I Pray before I Vote
The Open and Relational Legislator
I Pray before I Vote
The Open and Relational Legislator
They told me I had to vote yes. That anything less than full-throated support would be seen as betrayal. I was reminded, more than once, of what was at stake: my committee seat, future endorsements, funding, visibility. In short, my career.
And I listened. I heard every warning, every veiled threat. I understand the logic of the party. I’ve benefited from its support. I believe in much of its platform. But I was not elected to obey a leader. I was elected to serve people.
And today, as I sit with this budget, I cannot ignore what I see. Provisions that neglect our poorest families. Cuts that wound education and environmental care. Priorities shaped more by power than compassion. I’m told to focus on the big picture—to trust that the tradeoffs are necessary. But what if the picture itself has lost its soul?
I believe in process, not just in politics but in philosophy. I believe that every moment offers us a fresh possibility—a better path, however narrow. Whitehead called it the initial aim—a lure from the depths of reality, calling us toward what is true, just, and beautiful in this specific moment. I feel that call now. It’s not loud, but it’s clear.
Yes, I’m afraid. Saying no may cost me more than votes. It may close doors I’ve worked hard to open. But what is a door worth if it leads me away from my conscience?
So I will vote no.
Not to defy my party. Not to grandstand. But to stand in truth.
I believe that politics must be more than survival. It must be, at its best, a moral practice—a form of public discernment, rooted in care. And if this vote ends my career, I will still have something worth keeping: the quiet assurance that I chose the better possibility.
And that, in this moment, is enough.
And I listened. I heard every warning, every veiled threat. I understand the logic of the party. I’ve benefited from its support. I believe in much of its platform. But I was not elected to obey a leader. I was elected to serve people.
And today, as I sit with this budget, I cannot ignore what I see. Provisions that neglect our poorest families. Cuts that wound education and environmental care. Priorities shaped more by power than compassion. I’m told to focus on the big picture—to trust that the tradeoffs are necessary. But what if the picture itself has lost its soul?
I believe in process, not just in politics but in philosophy. I believe that every moment offers us a fresh possibility—a better path, however narrow. Whitehead called it the initial aim—a lure from the depths of reality, calling us toward what is true, just, and beautiful in this specific moment. I feel that call now. It’s not loud, but it’s clear.
Yes, I’m afraid. Saying no may cost me more than votes. It may close doors I’ve worked hard to open. But what is a door worth if it leads me away from my conscience?
So I will vote no.
Not to defy my party. Not to grandstand. But to stand in truth.
I believe that politics must be more than survival. It must be, at its best, a moral practice—a form of public discernment, rooted in care. And if this vote ends my career, I will still have something worth keeping: the quiet assurance that I chose the better possibility.
And that, in this moment, is enough.
Pausing to Pray
As a process theologian, I appreciate and support legislators who pray before they vote.
In the process tradition, God is not a distant ruler issuing commands, but a divine presence within each moment—offering a quiet, inwardly felt lure toward truth, love, and beauty. This divine lure is not coercive. It does not override freedom. But it invites each person, including lawmakers, to respond to the best possibility available in a given situation.
Legislators who pause to pray before voting are not simply performing a ritual. At their best, they are opening themselves to deeper discernment. In the stillness of prayer, they do not ask, “What does my party demand?” or “What will preserve my seat?” but rather, “What is the most just, compassionate, and constructive path forward in this moment?” In such prayer, they may come closer to sensing the divine lure—not as a loud voice from above, but as a quiet prompting from within.
This kind of prayer does not always make the path easy or obvious. In fact, it may lead to hard choices—to standing against pressure, breaking ranks, or sacrificing personal advantage. But in process theology, faithfulness is not about external success; it is about fidelity to the better possibility, moment by moment. Legislators who pray in this way are practicing politics as a moral and spiritual vocation. They are not merely voting—they are participating in the creative transformation of society.
Even when they struggle or make mistakes, God remains with them, offering new possibilities in the next moment. The process never ends. There is always another chance to respond more fully, more courageously, more lovingly. That is the grace at the heart of process theology. And it is why prayer—in the life of a legislator—is not a sign of weakness, but of strength and hope.
- Jay McDaniel
In the process tradition, God is not a distant ruler issuing commands, but a divine presence within each moment—offering a quiet, inwardly felt lure toward truth, love, and beauty. This divine lure is not coercive. It does not override freedom. But it invites each person, including lawmakers, to respond to the best possibility available in a given situation.
