“Christ, have mercy,” Ohio Senator JD Vance exclaimed after learning that the teenage son of his debate opponent, Minnesota Governor Tim Walz, had personally witnessed a shooting incident at a community recreation center. In a debate notable mostly for not being notable, that brief moment of mutual parental humanity was one of several moments of unexpected concord between the two vice presidential candidates, one a Lutheran and the other a recent convert to Catholicism.
While hearing any kind of political leader offer an authentic “faith adjacent” expression these days is cause for parochial cheering by some and autonomic condemnation by others, Catholics in the audience may not have been as startled by Senator Vance’s emphatic, sympathetic invocation of the second response of the Kyrie eleison.
To my cradle Catholic lips, the first line of the Kyrie, “Lord, have mercy,” comes more comfortably in such moments of shock or distress. But that’s me. Perhaps somewhere along the journey Mr. Vance took to find his way to the church, “Christ, have mercy” became his go-to for such moments.
The intent and impact is the same, a short prayer offered in concern that has the double benefit of preventing what we have all been taught to avoid since childhood: “swearing” or deploying the name of the Lord in vain.
Catholics have come up with a wonderful variety of expressions in such times of expressive need that rush right up to the edge of that commandment and, let’s not kid ourselves, pretty much fall right over it. My New York Irish sotto vocce follows generations of familial usage: “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”
Some will add a “saint” before Joseph. “Sweet Jesus,” “Holy Mary mother of God,” “Good grief,” “Judas Priest,” “Cheese and crackers” and a variety of other colorful substitutes are all part of that tradition. My colleague at America, Robert David Sullivan, tells me these are known as “minced oaths,” sharing a favorite from Vermont: “Jeezum Crow.”
Of course Twitter being Twitter (sorry, X being X), that’s not how many others heard Mr. Vance’s eleisionary moment.
“Nauseating sanctimony,” one grumphed.
Another called it “the fakest moment of the night.”
Lord, have mercy, we could be kinder to each other, I guess.
Some doubted the governor’s anecdote altogether, given his apparent eagerness not to let bare facts get in the way of a good story (a defect, if it be, of my own as well). Others doubted the sincerity of the senator, not without reason, given his track record on gun control.
“Vance said, ‘Christ, have mercy’ regarding gun violence while he is unwilling to advocate for common sense gun laws. This is not pro-life. This is not Christ’s mercy, it’s you doing nothing,” one Xer said.
“‘Christ, have mercy’ but also let’s make sure we do nothing to prevent it from happening again,” another commented.
One X wag added: “Thankfully this is American politics so after this moment we will continue to yell past and at each other.”
It is surely right and just for Mr. Vance to be so appalled by this example of the kind of gun violence that regularly haunts our schools, supermarkets and streets. A father like Mr. Walz, he was properly aghast at the notion of someone that close to him being so endangered and traumatized. But aren’t all these teens and children subjected to this violence also his—and our—children?
I hope he will remember that moment when the time comes again, as it surely will, to take a cold hard look at the gun policies that are needlessly propelling this national rampage. By Sept. 30, this year 12,812 people had died because of gun violence in the United States, and 24,592 had been injured. Every day gun violence takes 47 lives.
Since 2020, guns have surpassed car accidents to become the leading cause of death for teens and children in the United States; 877 children between 12 and 17 have died so far in 2024 because of guns.
Christ, have mercy on us.
