News broke recently that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has signed a long-term lease for office space in downtown Columbia, South Carolina.

A decision that has reportedly caught city officials off guard, sparking debate about its procedural and political implications.

While I am not interested in the procedural or political calculus of such decisions, I am interested in the theological work of helping people of faith interpret moments like this.

Because for Christians, our conclusions about border policy, detention protocols, or federal authority are never merely pragmatic. They are downstream from our theological convictions about those whom Scripture calls “strangers.”

First, let’s define it.

A stranger is a socially vulnerable outsider, often ethnically, culturally, or politically displaced.

That definition matters because America has long been shaped by two competing narratives of national identity, each carrying its own implicit theology and moral vision of belonging.

One tells a story of refuge, opportunity, and possibility.

The other tells a story of protection, preservation, and purity.

At its best, that first story is the true American Dream.

At its worst, that second story is American exceptionalism, a distorted theology of chosenness popularized within the white evangelical movement, based on the belief that prosperity proves moral superiority and divine preference.

And when that distortion takes root, it turns strangers into suspects.

But such a posture is at odds with the biblical witness, which consistently presents God as attentive to and often identified with the socially vulnerable outsider.

In the Torah, Yahweh commands:

“The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.”

Leviticus 19:34 NIV

Here we see God connecting mercy to memory by reminding them that they were once the vulnerable ones and that their faithfulness to Him would be measured not merely by the vows they made, but by how they treated the vulnerable among them.

Over and over again, the Old Testament pairs three groups together: the widow, the orphan, and the foreigner, and Yahweh makes clear that injustice toward them is not merely a social issue; it’s a spiritual one.

When we turn to Jesus in the New Testament, the pattern intensifies.

When asked to define “neighbor” in Luke 10, a question that one could argue was posed in a prejudiced manner, Jesus responds not with a definition, but with a parable in which a Samaritan, an ethnically despised outsider, becomes the moral exemplar.

And then Jesus goes even further.

In Matthew 25, He self-identifies not with the powerful, but with the hungry, the prisoner, and the stranger:

The Greek term used here, xenos, shares its linguistic root with the word xenophobia, literally meaning “fear of the foreigner.”

The kingdom of God is, among other things, the slow dismantling of xenophobia.

Scripture, therefore, resists any attempt to define “neighbor” narrowly or to collapse moral responsibility into national proximity.

Now, before I go, let me address the political elephant in the room.

Some might read this and assume I am advocating for “open borders.”

I am not.

As Christians, we can affirm the need for policy, process, and lawful systems, but we cannot allow our moral imagination to be discipled by national fear.

As Rev. Dr. Elizabeth Arnold writes:

“Seeing the stranger as an enemy and working toward keeping them away is incompatible with the teachings of the New Testament. For those who claim the Bible’s teachings to be authoritative, the New Testament’s unified command to treat the stranger hospitably should be the lens used in considering matters around immigration.”

Policy may define jurisdiction, but it must not define compassion.

The law may regulate entry, but it must not regulate mercy.

Ancient Echoes is a repost of a piece I wrote a year ago. I’m sharing it again because the moment has caught up with the message.

Some words don’t expire; they echo.

Happy Reading!

Some things never change.

I know that sounds provocative coming from a guy in the business of change, as both a pastor and coach, but hear me out.

I’m not saying they can’t change. I’m saying they don’t.

Not at the deepest level.

At the core of history, despite the shifts in culture and technology, the fundamental realities of human existence remain the same.

To quote the wise man, “There’s nothing new under the sun.”

Think about it.

If you sat down with anyone from ancient history, what would they say about the world we live in now? Sure, they might not recognize our technology, but they’d recognize our struggles: the pursuit of power, the loss of moral clarity, and the longing for something transcendent.

This is why history repeats itself. Not because time is a loop but because humans remain stubbornly predictable. Look across history, and you’ll find three cycles that show up again and again:

1. Empire & Decay

2. Moral Drift

3. Technological Advancement & Amnesia

Let’s take a closer look.

1. Empire & Decay

History is full of empires that seemed invincible until they weren’t.

Egypt ruled for centuries, only to be overtaken by the Assyrians.

Assyria fell to Babylon.

Babylon fell to Persia.

Persia fell to Greece.

Greece fell to Rome.

[insert Jesus’ lifetime]

The pattern is always the same. Civilizations expand, accumulate wealth, reach their golden age, and then collapse from the inside.

Rome is a classic example.

The most powerful empire the world had ever seen. At its peak, it controlled much of the known world. It had advanced infrastructure, a powerful military, and a legal system that shaped the West. But it reeked of political, economic, and moral corruption by the time it fell.

And the people didn’t see it coming.

The emperors lived in luxury while the people were pacified with panem et circenses, bread and circuses.

Keep them fed. Keep them distracted.

Sound familiar?

No, America isn’t Rome. But it’s naive to think we aren’t following a similar trajectory.

We are the most powerful nation in the world, yet deeply divided.

We have 24/7 entertainment, yet depression and loneliness are skyrocketing.

The great lie of every empire is that it will last forever.

The truth of history is that none of them do.

2. Moral Drift

In the Old Testament, a cycle that beautifully summarizes the human condition plays out repeatedly.

It goes like this:

Faithfulness: The people follow God.

Comfort: They get comfortable.

Drift: They start making compromises.

Disaster: Everything falls apart.

Repentance & Restoration: They cry out to God, and He restores them.

Repeat

This isn’t just an Israelite problem.

In the early days of Rome, it valued discipline, self-sacrifice, and civic virtue. But as they grew wealthy, they grew corrupt, abandoning the things that had once made them strong, and within a few centuries, the empire was gone.

Plato saw this pattern coming long before Rome fell. He warned:

"The excess of liberty, whether in states or individuals, seems to only pass into the excess of slavery.”

To quote the prophetic words of Christopher Wallace, “mo money, mo problems.”

Moral drift doesn’t happen overnight. It’s slow. Subtle.

America is teetering.

We live in a time when “everyone is doing as they see fit.”

Truth is no longer fixed. Morality is no longer shared.

We see it in racism that refuses to die, sexism that keeps reinventing itself, and injustice that hides behind progress.

We’ve seen empires collapse under the weight of their own contradictions.

Rome declared peace while crushing dissent.

America declares equality while injustice lingers in its systems.

