I had just arrived to the church office in the morning when I got a message asking me to head to the Boise City Hall. There, we gathered for a spur-of-the-moment flag-lowering ceremony as the mayor and city council lowered the Pride Flag outside the building. Just minutes before, the governor of Idaho signed a law banning the flag under an "emergency order." An emergency. That word is doing a lot of work in that sentence, and none of it reflects an actual emergency (unless the emergency is that queer people keep existing, and keep being visible, and some people in power find that intolerable).

There was something about standing there — clergy, council members, neighbors — watching that flag come down, that felt like a kind of witness. It didn't feel like a protest, exactly. It felt like sadness. It felt like sorrow. And being there to witness the flag lowering felt like a refusal to pretend the moment wasn't happening.

From there, I went back to the office to work on some things for the (many) worship services later this week. But before long, it was time to head to the front steps of the state capitol to join the crowd in celebrating Transgender Day of Visibility. People held signs. People held each other. The dome of the building rose behind us, indifferent and imposing, the way government buildings tend to look when you're standing outside one with a grievance.

Far too many of them target marginalized communities: LGBTQIA+ people, immigrants, low-income families, those with limited access to healthcare, and communities supported by diversity initiatives. The Capitol is filled with proposals that chip away at who belongs… and who doesn’t.

This week, during a committee hearing on one of these bills, testimony crossed into overt racial mockery. The laughter that followed said as much as the words. If you weren’t in the room, and you tend not to watch the local news, you likely never heard about it.

That’s part of the point.

For many people in my circles, this is daily life. Tracking hearings. Texting bill numbers. Coordinating testimony. Carving out time during workdays to sit in committee rooms, often knowing full well how the vote will go.

Here’s what I notice: the people paying the closest attention are often the ones most directly harmed. The trans person. The immigrant parent. The teacher worried about what they’re no longer allowed to say.

They are watching because they have to.

Meanwhile, many others have no idea what’s happening. No sense of the sheer volume of bills written to make life harder for people whose lives are already hard.

It’s not because they’re bad people. It’s not because they’re cruel. Perhaps they're busy. Perhaps they're stretched thin. Or... maybe it’s because they can afford not to know. Or because they assume someone else can handle it.

And that’s a form of privilege.

Privilege is not always wealth. It isn’t always loud, visible power. Sometimes it’s simply the ability to remain blissfully unaware of policies that will not immediately affect you... the freedom to not pay attention.

If legislation threatens your healthcare, you learn bill numbers quickly. If it questions your marriage, your identity, or your family, you pay attention. And when your safety at school or at work is on the line, disengagement isn’t really an option.

But if the laws will not disrupt your body, your family, your safety, or your access to basic amenities, you can scroll past it. You can miss it. You can leave the work to others.

That distance is a cushion.

And I say this gently, because as a cisgender, white, Christian man, I carry significant privilege too. There are policies I don’t feel in my bones the way others do. There are rooms I can walk into without bracing myself first. I can usually show up at a committee hearing and leave afterward without my fundamental rights on the line. I can use the restroom that matches my gender identity without fear of arrest or attack.

The question isn’t whether we have privilege. The question is what we do with it.

If you have the emotional bandwidth to spare right now, consider lending it. You don’t have to become a full-time activist. You don’t have to testify every week. You don’t have to memorize every bill. But you can read one summary. You can send one email. You can call one legislator. You can show up once—even if the outcome feels predetermined.

You can pay attention. Justice movements have never been sustained by the people most harmed alone. When only the marginalized fight for their own dignity, the system absorbs their resistance. It outnumbers them. It exhausts them.

But when those who are not immediately threatened choose to care anyway… that’s when something shifts.

Silence is not always agreement. But disengagement has consequences. And sometimes, silence ends up functioning as complicity.

If you don’t know what’s happening in your state right now, that might mean you’re insulated from the harm.

That insulation can be used as shelter, or it can be used as strength.

This isn’t about guilt, it’s about solidarity. It’s about recognizing that justice work shouldn’t fall solely on those already carrying the heaviest weight.

So pay attention. Ask questions. Risk a little discomfort. Use your steadiness to support someone whose ground is shaking.

We don’t all have the same capacity. Some are exhausted. Some are grieving. Some are barely holding on. That’s real. Honor your limits.

But if you have room, lean in.

Because the people most affected are already paying attention.
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They shouldn’t have to do it alone.

Our puppet team ranges in age from 8 to 82, and everything in between. People who are new to the artistry and people who’ve been doing it for years. People who don’t mind the spotlight and people who prefer the shadows. They show up together. They laugh together. They encourage one another. They eat pizza together. They proclaim the good news of the gospel together.

It’s a living picture of what God calls the church to be.

