Why We Shy Away from Politics and Religion
In 2019, I had a hip replacement. My hospital roommate on the osteo recovery wing of the Jewish General Hospital was a woman named Esther Neumann, the wife of a rabbi from Boisbriand, Quebec and the mother of 13 children. Esther and her family are ultra-orthodox Hasidic Jews of the sect called Tash.
That first night after our surgery, the room began to fill up with Esther's children: eight girls and five boys, all conservatively dressed in black and white, carrying homemade cakes and cookies, and bearing musical instruments. They sang her to sleep, clucking over her safety, telling her how much they loved her. They left behind a dozen Tupperware containers to offset the hospital food. In hindsight, the offerings were infused with much more than poppy seeds, chocolate and sugar.
After they left, I had a code blue for extremely low blood pressure, and Esther suffered terrible leg pains. We nursed each other through the night, two women from vastly different worlds, united by shared vulnerability. The next night, the sibling parade happened a little earlier, and there were twice as many containers. I soon learned that half of the ten cakes were for me. Though the sons were not allowed to make eye contact with me, or drive cars until they were safely married, and many of the daughters could only find suitable husbands in faraway Brooklyn, Esther and I shared our personal stories of faith. It was an eye-opening moment of crossing an open gulf.
For the Neumann family, there is no physical contact (even a handshake) between men and women who are not immediate family members. The in-depth study of the Talmud and other religious texts is reserved for men. Women in the Tash sect of Hasidic Judaism are subject to strict interpretations of Jewish law, which define their roles and behavior based on traditional gender norms. While these restrictions may seem limiting, the practices are seen as part of their religious and cultural identity. Esther finds meaning in her role as mother, wife, and caretaker, and she views these responsibilities as a way of serving God.
After I had my second code blue, and was hooked up to an IV, Esther took off her bed jacket and made a little fabric bridge between our two beds so that we could hold hands through the night. Surely no arm of God’s wide reach would view that as a breach of religious custom.
This encounter reminded me that when we strip away the layers of identity—be they political, religious, or cultural—what remains is our shared humanity. Esther and I had little in common on the surface. She is deeply devout— previous to that night I would have said recklessly devout— surrounded by a large family steeped in centuries-old traditions, and out of step with modernity. I am a Catholic woman, living life as a writer with few restrictions in my personal and work life. Yet, in that hospital room, we saw each other not as representatives of our respective beliefs, but as human beings navigating pain, fear, and healing. I passed her my iPhone and showed her photos from my daughter’s Kennebunk wedding eight days earlier. She had never used a cellphone. What I learned from Esther is that the Tash sect is about love.
In an increasingly polarized world, conversations about politics and religion often feel like walking a tightrope—one misstep, and the balance is lost. People tend to avoid these topics, not necessarily out of ignorance or indifference, but because they know that delving in can easily ignite conflict. Yet, when we strip away the labels and look at the essence of humanity, we find that most of us want the same things: connection, understanding, and kindness. At the heart of it, the political and religious divides that seem so vast are obscuring this fundamental truth.
It’s easy to forget that beyond the political or ideological differences, we are all human beings seeking the same core needs. We long to feel seen, heard, and valued. We crave community, love, and safety for ourselves and our families. These are universal desires that transcend any political or religious alignment. Yet, somewhere along the way, we’ve allowed our differences to cloud the simple truth that we are inherently good, and that our basic nature is one of generosity, empathy, and neighborliness.
“When Andy Harrington arrived with a three-foot sunflower from his garden, it wasn’t just a flower—it was a symbol of neighborly care. In that simple act of sharing, he brought a bit of sunshine to brighten my day,” said Lisa Foster, my beach friend.
"Val and Bob Marier, beloved locals who live in Wells, have faced an annus horribilis, plagued by ongoing health crises. Recently, Val accidentally bumped into a woman with her grocery cart. Causing bodily harm to another person would have been one step too far. However, the woman, unfazed, smiled and pulled a paper butterfly from her pocket. 'Butterflies bring joy and luck during times of change,' she said. 'Take this.' With that, she continued her quiet mission as the Butterfly Lady, spreading joy from Kittery to Biddeford for the last eight years."
And did you know that in 2018, an anonymous donor in Augusta, Maine paid off $10,000 worth of layaway items at a Walmart store at Christmas time easing the financial burden of many families? When people struggle to afford basic needs, it highlights a universal challenge, regardless of political alignment.
Human beings are wired to be kind, and to seek connection. Whether we believe in one God, many gods, or none at all, whether we align ourselves with the blue team or the red team what drives us is the need to belong, to feel part of something greater than ourselves. When we strip away the rhetoric, the policies, and the posturing, we find that people—no matter their views—are just trying to make sense of a complex world. We all want to protect those we love. We all want a better future for ourselves and the generations that follow. These shared hopes and fears make us more alike than different, even when we see a pickup truck parked at Gooch’s Beach emblazoned with a political slur. I have seen that man hug his dog like his life depended on it. And those pre-dawn beachcombers scouring the sand for garbage before the sun crests over the Colony Hotel aren’t volunteering for an exclusive group.
It is often said that religion and politics divide people, but perhaps the real culprit is not the content of those beliefs, but the way we talk about them. Conversations about deeply held convictions can feel personal, triggering defensiveness or even aggression. When we speak from a place of fear, anger, or judgment, we lose sight of the humanity in the person across the table. The problem isn’t that we disagree—it’s how we disagree. In these moments, we lose the ability to listen, to connect, and to empathize.
We all have choices. The outcome of global conflicts or political battles may be out of our control, but the way we engage with others is entirely within our hands. We can choose to speak with kindness. We can choose to listen with curiosity rather than defensiveness. We can choose to focus not on what divides us, but on what unites us. These small, daily acts of compassion—the random acts of kindness, the moments of shared laughter, the times we hold space for another’s pain—are never dependent on whether we are red or blue, for Islam or for the Mormon Church.
Mary-Lou Boucouvalas showed empathy by opening the Graves’ Library one Sunday last summer to provide relief to people on a sweltering day that exceeded 100 degrees. Everyone was welcome.
Politics and religion are just frameworks through which we navigate the world. They are part of our identity, yes, but they are not the whole of who we are. What is more important is that we remember the essence of humanity that binds us together. The election is over. Whether we are pro-Israel or pro-Palestinian, Republican or Democrat, pro-life or pro-choice, we will still be human beings trying to make sense of the same world.
If you haven’t yet received a Ziploc bag of Sandy Janes’ warm chocolate chip cookies, it’s only because she hasn’t met you. Acts of kindness, like her cookies, are quiet reminders of the connections that transcend politics, religion, and cultural differences. As Rev. Susan Townsley of South Congregational noted, humans are inherently vocational—finding meaning in the everyday tasks that contribute to the greater good. She explained that hospital janitors felt more fulfilled when they saw themselves as creating a cleaner, safer environment for patients to heal, rather than simply sanitizing a toilet. Happiness multiplies when we embrace our calling, whether through sunflowers, paper butterflies, or poppy seeds. The small gestures we make, the connections we foster, remind us that we are all working toward the same goal: to love, to be loved, and to find purpose.
How can you play a part in building the bridge that unites us all, regardless of our differences?
Susan Doherty divides her time between Montreal and Kennebunk, Maine. She is the author of the recently released Monday Rent Boy.
