The Minneapolis skyline as seen from the Stone Arch Bridge. Courtesy | Unsplash
I grew up about three minutes from the stretch of road where Philando Castile, an African American man, was shot by a police officer at a traffic stop in 2016. I remember the lockdowns and the “mostly peaceful” Minneapolis riots of 2020. When I visit home, I’m greeted by rainbow flags, Ilhan Omar yard signs, and an endless array of public paraphernalia proudly displaying its owner’s political predilections. Minnesota Nice seems to have morphed into Minnesota Nasty.
Yet Minnesota is more than Minnesotan politics.
It’s easy for conservatives to shrug their shoulders and sigh about Minnesota, just as it’s easy to rile up a crowd about the draconian bureaucracy and astronomical cost of living in California. In retrospect, it’s obvious to the nation’s armchair policymakers that the only state that voted for Walter Mondale over Ronald Reagan in 1984 would be lit up by race riots and obstruction of federal officers in the 21st century.
It is true that we have our problems as a state. Amateur journalists and mantra-chanting activists believe their assaults on public order defend democracy against an imagined, impending Third Reich under President Donald Trump. X broadcasts their antics for the rest of the nation to see. Our disgraceful governor, Tim Walz, fraud scandals, and political theater lie exposed to the leering eyes of anyone who cares to turn on the television.
But the news cycle doesn’t define Minnesota. As happens so frequently, it loses sight of the quotidian, the mundane, and therefore truly noble. The news loves to talk about the sensational, the lurid, and the spectacular. The twin sins of impersonal curiosity and ignorant outrage drive our modern world, poor sinners that we are, and we mind not the hidden beauty of the commonplace.
If you blink, you’ll miss the small but faithful ecumenical community in West Side St. Paul caring for the impoverished. If you look away from stories about leftists storming churches, you’ll find the vibrant, devout parishes and churches serving Christ right where he has placed them. Look up from your cell phone, and you’ll be able to see my dear friend Phyllis, the little old lady who sits by herself at the Divine Service and nudges you to point out that the hymn was written in the 8th century (“How old! Can you believe it?”).
If you don’t live there, you wouldn’t have known Peter, an old gardener who loved trees and trashy detective novels. The news doesn’t portray the children who show up at public tennis courts during the summer to take free lessons just because they’re kids who like to run around.
I don’t worry about my home state. It’s not because I think sanity will return again now that Tampon Tim is leaving office (it won’t) or because the state is doing just fine (it’s not) or because I’ve given up all hope for the land of 10,000 lakes (I haven’t). It’s because — despite the alarms of the news — Minnesota simply isn’t special. It is, in the best way possible, merely ordinary.
The unrest will pass, the protestors will go inside and warm up from the cold, and we’ll probably elect another governor most charitably described as “cringe” and “unc.” So what? Minnesota hasn’t yet lost the ordinary, everyday faithfulness of the men and women who trust that Christ will not allow the gates of hell to prevail against his Church. Walz’s ills will never trump the quiet, heroic fidelity of someone like Phyllis.
Zachary Chen is a junior studying Greek and Latin.