When a society is in moral drift, it doesn’t just decline. It unravels.

Will we look up one day and find our empire gone?

3. Technological Advancement & Amnesia

One of the most overlooked dangers of progress is that the more advanced we become, the easier it is to forget what matters.

Take the Tower of Babel. Humanity came together to build something unprecedented, a tower to the heavens. It was technological progress and architectural genius.

But the deeper issue?

They weren’t building to glorify God.

They were building to glorify themselves.

And in their pursuit of greatness, they lost their way.

Take the Industrial Revolution, for example. It led to massive economic growth, life-saving medical advancements, and global connectivity. But it also dehumanized workers, disrupted family rhythms, and turned people into machines in the name of productivity.

Now, we’re in the Digital Revolution. We have:

More information than any generation before us, but less wisdom.

More access to Scripture than the early church could have dreamed of, but less time reading it.

More ways to connect than ever, but are less connected.

Aristotle warned about this centuries ago:

“Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all.”

We have access to endless knowledge. But without formation as an anchor for our souls, we’re just building another Tower of Babel.

Don’t mishear me; technology isn’t evil.

But it’s dangerous when it becomes an end instead of a means.

If history teaches us anything, it’s that these cycles will continue.

Unless we choose another way.

That’s the invitation of Jesus, not to escape history but to learn from it. Not to follow the cycles but to break them.

Here are three things we can do:

Live as if the Kingdom of God is more real than any empire.

“But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well” -Jesus.

Anchor ourselves in truth when the world is drifting

“To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, ‘If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.’” -Jesus.

Build our lives on something stronger than technology, culture, or progress.

“Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock.” -Jesus.

The question isn’t whether history will repeat itself.

The question is, will we wake up before it does?

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is remembered as a giant in history and rightfully so.

His words were etched into our moral imagination, and his courage helped shape the course of justice in America and around the world.

And yet, every year, especially on this day, the same question resurfaces:

What do we do with his humanity, and does it somehow discredit his legacy?

Before we dive into that, let’s keep it a buck about how we got here.

It would be naïve to treat this renewed fixation on King’s humanity as accidental or merely academic.

This is a concerted effort, particularly by those in power, to demonize King to diminish his legacy.

When a prophetic voice proves inconvenient, the strategy is rarely to engage the message on its own terms. Instead, the messenger is reframed, their complexity weaponized, and their humanity turned into scandal.

But, don’t be fooled, the aim is not historical clarity but moral erosion.

The idea is that if the man can be reduced to his vices, we can ignore his vision.

Unfortunately, this is not new. Power has always sought to domesticate prophets first by silencing them, and later by reshaping how they are remembered.

However, King remains a threat even in death because his message lives on.

His insistence on nonviolent resistance, economic justice, and the inherent dignity of every human being continues to interrogate our modern systems, still built on inequality and fear.

That is why the battle over his legacy matters.

A softened King, a compromised King, is far easier to celebrate with platitudes and holiday quotes than a King who still demands repentance, restructuring, and repair.

Back to my initial question:

What do we do with his humanity, and does it somehow discredit his legacy?

I don’t think so.

But, hear me out.

There is a deep temptation, especially in a cynical age, to believe that moral authority requires moral perfection.

However, Scripture tells a different story.

“We have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.” — 2 Corinthians 4:7 (NIV)

The Christian story has never been built on spotless heroes.

Abraham lied.

Moses murdered.

David abused power.

Peter denied.

Paul persecuted.

And still, God advanced redemption through their lives.

Not because their flaws were insignificant but because God’s purposes were more important.

That remains true of King.

What those in power fail to realize is that their plan to highlight King’s humanity doesn’t dishonor him. It places him where he always stood: not above history, but within it. Not as a messiah, but as a messenger. Not as perfection incarnate, but as a man who bore the weight of his moment with courage, conviction, and cost.

The civil rights movement did not require a flawless leader; it required a faithful one.

To honor King is not to canonize him.

By canonize, I mean we do not need to pretend he was more than human.

The power has never been in the vessel.

The power has always been in the treasure it carries.

Before I go, in the spirit of calling a thing a thing: to focus exclusively on King’s humanity without honor isn’t discernment; it’s deflection.

But perhaps that is the hope behind the criticism:

To keep us so busy debating the man that we never have to deal with the message.

A few days ago, a church skit by Druski went viral.

The scene was familiar to many who have spent time in or around certain megachurch cultures: a preacher suspended from the ceiling, dramatic entrances, exaggerated prophecies, emotional offerings, and an atmosphere thick with spectacle.

The video sparked immediate debate.

Some went so far as to accuse Druski of mocking God.

But I want to suggest a way that may run against the grain (pun intended).

What if this wasn’t a mess, but a mirror?

Indulge me.

Art has always played a prophetic role in society.

Not prophecy in the predictive sense, but prophecy in the revealing sense.

Artists have a way of holding up a mirror to a culture and forcing it to see itself.

Satire, especially, does not invent reality; it amplifies it. It takes what already exists and turns the volume up so loud we can no longer ignore it.

And that’s precisely why it makes us uncomfortable.

We can grow remarkably desensitized to our own excesses. Over time, what once felt strange becomes normal. What once felt heavy becomes entertaining. What once felt sacred slowly becomes familiar and eventually theatrical.

When an artist takes those same elements and puts them on display outside the controlled environment of, say, Sunday morning, we suddenly see them for what they are or at least, what they can become.

But in true human fashion, when we don’t like our reflection, our instinct is often to blame the mirror.

We accuse it of distortion, question its motives, and argue about its tone.

Now, that doesn’t mean everything in the skit was fair. Satire is, by nature, exaggerated. It flattens nuance. It collapses the good and the bad into a single caricature. But caricatures only work when there’s enough truth in them to be recognizable.

No one laughed because it was foreign. They laughed because it was familiar.

And that familiarity should give the church pause.

For years, many churches, especially large, platform-driven ones, have blurred the line between worship and performance. We’ve borrowed heavily from entertainment culture, sometimes in the name of relevance, sometimes in the name of growth, and sometimes simply because it works.

But at some point, we have to ask an uncomfortable question:

What are we training people to expect when they come to meet God?

The danger is not that God can’t move through spectacle. He can. The danger is that spectacle begins to replace substance, and no one notices because it still “works.”

