful that our own Defense Department 
would survive its application? So before we get carried away, let’s read our 
bibles. Folks haven’t been reading their bibles. 
  This brings me to my second point. Democracy demands that the religiously 
motivated translate their concerns into universal, rather than 
religion-specific, values. It requires that their proposals be subject to 
argument, and amenable to reason. I may be opposed to abortion for religious 
reasons, but if I seek to pass a law banning the practice, I cannot simply 
point to the teachings of my church or evoke God’s will. I have to explain why 
abortion violates some principle that is accessible to people of all faiths, 
including those with no faith at all. 
  Now this is going to be difficult for some who believe in the inerrancy of 
the Bible, as many evangelicals do. But in a pluralistic democracy, we have no 
choice. Politics depends on our ability to persuade each other of common aims 
based on a common reality. It involves the compromise, the art of what’s 
possible. At some fundamental level, religion does not allow for compromise. 
It’s the art of the impossible. If God has spoken, then followers are expected 
to live up to God’s edicts, regardless of the consequences. To base one’s life 
on such uncompromising commitments may be sublime, but to base our policy 
making on such commitments would be a dangerous thing. And if you doubt that, 
let me give you an example.
  We all know the story of Abraham and Isaac. Abraham is ordered by God to 
offer up his only son, and without argument, he takes Isaac to the mountaintop, 
binds him to an altar, and raises his knife, prepared to act as God has 
commanded.
  Of course, in the end God sends down an angel to intercede at the very last 
minute, and Abraham passes God’s test of devotion. 
  But it’s fair to say that if any of us leaving this church saw Abraham on a 
roof of a building raising his knife, we would, at the very least, call the 
police and expect the Department of Children and Family Services to take Isaac 
away from Abraham. We would do so because we do not hear what Abraham hears, do 
not see what Abraham sees, true as those experiences may be. So the best we can 
do is act in accordance with those things that we all see, and that we all 
hear, be it common laws or basic reason. 
  Finally, any reconciliation between faith and democratic pluralism requires 
some sense of proportion.
  This goes for both sides. 
  Even those who claim the Bible’s inerrancy make distinctions between 
Scriptural edicts, sensing that some passages - the Ten Commandments, say, or a 
belief in Christ’s divinity - are central to Christian faith, while others are 
more culturally specific and may be modified to accommodate modern life. 
  The American people intuitively understand this, which is why the majority of 
Catholics practice birth control and some of those opposed to gay marriage 
nevertheless are opposed to a Constitutional amendment to ban it. Religious 
leadership need not accept such wisdom in counseling their flocks, but they 
should recognize this wisdom in their politics.
  But a sense of proportion should also guide those who police the boundaries 
between church and state. Not every mention of God in public is a breach to the 
wall of separation - context matters. It is doubtful that children reciting the 
Pledge of Allegiance feel oppressed or brainwashed as a consequence of 
muttering the phrase “under God.” I didn’t. Having voluntary student prayer 
groups use school property to meet should not be a threat, any more than its 
use by the High School Republicans should threaten Democrats. And one can 
envision certain faith-based programs - targeting ex-offenders or substance 
abusers - that offer a uniquely powerful way of solving problems.
  So we all have some work to do here. But I am hopeful that we can bridge the 
gaps that exist and overcome the prejudices each of us bring to this debate. 
And I have faith that millions of believing Americans want that to happen. No 
matter how religious they may or may not be, people are tired of seeing faith 
used as a tool of attack. They don’t want faith used to belittle or to divide. 
They’re tired of hearing folks deliver more screed than sermon. Because in the 
end, that’s not how they think about faith in their own lives. 
  So let me end with just one other interaction I had during my campaign. A few 
days after I won the Democratic nomination in my U.S. Senate race, I received 
an email from a doctor at the University of Chicago Medical School that said 
the following:
  “Congratulations on your overwhelming and inspiring primary win. I was happy 
to vote for you, and I will tell you that I am seriously considering voting for 
you in the general election. I write to express my concerns that may, in the 
end, prevent me from supporting you.”
  The doctor described himself as a Christian who understood his commitments to 
be “totalizing.” His faith led him to a strong opposition to abortion and gay 
marriage, although he said that his faith also led him to question the idolatry 
of the free market and quick resort to militarism that seemed to characterize 
much of the Republican agenda.
  But the reason the doctor was considering not voting for me was not simply my 
position on abortion. Rather, he had read an entry that my campaign had posted 
on my website, which suggested that I would fight “right-wing ideologues who 
want to take away a woman’s right to choose.” The doctor went on to write:
  “I sense that you have a strong sense of justice...and I also sense that you 
are a fair minded person with a high regard for reason...Whatever your 
convictions, if you truly believe that those who oppose abortion are all 
ideologues driven by perverse desires to inflict suffering on women, then you, 
in my judgment, are not fair-minded....You know that we enter times that are 
fraught with possibilities for good and for harm, times when we are struggling 
to make sense of a common polity in the context of plurality, when we are 
unsure of what grounds we have for making any claims that involve others...I do 
not ask at this point that you oppose abortion, only that you speak about this 
issue in fair-minded words.”
  Fair-minded words.
  So I looked at my website and found the offending words. In fairness to them, 
my staff had written them using standard Democratic boilerplate language to 
summarize my pro-choice position during the Democratic primary, at a time when 
some of my opponents were questioning my commitment to protect Roe v. Wade. 
  Re-reading the doctor’s letter, though, I felt a pang of shame. It is people 
like him who are looking for a deeper, fuller conversation about religion in 
this country. They may not change their positions, but they are willing to 
listen and learn from those who are willing to speak in fair-minded words. 
Those who know of the central and awesome place that God holds in the lives of 
so many, and who refuse to treat faith as simply another political issue with 
which to score points.
   