The puppets don’t come to life on their own (even though in the darkness that night, it almost seemed like it!). Someone is underneath them, making them move. Someone adjusts lights. Someone watches for cues. Someone helps with props. Proclamation becomes a shared act. The good news shines because many hands are involved.
​
In a culture that likes to divide us by age or ability, that kind of togetherness almost feels radical. An 8 year old learning confidence from an 82 year old. An elder delighting in the creativity of a young adult. Generations leaning toward one another instead of drifting apart.

The church, at its best, is intergenerational. It’s playful. It works hard. It appreciates beauty. It takes the gospel seriously without taking itself too seriously. It understands that fellowship over pizza can be just as formative as an hour spent in a committee meeting or in the Sunday School classroom, because belonging is formed in ordinary moments.

Watching our Puppet Team that weekend, I was reminded that what we’re building at Southminster is not simply programming. We’re building trust. Shared memory. Courage. Joy. A community where different ages and experiences are not obstacles, but gifts.

In the season of Lent, we speak of transformation. Sometimes that transformation glows brighter than we expect. Sometimes it looks like fluorescent fabric in a darkened sanctuary. Sometimes it sounds like laughter during rehearsal. Sometimes it looks like climbing tall ladders to hang black plastic in just the right places.

However it appears, the light breaks through when we offer our gifts together.

And it is so incredibly beautiful to behold.

​Immokalee is not just a dot on a map to me. During my time living on the Gulf Coast, it was a place where I learned how community is supposed to work—where people shared food before sharing opinions, where faith took the shape of mutual aid, where I saw what it looks like to carry each other’s burdens. When my own world was falling apart, I’d head to Immokalee for a few hours to serve however I could, because the act of showing up there helped me believe that kindness could survive. All of this is why the news hurts in a very particular way.

Days like this force us to face the difference between law and justice.

We can debate immigration policy all day, but nothing theoretical prepares you for standing beside a child who suddenly doesn’t know where their mother is. There is nothing abstract about a child coming home to an empty house with no one left to care for them. Whatever someone believes about borders or policy, the intentional separation of families carries moral weight that people of faith cannot shrug off. This is a form of harm done to real bodies. Real children. Real lives.

And to be clear, calling for justice in the way families are treated is not an argument against law. It is an argument against using law in ways that violate due process, proportionality, and basic human dignity.

Many of those detained had valid work papers; and even for those who may be undocumented, we’re talking about a civil or misdemeanor offense—nothing remotely proportionate to the trauma inflicted when parents are taken from their children without warning.

Scripture is remarkably consistent about how God views the use of power: it’s supposed to protect the vulnerable, not frighten them. The prophets were unrelenting about this—warning leaders who claimed righteousness while inflicting fear and instability on the powerless.

​Micah said it plainly: “Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.” Actions that leave children pacing their kitchens in fear do not fit that call.

Reformed theology sits in a long biblical stream that takes the treatment of the immigrant with utmost seriousness. The Old Testament’s commands are clear:

• “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deut 10:19)
• “Do not oppress a foreigner; you know the heart of a foreigner.” (Exod 23:9)
• “Leave the edges of your field for the immigrant and the poor.” (Lev 19:9–10)

These weren’t offered as optional acts of charity. They were baked into the shape of covenant life. Calvin understood this as part of God’s justice—rooted in the belief that every person carries the image of God.

And the New Testament carries this same heartbeat into the early church. Jesus identifies himself with the stranger--“I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” (Matthew 25:31-46) Paul reminds us that hospitality is not just kindness but a core mark of Christian life (Romans 12:13). The Letter to the Hebrews goes even further: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2)

This isn’t partisan commentary; it’s a moral and theological concern rooted in the Gospel’s clear priority for the vulnerable.

If that’s our lens, then what is happening around our nation right now—what is happening in Immokalee this week—is not simply unfortunate. It is contrary to God’s intent for human community.
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And these days, it’s even more blatant than it was when I lived in Southwest Florida. In Immokalee now, brown-skinned people riding in farmworker buses, or driving white contractor vans or landscaping trucks, know to keep their papers visible, because their very skin has become treated as probable cause in a nation that claims liberty for all.

What I keep returning to is this: some kids came home today and found no one.

No explanation. No note. Just absence.

There is no version of this that isn’t traumatic. No version that doesn’t echo for years. And no version that aligns with the teaching of Jesus, who consistently disrupted systems that harmed the vulnerable and lifted up those who had been pushed aside.

No child should pay the price for geopolitical systems they had no hand in shaping, and no amount of “personal responsibility” rhetoric can justify policies that deliberately inflict suffering on the innocent.
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For Christians shaped by the conviction that all people bear God’s image, this must matter. If we want our proclamation of hope to carry any weight, we cannot look away from the suffering of our neighbors. Our calling is not to baptize the status quo. Our calling is to notice who’s being harmed and move toward them.

​Immokalee is a place that shaped me. It offered me glimpses of God’s reign in the generosity of farmworker families, in the tenacity of community leaders, in the laughter of children running and playing. It is sacred ground to me. And it deserves more than silence.