Attendance grows.

Clips go viral.

Giving increases.

Meanwhile, formation remains shallow, discernment weak, and faith increasingly dependent on stimulation.

That’s when parody stops being cruel and starts being clarifying.

Druski didn’t invent flying pastors, over-the-top prophetic moments, or emotionally manipulative offering appeals. He simply held them up, stripping them of their spiritual language and placing them in the realm of the absurd. And when spiritual practices look absurd outside of their usual setting, it may be worth asking whether they were ever as sacred as we assumed.

And while we’re here, offering a critique of religious practices isn’t new.

Jesus regularly exposed religious excess not by mocking God, but by confronting the systems that claimed to represent Him. He warned against public displays designed to impress rather than transform. His sharpest words were not for outsiders, but for insiders who had confused appearance with faithfulness.

To be clear, I am not comparing Druski to Jesus or parody to prophecy; I am simply observing that God has a long history of using unexpected moments to reveal uncomfortable truths to His people.

That’s why I’m less concerned with whether this skit “offended” the church, and more concerned with why it resonated so widely.

If the reflection makes us uncomfortable, the solution isn’t to be outraged. It’s repentance, or at least reflection.

Because mirrors, when used well, are gifts.

They show us where we’ve drifted.

They reveal what we’ve normalized.

They invite us to change.

So maybe the question isn’t whether this moment was a mess or a mockery.

Maybe the better question is whether we’re willing to look at it long enough to learn something.

I’ve loved reading for as long as I can remember.

As a kid, I spent countless hours chasing Harry Potter through the halls of Hogwarts.

Those stories did more than entertain me; they awakened my imagination and shaped how I see the world around me.

Looking back, I’m convinced that God was already at work in those early pages. He was forming something in me long before I had language for it. My love for reading would one day become a vocation in a world shaped by information, ideas, and influence.

Today, I read more than ever. It’s a core discipline of mine as a pastor and public theologian. It sharpens my thinking, stretches my convictions, and helps me engage culture with clarity and depth.

With that in mind, here are my top five books of the year in no special order.

1. 107 Days by Kamala Harris

If you’ve been following me this year, this pick probably won’t come as a surprise.

I’ll say this upfront: I have a lot of respect for what she pulled off with this book. Few political memoirs have carried this level of expectation and delivered in a meaningful way.

This one did.

While I don’t believe she should run again, reading this book gave me a deeper appreciation for her story and the complexity of the moment she stepped into. It challenged some of my assumptions and gave me a fuller picture of the person behind the headlines.

If you’re looking for political tea, this one is hot.

I shared a more in-depth reflection when I first read it back in the fall. You can find that review below. ⬇️

2. How Fascism Works by Jason Stanley

Whether you love or hate Donald Trump, you can’t deny his impact on American politics over the last decade.

Of the many accusations leveled against him, one of the most frequent is that he represents a form of modern fascism.

But what does that actually mean?

Jason Stanley’s How Fascism Works offers more than a soundbite; it offers a framework.

Rather than focusing exclusively on any single figure like Trump, Stanley examines the patterns, language, and strategies that have historically enabled fascist movements to take shape across cultures and eras, with particular attention to the role of nationalism. As he explains:

“Nationalism is at the core of fascism. The fascist leader employs a sense of collective victimhood to create a sense of group identity that is by its nature opposed to the cosmopolitan ethos and individualism of liberal democracy.”

The power of the book is not in telling you what to think, but in helping you recognize how certain ideas take root, spread, and gain legitimacy.

Whether you agree with all of his conclusions or not, this book forces an uncomfortable but necessary reckoning: understanding how fragile democratic values can be and how easily fear, nostalgia, and tribalism can reshape a society.

I highly recommend it, especially if you want to make sense of the world around us.

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⬇️ If you missed Part 1, Darkness Before Dawn, you can read it below before continuing.

Two weeks ago, we sat with Isaiah’s diagnosis of the world.

But Isaiah never intended his words to end in diagnosis.

Biblical prophecy, after all, is not merely about naming what is broken; it is about announcing what God intends to do about it.

Isaiah’s declaration is striking not only for what it says, but for how it says it:

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.

Isaiah 9:2 NIV

The verbs matter.

Isaiah speaks as though the future has already occurred.

The light has dawned.

This prophetic tense does not deny present darkness; it announces divine certainty.

God’s promised action is so assured that it can be spoken of as accomplished before it is fully seen.

When the Gospels recount Jesus’ birth and ministry, they do so with Isaiah’s words echoing in the background.

Matthew’s Gospel makes the connection explicit, locating the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry in Galilee and declaring that this region, once named by Isaiah as a place of deep darkness, is now the first to see the promised light.

¹³ Leaving Nazareth, he went and lived in Capernaum, which was by the lake in the area of Zebulun and Naphtali— ¹⁴ to fulfill what was said through the prophet Isaiah: ¹⁵ “Land of Zebulun and land of Naphtali, the Way of the Sea, beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles—¹⁶ the people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.”

Matthew 4:13-16 NIV

John’s Gospel goes even further, lifting Isaiah’s imagery into a cosmic register:

⁴ In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. ⁵ The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

John 1:4-5 NIV

What Isaiah promised, the Gospels proclaim.

Yet, the manner of fulfillment remains surprising.

The light did not arrive through domination or spectacle.

It did not announce itself with political power or religious force.

Instead, God chose incarnation.

The eternal Word became flesh.

The Creator entered creation.

The Light entered the darkness from within.

The Christian claim is not that God shouted instructions from a distance, but that He stepped into the human condition, taking it upon Himself.

Salvation did not descend as an abstract idea; it arrived as a vulnerable child, born into poverty, obscurity, and political occupation.

However, the birth of Jesus did not immediately alleviate the world’s suffering.

But something decisive did happen: the story turned.

The New Testament consistently frames Jesus not merely as a teacher or reformer, but as the beginning of a new creation. What began in Genesis, creation emerging from darkness, begins again in Bethlehem.

The light that dawns is not symbolic optimism; it is ontological change.

Reality itself has been altered.

From this point forward, darkness is no longer ultimate.

Sin is no longer sovereign.

Death is no longer final.

The Light has come, and the darkness cannot undo that fact.

Reflection Questions

Even though these are not red-letter words, they can help us work the red-letter life.