  So I wrote back to the doctor, and I thanked him for his advice. The next 
day, I circulated the email to my staff and changed the language on my website 
to state in clear but simple terms my pro-choice position. And that night, 
before I went to bed, I said a prayer of my own - a prayer that I might extend 
the same presumption of good faith to others that the doctor had extended to 
me. 
  And that night, before I went to bed I said a prayer of my own. It’s a prayer 
I think I share with a lot of Americans. A hope that we can live with one 
another in a way that reconciles the beliefs of each with the good of all. It’s 
a prayer worth praying, and a conversation worth having in this country in the 
months and years to come. Thank you.
  
  
---------------------------------
      [1] Barack Obama was born on August 4th, 1961, in Hawaii to Barack Obama, 
Sr. and Ann Dunham. Obama graduated from Columbia University in 1983, and moved 
to Chicago in 1985 to work for a church-based group seeking to improve living 
conditions in poor neighborhoods plagued with crime and high unemployment. In 
1991, Obama graduated from Harvard Law School where he was the first African 
American editor of the Harvard Law Review. Sworn into office January 4, 2005, 
Senator Obama is focused on promoting economic growth and bringing good paying 
jobs to Illinois.

    [2] Original speech: ‘Call to Renewal’ Keynote Address 
(http://obama.senate.gov/speech/060628-call_to_renewal_keynote_address/index.html,
 attached below).

    [3] Gerrymandering is a controversial form of redistricting in which 
electoral district or constituency boundaries are manipulated for an electoral 
advantage. The word "gerrymander" is named for the American politician Elbridge 
Gerry (July 17, 1744 – November 23, 1814)[1], and is a portmanteau of his name 
and the word "salamander," which was used to describe the appearance of a 
tortuous electoral district Gerry created in order to disadvantage his 
electoral opponents. "Gerrymander" is used both as a verb meaning "to commit 
gerrymandering" as well as a noun describing the resulting electoral geography. 
Ideally, it is pronounced with a hard G, as with Elbridge Gerry's actual name, 
but ignorance of this has made the "jerry" pronunciation common.
   
  Gerrymandering may be used to advantage or disadvantage particular 
constituents, such as members of a racial, linguistic, religious or class 
group, often in the favor of ruling incumbents or a specific political party. 
Although all electoral systems which use multiple districts as a basis for 
determining representation are susceptible to gerrymandering to various 
degrees, governments using single winner voting systems are the most 
vulnerable. Most notably, gerrymandering is particularly effective in 
nonproportional systems that tend towards fewer parties, such as first past the 
post.



                
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