What Concession Speeches Say About Politicians’ Souls — and Our Own

“What will she say?” I pondered at dawn, distraught. It’s far worse than 2016. The U.S. saw clearly who Donald Trump is. And chose him.

Concession speeches can reveal a glimpse of a politician’s soul, a rare look behind a curated facade. All they have poured their life into, with boundless ambition, hope, and relentless energy, has been lost. They are laid bare, vulnerable. And their words now don’t have to be calculated or pretested by a focus group.

The late singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen said, “There is a crack, a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in.” When a politician faces a devastating loss, the question is whether this will let in any light. Will they search their own soul? And will they say anything to give others a glimpse into their deeper self, which has been so carefully protected through continually curated words, ads, and photo opportunities? Even more, can they bear the pain of others who are crushed by the  loss? 

Vice President Kamala Harris, in her concession speech Wednesday afternoon, shared that her allegiance, and ours, is not to a president, but to the Constitution, to conscience, and to God. Her heart reached out particularly to young people who had been filled with hope by her candidacy, assuring them that conceding an election does not mean conceding the fight for the future they wished to build. “Sometimes the fight takes a while,” she said. “That doesn’t mean we won’t win.” She wanted to acknowledge the pain of those who voted for her but also lift them out of despair. Light fell not on her private grief, but on her public solidarity.

Before Trump contaminated political rhetoric with his vile toxicity, bipartisan grace notes could be heard in earlier concession speeches. When Barack Obama defeated John McCain and became the first African American president, McCain said, “We both recognize that though we have come a long way from the old injustices that once stained our nation’s reputation and denied some Americans the full blessings of American citizenship, the memory of them still had the power to wound.” He continued, “Senator Obama has achieved a great thing for himself and for his country. I applaud him for it.”

When Jimmy Carter lost his reelection bid to Ronald Reagan, he turned to his faith, affirming his underlying gratitude to God: “God has been good to me, and God has been good to this country, and I’m truly thankful.”

Hillary Clinton’s Christian faith, which was rarely highlighted by her campaign handlers, shown through when she quoted scripture in her 2016 concession speech: “You know, scripture tells us, ‘Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season, we shall reap if we do not lose heart.’ So my friends, let us have faith in each other. Let us not grow weary, let us not lose heart. For there are more seasons to come and there is more work to do.” Those lines weren’t penned by a political consultant.

But sometimes the shadow parts of a politician erupt in the devastating experience of defeat. In 1962, Richard Nixon lost a bruising battle for the governorship of California to Pat Brown. Enmity dominated his unscripted remarks to the press: “But as I leave you, I want you to know — just think how much you’re going to be missing. You won’t have Nixon to kick around anymore.” It was a snapshot of the acrimonious and resentful side of Nixon’s true self, which was more fully revealed in the Watergate scandal.

Perhaps the most irrefutable evidence of Trump’s narcissistic, defensive ego came not from any concession speech but from his refusal to give one in 2020. The 2024 election was not about making America great again; it was about making Donald Trump great again. Had Harris won, we would not have heard any hint of concession, much less grace. As in so many other cases, Trump has destroyed the implicit norms upholding the fragile bonds of trust in democracy, which transcend personal ambition or partisan success. The self we have seen revealed careens between enmity and vain glory.

But a question confronts my soul. Can I concede this election? Can I admit to myself that this country is as broken, insecure, and xenophobic as the election results convey?

Enmity within me obscures flickers of grace. I feel that the land of my birth has been taken hostage by a vengeful tyrant who relied on bigotry, hatred, and fear to regain power. And the American church, which has nurtured my faith since childhood, and whose ministry I have tried to serve, has failed the most basic test of public discipleship, with a majority of Christians giving their first allegiance to a new caesar rather than to a loving God. What can prompt my concession? Where can light find any cracks to break through the dross covering my soul? 

I’m beckoned, intuitively, to the communion table, to the Eucharist. That’s where Jesus embraced a path that threatened danger, betrayal, and death, by washing the feet of his friends and placing an uncertain future into the hands of God. I yearn to remember this story — the story that has shaped God’s people and, hopefully, has molded my true self. It’s the story of how a liberating love keeps reaching out to gather a wayward, weary people with an inclusive embrace. It’s the story of how this same redeeming love becomes embodied fully in Jesus. And how his life demonstrates that evil finally succumbs to love when it is poured out, sacrificially, in trusting relinquishment. This life-saving love conveys the power to overcome evil, sin, and death, in all its private and public forms.

There is hope: This world belongs to God. And God invites us to participate in this ongoing, holy love story. To partake in this life, having love embodied within us, a real presence, transforming simple things into sacred gifts. And to share this life with others, around a common, welcoming table. 

We will need bread for the journey ahead. Like the manna falling daily at dawn in the wilderness. The faithful, gathered people of God will now be facing a journey through a new political wilderness. And we have no earthly idea of how, or when, we will see a promised land. It might be 40 years instead of four. A cacophony of conflicting narratives try to win our allegiance and tell us our story. That’s why the memory of who we are, and whose we are, becomes imperative. Conceding this election, for me, means facing reality and then remembering this story, making it my story.

So, we shall gather together, in the memory and presence of Jesus, celebrating in the wilderness the feast of life, given to all. The bread and wine, a love broken and poured out, shared among community, will sustain us in joining God’s work of healing this world. This is my story. And I’m sticking to it.