1. Since the Light has already come in Jesus, how does that reality reshape the way you interpret the darkness you still encounter in your life, relationships, and the world around you?

2. In what specific ways might God be inviting you to live as a person of new creation this Christmas, not by escaping the world’s brokenness, but by bearing witness to the Light within it?

As you reflect, I invite you to listen to “Never Lost,” a song that echoes the Advent confession that the Light has come and the darkness will not prevail.

May its words strengthen the hope you carry.

🎧 CLICK HERE TO LISTEN

As we prepare to close out 2025, this will be the final Against the Grain post for the year. And I can think of no better way to end than by examining the quiet, often unquestioned influence algorithms have on our moral imagination.

A brief note: by moral imagination, I mean the framework that shapes how we see the world, what feels normal, good, or desirable. By conscience, I mean the inner faculty that evaluates our actions as right or wrong.

Moral imagination forms the lens; conscience renders the verdict.

Let’s get started.

We like to think we are more informed than ever.

And there is some truth to that.

We carry more knowledge in our pockets than any generation before us and have instant access to breaking news, expert opinions, historical archives, and endless commentary.

And yet, beneath all of this information, something more concerning has happened.

We have lost the ability to discern.

Not because we lack intelligence but because we have slowly outsourced the formation of our conscience to systems that were never designed to promote human flourishing.

Calm down. I’m not anti-media.

I am, however, pro-human, so I can’t help but see and say how media affects us.

Algorithms don’t just deliver content; they shape attention. And what shapes our attention over time shapes our loves, our fears, and, eventually, our sense of right and wrong.

Chris Hayes captures the tension of this cultural moment well when he writes in The Sirens’ Call:

“The promise of the information age was unparalleled access to every single last bit of human knowledge at every moment, and the reality is a collective civic mental life that permanently teeters on the edge of madness.”

For most of human history, moral formation happened slowly through family, community, ritual, sacred texts, and shared practices. Conscience was trained over time through repetition, reflection, and responsibility.

Our digital age operates differently as algorithms reward response.

What rises to the top of our feeds is not what is truest or most thoughtful, but what provokes the strongest reaction.

Over time, this trains us not to think deeply but to respond reflexively.

And that training process is what formation looks like in real time.

Stay with me.

Contrary to popular belief, the idea of formation is not a Christian thing; it’s a human thing. It’s the process by which we intentionally or unintentionally align our lives around certain principles or practices.

Therefore, formation is happening to all of us, all the time, whether we consent to it or not.

The apostle Paul understood the subtle power of cultural formation long before algorithms existed.

“Do not be conformed to the pattern of this world,” he wrote, “but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

We should be careful not to misread Paul here, as this verse is sometimes used to justify a lack of cultural engagement within the Christian community.

If this sounds familiar, it should.

But in our modern world, the “pattern of this world” is not only philosophical; it’s technological.

It’s no longer just about what we believe but about who or what has trained us to believe it, because Scripture never treats conscience as static or automatic.

Paul addresses conscience repeatedly in his letters, especially in his correspondence with the Corinthians, where he assumes conscience can be weak, misinformed, or strengthened over time (see 1 Corinthians 8:7–12; 10:23–29).

Conscience is not merely something we have; it’s something we develop.

And like any faculty, it is shaped by practice, repetition, and authority.

When we submit our moral imagination to algorithmic systems, we allow them to become our primary trainers.

Over time, they teach us what deserves attention, what deserves outrage, and what deserves silence.

They do not ask whether something is edifying; they ask whether it will keep us engaged.

So, what shall we say to these things?

For me, the solution is not withdrawal from the digital world, nor louder moralizing within it, but the recovery of conscience through countercultural acts of resistance that slow us down long enough to think, practices like silence before sharing and community before commentary.

Practices that help us discern, not disenage.

In an age obsessed with immediacy, slowness is a form of wisdom.

In a culture addicted to outrage, restraint is a moral act.

Selah.

A pause—an invitation to stop, reflect, and let what has been said settle before moving on.

Although these reflections don’t come directly from Jesus' teachings, they fit squarely within the mission of Work These Words.

Jesus didn’t appear in a vacuum; He stepped into a story that had been unfolding for centuries, a story shaped by Israel’s prophets and promises.

Therefore, to work the words of Jesus, we must understand the world He inherited and the hopes He fulfilled.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.

Isaiah 9:2 NIV

Before Isaiah’s words can speak to us, we need to hear them as they were first spoken.

The more clearly we understand their world, the more faithfully we can live in ours.

Isaiah 9:2 emerges from a scene of national trauma. The northern tribes of Israel, especially Zebulun and Naphtali, had been crushed under the weight of the Assyrian empire. These were border tribes, the first to be invaded and the hardest hit. Their land was ravaged, their identity shaken, and their future uncertain. They became known pejoratively as “Galilee of the nations,” a reminder that foreign powers now shaped what once belonged to Israel.

So when Isaiah speaks of people “walking in darkness,” he is not describing general discouragement or a bad season of life; he is naming people living under political oppression, military occupation, spiritual confusion, and social fragmentation.

Darkness, for Isaiah’s audience, was not a metaphor; it was their reality.

A reality not too different from ours.

Here in modern America, we’ve grown painfully familiar with darkness.

The darkness of loneliness in an age of hyper-connection.

The darkness of exhaustion in an age of relentless pursuit.

The darkness of disorientation in an age of guides and gurus.

But there is hope.

Isaiah’s words remind us that God does some of His best work in the dark.

Creation began in darkness.

And so did the first light of a new creation, when salvation slipped into the world on a quiet night in Bethlehem.

Next week, we will turn toward that Light, but for now, we sit in the tension.

For now, we hope.

The good news of Advent isn’t that the darkness is gone; it’s that the Light is coming.

Reflection Questions

Even though these are not red-letter words, they can help us work the red-letter life.

1. How does understanding the historical darkness of Isaiah’s audience deepen your awareness of the places in your own life and the world around you where God’s light is needed most?

2. What practices (prayer, rest, attentiveness, confession, community) can help you carry hope into the places where you are most tempted to despair, retreat, or numb out?

Thank you for being here.

Whether you’re a free subscriber or part of the Inner Circle, I’m truly grateful.

In today’s creator economy, attention is currency, so thank you for lending me yours.

For a while, I wrestled with what I could offer that would make the paid subscription feel distinct from the free one.

