I was a fan (as much as one could be) of the disgraced South Carolina governor's initial public confession his marital infidelity. He rambled a bit, but he gave the impression of someone who knew he had sinned before God and his family.
But then he kept talking. First came the meeting with his cabinet where he compared himself to King David. Next, he told the AP that he'd also "crossed the line" -- but not "the sex line" -- with other women, and that although he believes his Argentine mistress was his "soul mate," he's "trying to fall back in love" with his wife. Now (h/t NRO) comes this, explaining why he decided not to leave office:
Immediately after all this unfolded last week I had thought I would resign — as I believe in the military model of leadership and when trust of any form is broken one lays down the sword. A long list of close friends have suggested otherwise - that for God to really work in my life I shouldn’t be getting off so lightly. While it would be personally easier to exit stage left, their point has been that my larger sin was the sin of pride. ...
Accordingly, [these friends] suggested that there was a very different life script that would be lived and learned by our boys, and thousands like them, if this story simply ended with scandal and then the end of office — versus a fall from grace and then renewal and rebuilding and growth in its aftermath.
Right: God is punishing me by making me be governor -- but think of all the kids I'll inspire! This is, first and foremost, a scary degree of narcissism for any public official -- but I wonder if there isn't something cultural going on as well.
What's fascinating here is the way Sanford -- a man, lest we forget, who was not weeks ago considered presidential material -- so seamlessly wraps his exhibitionist impulses in the language of Biblical Christianity.
Others have written far more eloquently about the dangers posed to American Christianity -- and perhaps American society -- by the sort of therapeutic, Oprah-fied deism marketed by folks like Joel Osteen. My read of Sanford is that he fits squarely in that tradition, updated for the age of Twitter. In other words, while many fallen public figures have likely convinced themselves with the same self-serving logic, Sanford is one of the first to do so under the cultural expectation -- real or imagined -- that he keep the public posted on it in real time.
For Christians, this should be seen as the ultimate mockery of the proud tradition of public personal testimony.
"Always be ready to give an explanation to anyone who asks you for a reason for your hope," urges St. Peter. For most, this takes the form of a story: this is what God has done in my life.
Nothing wrong with that. But anyone who's hung around evangelical circles long enough knows of instances where someone shares just a bit too much information, or rambles on a bit too long. Most of the time, of course, this happens due to excusable enthusiasm and in perfectly good faith. But it's also not hard to see the danger lurking, especially in today's therapeutic culture.
The temptation is always to set up one's testimony itself as a sort of idol; to substitute the self-referential cultivation of one's "faith journey" for the direct, fearsome worship of God.
This phenomenon has probably only been aggrivated by the arrival of Twitter-style instant self-broadcasting. Indeed, for us to talk about God's redemption at all anymore, it needs to come quick and easy.
Thus, Sanford compares himself to King David with Bathsheeba the day after he gets caught, proving once and for all that he doesn't understand the story. If there's one thing we learn from King David, it's that truly receiving God's forgiveness is a lengthy and painful process. I, for one, couldn't imagine what it must have been like to lose a child as God's direct punishment for my sin, and yet be able to sing, "Let the bones you have crushed rejoice."
There's a deep, deep mystery here that's more than a little unseemly to throw around so lightly. But you'd think, listening to Sanford, that whatever lessons God needs us to learn come in quick, 140-character sound bytes just in time for the next news cycle.
This is not to say that redemption doesn't happen, or that it can't one day make for an amazing testimony to God's faithfulness -- just that it comes, for anyone, at great cost. Some of us might even suffer the great indignity of not being seen as a role model for "thousands" of children.
"Work out your salvation in fear and trembling," says St. Paul. If he could see us today, he might add, "in private."
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