Legislators who pause to pray before voting are not simply performing a ritual. At their best, they are opening themselves to deeper discernment. In the stillness of prayer, they do not ask, “What does my party demand?” or “What will preserve my seat?” but rather, “What is the most just, compassionate, and constructive path forward in this moment?” In such prayer, they may come closer to sensing the divine lure—not as a loud voice from above, but as a quiet prompting from within.
This kind of prayer does not always make the path easy or obvious. In fact, it may lead to hard choices—to standing against pressure, breaking ranks, or sacrificing personal advantage. But in process theology, faithfulness is not about external success; it is about fidelity to the better possibility, moment by moment. Legislators who pray in this way are practicing politics as a moral and spiritual vocation. They are not merely voting—they are participating in the creative transformation of society.
Even when they struggle or make mistakes, God remains with them, offering new possibilities in the next moment. The process never ends. There is always another chance to respond more fully, more courageously, more lovingly. That is the grace at the heart of process theology. And it is why prayer—in the life of a legislator—is not a sign of weakness, but of strength and hope.
- Jay McDaniel
Choosing the Better Possibility
In every moment, we face choices. The world offers many paths, and not all are good. Process philosophy reminds us that God is always offering us a better possibility—a path toward truth, kindness, courage, or creativity. But we must choose it. And sometimes, it takes real courage to do so. Standing by principle may mean saying “no” to pressure, dishonesty, or fear. But in saying “no,” we say a deeper “yes”—to who we are meant to be, and to what the world most needs.
In process philosophy, there is no static, universal rulebook that determines what is right in every situation. Instead, what is right is dynamic, contextual, and relational. It emerges from what Alfred North Whitehead calls the initial aim—a divine lure toward the best possibility available in any given moment. This best possibility does not come as a command, but as a quiet offering—an invitation to move toward truth, beauty, harmony, compassion, or creative intensity. To ask what is right is, in essence, to ask: “What response best honors the relationships at stake, brings about wholeness, and opens the future to greater value?”
We come to know what is right not simply through rules or abstract reasoning, but through a combination of emotional awareness, lived experience, and intuitive sensitivity. Process thought invites us to trust our moral imagination and our capacity for deep feeling. Often, the right path carries a sense of fittingness or moral clarity, even if it also brings sorrow or sacrifice. This is what Whitehead calls the “subjective form”—the emotional quality or tone that accompanies an act of becoming. The right option will often be marked by a feeling of alignment with something deeper than the self—a sense that we are participating in something true and real.
But discerning the right path is rarely simple. It requires spiritual and practical discernment—a process of tuning into what possibilities are actually present and which of those lures us toward greater integrity. The first step in discernment is often to pause and listen. We must create space for awareness to arise—for the divine aim to surface through stillness and attention. In the rush of daily life, this can be difficult, but without such pauses, we may miss the whisper of what is best.
In that space of listening, feelings become our guide—not mere emotional reactions, but deep-seated intuitions. We ask: What feels most life-giving? Which response grows from love, not fear? What would leave us with a deeper sense of integrity rather than regret? Feelings in process thought are not distractions from reason—they are our way of prehending reality, of grasping the significance of what is before us.
At the same time, we are not left to discern alone. Moral traditions, faith communities, wise friends, and ancestral voices can all help guide us. We ask: What do those I trust say? What have others before me discovered about this kind of moment? Process philosophy respects tradition not as rigid law, but as inherited wisdom—alive and evolving.
As we discern, we also imagine consequences. We look ahead and ask: What kind of future would this action make possible? Which path fosters more creativity, healing, or justice? Which might close doors or do harm? We also examine our motivations. Is this path born of ego, fear, resentment? Or of courage, generosity, and humility? The right option often costs something. It asks us to become more than we were. It stretches us toward the better version of ourselves.
And finally, we look for resonance. The right choice may not always bring peace in the worldly sense, but it often carries a deep internal clarity. We feel, in our bones, that we are moving in the direction of truth, even if the ground is shaking. That feeling is not infallible, but it is often trustworthy. It is the soul recognizing its own path.
Discernment, then, is a practice. Like music or art or love, we grow in it through experience. We do not always get it right. But process theology assures us that God offers fresh aims moment by moment. There are always new possibilities. The invitation to do what is right comes again and again, meeting us where we are and calling us toward who we might become.
- Jay McDaniel
Yes or No
"All you need to say is simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ anything beyond this comes from the evil one."
Matthew 5:37
This verse calls for moral clarity, honesty, and the courage to speak plainly. It is not just about brevity in speech but integrity in action. A clear yes or no reflects a heart aligned with truth.
Matthew 5:37
This verse calls for moral clarity, honesty, and the courage to speak plainly. It is not just about brevity in speech but integrity in action. A clear yes or no reflects a heart aligned with truth.