And I think I’ve finally found the answer.

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A quick note: Pay attention to what Jesus did and did not say. He didn’t say you couldn’t have both. He did say you couldn’t serve both. Money isn’t just a tool; it’s a rival master. And masters don’t like to share.

Which brings us to the great American paradox.

Every Thanksgiving, we gather with friends and family to pause and give thanks.

Then Black Friday comes.

And the gratitude from the day before is pushed aside in pursuit of more.

Let me be clear, this isn’t a finger-pointing post; I’m in this, too.

It’s not that our gratitude is absent. It is often overwhelmed by the compulsions of a culture formed by hyper-individualism, consumer capitalism, and dopamine-driven urgency.

Studies in behavioral psychology show that scarcity cues, often dominant on Black Friday, such as limited-time sales or low-stock warnings, trigger fear-based responses in our amygdala.

The fear of missing out.

The fear of not having enough.

Or worse, the fear of not being enough.

And sadly, in America, those fears are often fueled by what I call a theology of more.

In too many American churches, the language of faith has been subtly co-opted by consumer logic. What was once a theology of dependence on God has been recast as a transactional spirituality, where divine favor is measured by material gain. Wealth becomes proof of righteousness, and poverty is silently coded as spiritual failure.

This framework not only distorts the teachings of Scripture on contentment and stewardship, but it also reinforces economic inequality by spiritualizing it.

That’s another post for another day.

But as followers of Jesus, there is a better way.

A way not built on fear, but on trust.

Not accelerated by urgency, but anchored in enoughness.

A way that invites us to rest, resist, and remember who we are, and whose we are.

Not measured by consumption, but marked by contentment.

A way that dares to see Thanksgiving as a kind of Sabbath.

Because it’s hard to stay thankful when we can’t stay still.

Walter Brueggemann captures it beautifully in his short book on Sabbath.

He writes:

“The way of mammon (capital, wealth) is the way of the commodity, that is, the way of endless desire, endless productivity, and endless restlessness without any Sabbath. Jesus taught his disciples that they could not have it both ways.”

May we have the courage to choose the better way.

Happy trails.

It may come as news to you, but this week, the Department of Education, or what’s left of it, announced a proposal that would redefine the meaning of professional degrees.

This “redefinition” would cause several essential professions to lose their professional degree status, in turn significantly limiting access to loans for those pursuing them.

Some of the affected fields, if this proposal goes into effect, would include: Education, Nursing, Social Work, Public Health, Occupational Therapy, Physical Therapy, Audiology, and Speech-Language Pathology.

Although I’m not in any of those fields, I am a public theologian, so what goes on in the world around me matters to me.

Most importantly, though, I’m an advocate for the marginalized, so I can’t ignore that this proposal affects fields heavily populated by women.

Frankly, it pisses me off.

But I’m working on not calling people names at this stage in my Jesus journey.

Speaking of Jesus, let’s turn the corner and get to the heart of this post.

There’s a story recorded in Mark’s Gospel that I want to explore briefly.

It was now two days before Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread. The leading priests and the teachers of religious law were still looking for an opportunity to capture Jesus secretly and kill him. ² “But not during the Passover celebration,” they agreed, “or the people may riot.”

³ Meanwhile, Jesus was in Bethany at the home of Simon, a man who had previously had leprosy. While he was eating, a woman came in with a beautiful alabaster jar of expensive perfume made from essence of nard. She broke open the jar and poured the perfume over his head.

⁴ Some of those at the table were indignant. “Why waste such expensive perfume?” they asked. ⁵ “It could have been sold for a year’s wages and the money given to the poor!” So they scolded her harshly.

Mark 14:1-5 NIV

Mark 14 places us in the home of Simon the Leper. A woman enters the room carrying an alabaster jar worth a year’s wages. She breaks it and pours it on Jesus.

Her act is both sacrificial and prophetic.

But the men in the room don’t see any of that.

Instead, the text says they rebuked her harshly.

The Greek carries the sense of “snorting with indignation,” a phrase used for scolding someone as if they are beneath you. In the Greco-Roman world, it was the verbal posture men used toward children, slaves, or the socially inferior.

In other words, they weren’t simply “annoyed.”

They were offended that she had stepped into a space they believed was theirs.

This moment only makes sense when you understand the world Jesus lived in. It was a world where women were barred from testifying in court because their voices were deemed unreliable; where theological reasoning was considered a male domain; where women ate separately at public banquets, and where a woman stepping into a room of men, especially without invitation, was seen as a breach of social order.

So imagine then how this woman stepping forward with a costly offering would send the men into a frenzy.

To be clear, when they rebuke her, they are not just concerned with money or propriety; they are protecting a system that allows only men to make meaningful, public contributions.

It’s discrimination disguised as discernment.

But then Jesus, the Master Teacher, steps in.

⁶ “Leave her alone,” said Jesus. “Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. ⁷ The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me. ⁸ She did what she could. She poured perfume on my body beforehand to prepare for my burial. ⁹ Truly I tell you, wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.”

Mark 14:6-9 NIV

The point I’m making here is that this proposal is not accidental.

It communicates, “this work doesn’t count,” which really means “this work doesn’t count when certain people do it.”

It is the modern equivalent of the same old story:

Women bring their gifts, and systems try to push them back.

But I can hear Jesus’ words echoing as loudly today as they did back then.

🗣️ LEAVE HER ALONE.

Whether she’s following in her mom’s footsteps by becoming a teacher, or a passion for helping others has led her into nursing, leave her alone.

Whether she is single and trying to make ends meet or a wife doing everything she can to fill in the gaps, leave her alone.

Whether she is counting down to her final student loan payment or is so far in debt she feels like she’s drowning, leave her alone.

I believe that’s what Jesus would say.

Reflection Questions

The way of Jesus is accessible to us when we put His words into practice.

So this week, work these words:

👩🏾 As a woman:

By not shrinking your calling to fit their comfort. Break the jar anyway.

👨🏾As a man:

By using your (male) privilege to defend women’s right to belong.

✝️ As the church:

By honoring women’s voices, gifts, scholarship, leadership, and presence.

Since this piece was written, the House has officially passed the bill to end the government shutdown, and the President has signed it into law. While this development changes the headlines, it does not change the heart of this article. In many ways, it underscores it.

