Guest post: It’s not too late to remember who we are this election, Iowans

Something has changed in Iowa. But we can remember to love our neighbors again.

Pastor Kyle says, “Now turn to and extend the peace of Christ to your neighbor: ‘The peace of Christ be with you. And also, with you.’”

This moment—where congregants turn left and right and greet the person next to them—has always been my favorite part of church. Sometimes that person is your family member, sometimes they’re a stranger. But in that moment of uncertainty or familiarity, that profound gesture unlocks a pivotal message: Facing the unknown with grace. That extension of grace, that I learned in my home state of Iowa, is why I come back to it time and time again, no matter where I am in the world.

But today, something has changed in Iowa. I’ve felt that spirit change. This ramp-up to the election has seen a greater shift away from acceptance to one of less grace, and harsher rhetoric towards foreigners and people who look different. All of this aches my heart most viscerally. When did Iowa stop extending the peace of Christ to strangers?

I care because Iowa is a part of my DNA. My father got his PhD from the University of Iowa. Two of my brothers were born in Iowa City (one at U of I and the other at Mercy). My favorite outfit as a 6-year-old was an Iowa cheerleader outfit (too many layers for Senegal, where we were living at the time, but I didn’t care). After an illustrious career in the United Nations but a losing battle with cancer, my father’s last wish was for us to not move to Cameroon, but to America and live somewhere that would accept us with open arms. To my father, that was Iowa.

As a Black family, we stood out. And though we were the grandchildren of a well-known Presbyterian pastor in Cameroon, we went to Baptist churches when I was growing up. But it wasn’t until sitting in the fourth-row pew at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church that I was introduced to the passing of the peace. With the extended hands of the people passing the peace around and for us, my family found our people. We didn’t just come to Iowa—we became Iowans.

I tell people all the time: Iowa love is like their sweet corn. A bit hidden by the husk; but when you get a bite of it, you can’t get enough of it.

The kindness, humility, generosity, and deep community are as comforting as a Java House cinnamon roll. The laughter and sweaty bodies of RAGBRAI were the beats of my summer. Hiking through the Maquoketa Caves was how I learned true silence. Counting the stars at Camp Wyoming was how I would speak to my father’s spirit. Saving my coins for Dane’s ice cream was my manna.

My favorite job I’ve ever had was working at Whitey’s Ice Cream. Sandbagging my town to try to stop the Iowa River was frightening. My first kiss was behind a John Deere tractor. Streaking across the Coe College football field and then giving the commencement speech 14 years later was my bucket list come true.

Volunteering at the School of Public Health to provide care to migrant workers opened my eyes to a field in which I have thrived. Flying for over 36 hours directly back from Tanzania to Cedar Rapids solely to attend the 2017 Iowa vs. Penn State football game was absolutely nuts. Spending weekends in the Amana Colonies buying my favorite apple pie spice is how I became an excellent pastry chef. Bringing my son back to be baptized in Iowa City was the only way I knew how to thank Iowa for its acceptance and love of me.

I am from Cameroon, but I love being an Iowan.

The peace of Christ is not meant to be reserved for those we already know, or those who look like us. No. This is why our greatest commandment is to love our neighbor. Because loving our neighbor is the hardest thing to do, but the most essential. Especially when politicians are calling us to do the exact opposite: to hate, to reject, to fear our neighbor. This is the exact principle, the exact calling, the exact pull and ethos that welcomed my family and many others like mine into this state and made us feel like we belonged.

Iowans: We are better than this. The racist and xenophobic language seeping into our public and daily way of life isn’t just cruel—it threatens to permanently tear at the very fabric that has held our great state together. If we allow fear, division, and exclusion to take root, Iowa will become unrecognizable—it will lose the spirit of hospitality that made it home for so many of us.

It’s pushing away children who once came to this state with open arms, believing in the kindness of strangers and the promise of belonging. It’s breaking the trust that welcomed my family and so many others like us. If this continues, what kind of Iowa will be left for the next generation?

This election asks us to make a choice: Not just between candidates, but between the Iowa we want to be and the Iowa we are on the precipice of becoming. We must reject messages of hate, fear, and exclusion. These messages do more than divide us—they change us in ways we may never come back from. They erode the values that have held our communities together and push away those who came to build a life here.

Just as we turn to one another during the passing of the peace—offering our hands, sharing our names, and opening our hearts—so too must we turn to one another now through the ballot box. Especially when it’s hard. Especially when fear and division try to pull us apart.

This is the work we are called to do. May the peace and grace of Christ always be with you.

Dr. Jane Ebot-Bish is a demographer, data consultant, and proud Iowan. She’s also a certified career coach whose advice has been featured on the CW and New York Journal and a fellow with the Public Voices on Advancing the Rights of Women and Girls, a partnership between Equality Now and The OpEd Project. She can be reached at [email protected].