Two weeks ago, I wrote about the impact the government shutdown had on SNAP benefits, a piece I titled Oh, SNAP. That post serves as a precursor, setting the stage for what I want to explore today.

If you missed it, I’d recommend reading that one first, then circling back here.

After weeks of the longest government shutdown in American history, something unexpected happened on Sunday, November 9th.

Seven Democrats and one Independent (who caucuses with the Democratic Party) voted with Republicans to reopen the government.

You may not think it’s strange, but I do.

The very lawmakers who refused to support an earlier funding deal (that would’ve prevented a shutdown) because it excluded extending healthcare subsidies for millions are now championing a resolution that leaves those same households exposed.

So, what changed between then and now?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

They caved with no guarantee that their initial demand would be met.

As annoying as that is, that’s not quite what I want to write about this week.

Our system offered two lessers: restore SNAP benefits and pay government workers, or extend healthcare subsidies for millions at risk of losing coverage or having their premiums skyrocket.

Neither comprehensive. Both urgent.

And yet, we’re being told to celebrate one while ignoring the other.

Unfortunately, we have not solved the crisis; we have merely shifted the burden.

For me, this isn’t just about what’s on the table; it’s about how the table got set, who set it, and why it only seats these two choices.

Let’s briefly interrogate what I see as three drivers:

Structural Invisibility

The quietest crises, like hunger and healthcare, are often the deadliest because they operate in media silence.

Out of sight, out of cycle.

They don’t trend or rally headlines these days unless the optics are useful.

But structural invisibility is a policy in itself.

The systems that govern food assistance and healthcare access are designed to function in the background, like plumbing. You only notice when something breaks. And even then, it’s easier to blame the flood than the faulty infrastructure.

That’s why SNAP cuts and lapsed subsidies rarely spark moral outrage; they remain invisible until the consequences are impossible to ignore, but by then, someone’s fridge is empty or their prescription has run out.

Political Theatre

Shutdowns are not policy debates; they’re performance.

We watch them unfold like a Netflix series with conflict and cliffhangers.

But this isn’t drama, it’s daily life, and it’s dysfunction.

The storylines are scripted, the players rarely change, and the people most affected are never in the room.

In this theater, hunger and healthcare became leverage, not sacred rights or signs of collective care. They’re just tools of negotiation in a partisan tug-of-war, a war we’re expected to cheer for even when the “victory” is temporary.

Because as long as people remain hungry and uninsured, how can we possibly call that a win?

Narrative Inertia

We’ve been taught to choose the lesser evil, rarely pausing to ask why those are always our only options.

But in a culture shaped by capitalism and discipled by individualism, it’s clear.

It’s easier to approve emergency measures than to reimagine the system that created the emergency.

And once that narrative sets in, anything more feels unrealistic, idealistic, or radical.

What’s truly radical, though, isn’t choosing the lesser of two evils but naming the evil of two lessers and refusing to play the game.

When crisis knocks again (and it will), may we have the courage to hold the line.

Happy trails.

Jesus didn’t just teach new things; He taught us to rethink old things.

Six times in Matthew 5, He says, “You have heard that it was said…but I say to you.”

(See Matthew 5:21–26, 5:27–30, 5:31–32, 5:33–37, 5:38–42, and 5:43–48)

These weren’t random cultural proverbs; they were rooted in the Torah (the first five books of the Hebrew Bible). To be clear, no, Jesus wasn’t against Scripture; He was, however, against misinterpretation, which often leads to misuse.

To anchor His teaching, Jesus first offers these foundational statements:

¹⁷ “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. ¹⁸ For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished. ¹⁹ Therefore anyone who sets aside one of the least of these commands and teaches others accordingly will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. ²⁰ For I tell you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the law, you will certainly not enter the kingdom of heaven.

Matthew 5:17-20 NIV

Then he proceeds to deconstruct (their interpretations) to reconstruct God’s original intent.

Let’s go ahead and address the elephant in the room since we’re here. 😬

Deconstruction and reconstruction are hot-button terms right now, and depending on where you’ve heard them, they may carry some baggage. So, for the sake of clarity and charity, here’s what I mean when I use them in this context:

Deconstruction is the critical process by which individuals interrogate inherited theological frameworks, cultural assumptions, and ecclesial traditions to discern their fidelity to the person, teachings, and mission of Jesus Christ. It entails a hermeneutical re-evaluation, often prompted by spiritual dissonance, historical insight, or cultural critique. Properly understood, it is not an end in itself, but a means of purification, stripping away syncretisms, distortions, and ideologies that have accrued around the faith.

Reconstruction is the constructive theological task that follows deconstruction, rebuilding one’s faith with intentionality, rooted in a Christocentric reading of Scripture, informed by historic orthodoxy, and practiced within a faithful community. It prioritizes integration over fragmentation, humility over certainty, and spiritual formation over dogmatic rigidity.

That should bring some relief to our modern minds because, although the challenges we face regarding the misuse of Scripture may feel nefarious, they’re not new. Humans have long twisted sacred words to fit personal or political agendas, even in Jesus’ day.

But the remedy He offered then still holds today. It’s the essence of spiritual growth: not just learning, but also unlearning.

Surprisingly, cognitive science also supports this.

Neuroplasticity research shows that growth isn’t just about adding new information; it’s about making room for it. The brain must prune old neural pathways to create space for new ones. In other words, transformation demands subtraction as much as addition.

Paul frames it this way as he challenges believers in Rome to resist the cultural influences that distort God’s intent:

“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

Romans 12:2 NIV

Of course, this gets personal. Because behind every bad belief is often a beloved teacher.

I’m not here to villainize them; they’re human. They passed on what they knew, shaped by the time and culture in which they lived.

So we can reject the teaching without demonizing the teacher.

We can honor their sincerity even as we outgrow their conclusions.

Unlearning, then, becomes both an act of humility and holiness. It’s how we make room for Jesus to correct, clarify, and deepen our understanding.

The question is, will we let Him?

Reflection Questions

The way of Jesus is accessible to us when we put His words into practice.

So this week, let’s work these words by asking:

1. What’s one assumption about God (or faith) Jesus is asking you to rethink?

2. What’s one assumption about others Jesus is asking you to rethink?

3. What’s one assumption about yourself Jesus is asking you to rethink?

³⁵ For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, ³⁶ I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

³⁷ “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? ³⁸ When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? ³⁹ When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

⁴⁰ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Matthew 25:35-40 NIV

We are weeks into a government shutdown.

Millions of vulnerable citizens brace for what happens when the system supposedly designed to serve them starves them. SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) benefits, a critical lifeline for nearly 40 million Americans, are set to expire at the end of this month.

But what’s more troubling than the crisis itself is the indifference that surrounds it.

Somewhere along the way, we started believing that hardship is personal, not communal, viewing poverty through a lens of distance and suspicion.

We tell ourselves that “those people” should’ve just worked harder.

We believe that hunger is a result of irresponsibility, not inequality.

We adopt the dangerous logic that says: if it doesn’t affect me, it’s not my problem.

And before you check out on me, this isn’t just a political issue. It’s a moral one.

Currently, On My Shelf (pun intended) is the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ book, Morality.

He writes:

“A free society is a moral achievement, and it is made by us and our habits of thought, speech, and deed. Morality cannot be outsourced because it depends on each of us. Without self-restraint, without the capacity to defer the gratification of instinct, and without the habits of heart and deed that we call virtues, we will eventually lose our freedom.”

Yes, we live in a democracy (at least for now), but our freedom only survives on the back of mutual responsibility. You can’t have liberty without virtue. You can’t have community without compassion.

So what can we do?

We can resist the impulse to scroll past suffering.

We can support organizations that feed the vulnerable.

We can raise our voices to demand better from our civic leaders.

A shutdown may seem like a temporary inconvenience to some, but it’s life-altering for others. And if we continue to outsource our moral responsibility, waiting on institutions to act while we look the other way, we’ll not only fail the vulnerable, we’ll fail ourselves.

Because suffering never stays in its lane, it always spills over.

If we’re going to follow Jesus in a culture of indifference, we must swim upstream, remembering his words:

“Whatever you did for one of the least of these…you did for me.”

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Is it just me, or does everything feel urgent?

The email needs a reply.

The text bubbles are blinking.

The deadline was yesterday.

Oh, and if you don’t post in the next hour…well, good luck with reach.

We’re living in an age where our timelines have become tyrants.

They don’t just demand our attention; they dictate our actions.

If it’s not fast, it’s not fitting.

If it’s not visible, it’s not valuable.

If it’s not immediate, it’s not important.

The problem is, the modern world is made for speed; your soul is not.

We can’t go on living like this.

And the good news is, we don’t have to.

Here’s what Jesus (a man who lived a busy life but not a hurried one) says:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

No, He wasn’t talking about sleep. He was talking about soul relief.

But how can we attain it?

By accepting his two invitations:

“Come to me,” & “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me.”

The first is fairly straightforward, but the second requires more context.

In first-century Judaism, “yoke” was an idiom used to describe a rabbi’s teaching and the lifestyle expectations that accompanied it. There were yokes of the law, wisdom, and even yokes imposed by political empires. To “take someone’s yoke” meant to come under their authority by submitting to their interpretation of Scripture and embracing their way of life.

In Jesus’ day, disciples weren’t just interested in learning about their rabbi; they were committed to becoming like their rabbi. So when Jesus says, “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me,” He is inviting His followers into more than instruction. He’s inviting them into imitation.

Jesus’ yoke is not about control, but communion. It is an invitation to walk with Him, not just work for Him. To learn from Him is to apprentice in His way, one marked by gentleness and humility that promises rest for the soul.

Reflection Questions

The way of Jesus is accessible to us when we put His words into practice.

So this week, let’s work these words by asking:

1. Where in my life have I confused urgency with importance?

2. What’s one daily habit I can implement to reclaim my peace?

3. What would my calendar look like if my soul were a priority, not an afterthought?

Beginning this week, “with Sean Dreher” is rolling out a new cadence of short-form notes. Most Wednesdays, you’ll receive a brief but thoughtful reflection from one of my two newsletters:

→ Work These Words (spiritual formation + the way of Jesus)

→ Against the Grain (culture, conscience, and curiosity)

The longer, feature-length writings will be released monthly, primarily as primers for our upcoming teaching series at Kingdom South. These weekly notes will help us stay connected in between.

Now the Lord God had planted a garden in the east, in Eden; and there he put the man he had formed. The Lord God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food. In the middle of the garden were the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

Genesis 2:8-9 NIV

There’s a proposed bill in South Carolina that would make abortion illegal with almost no exceptions and criminalize anyone who helps someone pursue one.

Let me be clear: I am pro-choice. And I believe God is, too.

Not in the way the culture frames it, but in the way the Scriptures reveal it, starting in Eden. If God’s highest value were mere compliance, the forbidden tree of the knowledge of good and evil would’ve never been planted.

But it was.

Right in the middle of the garden.

Why? Because love that’s forced isn’t love.

And obedience without the option of disobedience isn’t devotion, it’s domination.

From the very beginning, God dignified humanity with agency. He extended invitation over imposition. He honored freedom even when it led people away from His preferred future and into pain.

So, if God Himself didn’t impose obedience in a world untainted by sin, what makes us think laws that impose obedience in a world marred by it will somehow produce righteousness if that’s even what we’re truly after?

That same ethic should inform how we navigate the complexities of abortion, not just with policy, but with presence, not just with conviction, but with compassion.

Let me be clear: No, I don’t believe abortion should be used as casual birth control.

But I also believe the government has no business forcing a woman to carry a child at the expense of her health, autonomy, or trauma recovery, especially when the systems that create the conditions for unwanted pregnancies go largely untouched.

We can do better than performative policy. We can build a life ethic that tells the truth about women, poverty, access to healthcare, maternal mortality, and racial disparities.

Tell the truth!

Oh, and before I go, let me be clear: I am not against those who are pro-life, but I am against hypocrisy. If you’re going to be pro-life, be all the way pro-life. 🤸🏾‍♂️

Happy trails.

[For context, she is recalling the moment she received what will likely be remembered as one of the most signifi…

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[This quote is commonly attributed to Edmund Burke, an 18th-century Irish statesman and philosopher, though no direct source exists. It’s widely regarded as a paraphrase of his writings rather than a verbatim quote.]

Christian apathy is dangerous.

For this writing, I’m defining Christian apathy as:

The quiet rejection of our biblical responsibility to love God and love our neighbor.

It is about the danger of doing nothing when something needs to be done.

It looks like turning a blind eye to the challenges facing the world around us under the assumption that if it doesn’t affect us, then it doesn’t concern us.

But as people attempting to order our lives around the teachings of Jesus, we have to ask:

Is apathy a trait that describes Jesus?

No.

So then, how is it that apathy has become the posture of so many who claim to follow Him?

In this Work These Words article, we’ll explore why apathy contradicts the way of Jesus, and what it looks like to re-engage with the world around us.

Apathy & The Way of Jesus

First, let’s say the quiet part out loud:

Apathy doesn’t barge in.

It creeps in quietly, often masquerading as wisdom.

We say things like “I’m staying in my lane” or “protecting my peace.”

We hide behind busyness, exhaustion, cynicism, or self-preservation, and before we realize it, Christ is no longer forming us; convenience is.

The problem isn’t that we’ve stopped caring about everything.

The problem is that we’ve stopped caring about the things that matter most.

Matthew’s account of Jesus’ life and teachings records this moment:

Hearing that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, the Pharisees got together. One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question: “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”

Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” (Matthew 22:34–40 NIV)

Here, Jesus does more than pass the test; He clarifies what matters most.

Love God. Love people. Everything else flows from there.

Unfortunately, we’ve learned how to pursue God while ignoring people.

We have no problem challenging those who don’t pray enough, but what about those who don’t say enough?

Because in the way of Jesus, you can’t get God right if you’re getting people wrong.

Jesus cared about the spiritual and the existential, the soul and the system, the eternal and the everyday.

It was never God or people. It was always God and people.

The incarnation or the entrance of God into human affairs through the person of Jesus is the loudest contradiction to Christian apathy.

Our faith exists because a man was willing to step into a mess He didn’t make.

What would it look like for us to do the same?

Re-Engaging the World

Let’s say the quiet part out loud, again.

Apathy for some is a consequence of misapplied theology.

Take Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 6:17 NIV.

Therefore, “Come out from them and be separate, says the Lord. Touch no unclean thing, and I will receive you.”

Often used to justify Christian detachment, this verse gets quoted without its context and weaponized as a call to retreat from culture, community, or anything deemed “secular.”

But that’s not what Jesus did.

And that’s not what Paul meant.

Paul wasn’t teaching isolation; he was warning against idolatry and unequally yoked partnerships that distort our witness.

Jesus, by contrast, was the most holy person ever to walk the earth, and yet He was intimately present with those considered impure, irreligious, or unclean.

He ate with tax collectors.

He touched lepers.

He crossed cultural, ethnic, and gender boundaries to offer living water and lasting hope.

Jesus didn’t come out from among them.

He went in among them not to blend in, but to bear witness.

So re-engagement isn’t compromise, it’s Christlikeness.

But what does that look like in our modern world?

Apathy thrives where curiosity dies.

Re-engaging starts with becoming more informed and then more involved.

We can no longer use ignorance as an excuse for disengagement.

It keeps us from learning, listening, and leveraging our voice for the good of others.

This doesn't mean hopping on every headline or posting to prove something.

It means allowing the Spirit of God to stretch our awareness, deepen our convictions, and move us toward action rooted in love.

Advocacy doesn't always look like a megaphone.

Sometimes it looks like asking better questions and learning what you didn't know you didn't know.

In the age of information, willful ignorance is not an option for those who follow Jesus.

Here are three questions to help you re-engage.

1. Where have I chosen comfort over curiosity when it comes to the brokenness around me?

   (What issue, person, or reality have I ignored because it felt overwhelming or outside my lane?)

2. What’s one injustice, issue, or group I feel God is prompting me to learn more about?

   (Where is the Spirit leading me to be more informed, not for clout, but for compassion?)

3. What’s one small act of advocacy I can take this week?

   (Is there a conversation to have, a resource to share, a prayer to pray, or a space to show up in?)

I hope this piece adds value to your Jesus journey wherever you are and whatever you’re carrying.

If it resonated with you, would you consider sharing it with someone who needs this nudge, too?

Share

And I’d love to hear your thoughts:

How are you re-engaging with the world around you in this season?

👇🏾 Let’s keep the conversation going in the comments below.

We’re better when we work His words together.

I love the idea of America.

The words penned by imperfect men, in imperfect times.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

The words were powerful, even prophetic.

They offered a vision of what could be. A nation where liberty and justice are not the privilege of a few but the birthright of all.

Sounds good, right?

But I find myself, year after year, in the same place as a frustrated idealist. Caught between the beauty of our founding words and the brokenness of our lived experience.

From the beginning, America's founding documents brought a radical hope into the world. The Declaration of Independence declared independence from tyranny and oppression, and then the Constitution sought to establish a framework for a republic governed by laws, not kings.

It’s crazy how they’ve inspired nations to ignite movements challenging oppressive forms of government around the world while also existing alongside and in contradiction to domestic realities like slavery, disenfranchisement, and systemic injustice.

How can a nation that promised liberty build its wealth on the backs of the enslaved?

How can a land that declared equality withhold it from women, Indigenous people, immigrants, and countless others?

How can a country that claims freedom of conscience persecute dissent?

Although I don’t have the answers, I do know these contradictions don't negate the ideals; instead, they remind us that we have yet to reach them, which is where my frustration as an idealist grows and is often misunderstood on both sides.

I am not alone.

Frustrated idealists are prophets to the nation, and we come in various forms: activists, artists, creatives, podcasters, preachers, teachers, writers, etc.

We don't hate America, and that makes some people mad.

At the same time, we are not blind to, nor silent about, the gap between what America says and what she does, and that makes some people mad.

However, I hope, especially on a day like today, that we can create space for both, which is why I refuse to condemn anyone celebrating today.

Nevertheless, I would like to challenge us all to adopt a different kind of patriotism.

The kind that is honest, sober, and hopeful.

The kind that demands alignment between word and deed.

The kind that celebrates progress while insisting there's more to be done.

Because ideals need more than celebration, they need commitment.

So this year, I won't settle for cynicism or cheap pride.

I'll remain a frustrated idealist.

I'll pray for America and work for justice.

And I'll keep praying and working until the promise is realized:

That all people are created equal.

That liberty and justice belong to everyone.

That love of country means loving it enough to want more for it and from it.