Today I’m praying for the parents who were detained.
I’m praying for the children who are afraid and don’t know whom to trust.
I’m praying for the advocates and pastors on the ground, comforting neighbors while carrying their own grief.
And I’m praying for a nation that forgets too quickly what love of neighbor really demands.

But prayer is only the beginning.

Scripture calls us again and again to protect the sojourner, care for the laborer, uphold the dignity of the vulnerable, and refuse to remain silent when we witness harm.

And caring for immigrant families does not diminish care for anyone else; the well-being of communities rises and falls together.

If the Gospel means anything, it must mean this:
we do not abandon the suffering—
   we draw near.
We do not let fear decide who deserves care—
   we widen the circle.
We do not simply hope for a better world—
   we participate in God’s making of it.
​
May we remember the children of Immokalee.
May we see clearly.
And may we act with courage, compassion, and a love stronger than fear.

I lament every killing, because I believe that every single person carries within them the spark of the divine.

I lament every act of violence, because every act is a wound to our shared humanity. Not only the loss of life, but the way violence multiplies fear and anxiety in a nation already stretched thin with mistrust.

I lament that our symbols of national mourning—flags at half staff, for example—are no longer offered equally. Lowered for a political pundit of one party, but not for an assassinated politician of another. Lowered for a shooting at a private Christian school, but not for the massacres occurring at public schools. Even our grief has been politicized. It's a clear statement from elected leaders that some lives are worth our mourning more than others.

And I lament something in myself, too. I find myself quieter after yet another school shooting. Less interested, somehow, in speaking out or offering a pastoral word.

It isn’t because I don’t grieve for the children and families. God knows I pray every single day when my child boards the school bus. If I’m being honest, it’s because after the tragedies of Sandy Hook and Uvalde, I realized how little political will there seems to be for change. If a room full of murdered first graders doesn’t stir us to action, nothing will. (And it’s not the will of the people that’s lacking—common sense gun reform is overwhelmingly popular across the political spectrum. What we lack is the courage to break free from the power of lobbyists and the stranglehold of campaign finance abuses). The silence and inaction that follows those massacres has numbed me. I wish it hasn’t. But it has.

And I also notice that I’m more likely to feel compelled to write a pastoral statement after certain moments... especially those of a political nature. The attempted assassination of the (now) president last year. The death of a prominent political commentator this week. Two things can be true at once: I can name the real harm caused by the words of these individuals, who’ve spread great amounts of hatred toward those deemed to be “others.” AND, I can still lament that violence will almost certainly beget more violence.

And yet I know I cannot allow numbness or bitterness to have the final word. As it relates to the news of this week, I don’t extend empathy or prayers for peace because I admired this man. I didn’t. I extend them because my faith calls me to be different. Because violence and hate do not get the last word in God’s kingdom. The way of Christ is the way of peace, even when peace feels impossible. The commitment to nonviolence is not passivity, but the most courageous refusal to give in to the temptation to answer hate with hate. Empathy is not weakness; it is resistance to the spiral of cruelty.

And not only that, but violence that is explicitly political in nature is different, because it threatens to beget more violence. When leaders and influencers are targeted, when anger fuels retribution, the spiral deepens. As Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. reminded us, “The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy.”

I wish I could say I’m hopeful. Some days, that hope is harder to find. And yet, I believe the call of faith is to keep clinging to it, however fragile it feels. To insist that two things can remain true: that violence dehumanizes us all, and that love still calls us back to our humanity. To stubbornly hold onto the ways of compassion, justice, and love. To believe that peace is possible, that violence will not have the last word, and that even in the midst of our despair, God calls us to live as people of light and love.

But lest we believe "thoughts and prayers" are all that's required of us, faith also demands action. Enough is enough. It’s long past time for honest, courageous conversations about guns.

Much has been written about how the body keeps the score. (One of the most famous examples is a book by that title). I used to think of it as nothing more than pseudoscience. Now, I know otherwise: the body remembers.

Trauma doesn’t always obey a tidy schedule of recovery. Even when my mind tells me “that was years ago,” my body sometimes insists otherwise. A smell, a season, the (for me) bittersweet celebration of World Communion Sunday, a stranger that looks uncannily like a tormentor—and in an instant, it all comes flooding back.

My body aches with memory. The calendar turns, and suddenly September is here again. Somewhere inside me, my middle-school angsty Green Day self mutters: “Wake me up when September ends.”

Healing, I’ve learned, isn’t a straight line. It doesn’t move predictably from point A to point B. Much like the so-called stages of grief, it often appears more like a spiral. It circles back, revisiting familiar pain from new angles, sometimes with fresh strength and sometimes with unexpected fragility. And while it can be discouraging to feel the panic return, I remind myself that the spiral also means movement. Even when I come back around to the same place, I am not the same person who was standing in that place before.

There have been days when I wished it would all disappear. Days when I’ve tried to outrun the panic or power through by gritting my teeth and muscling through. But ignoring it doesn’t make it vanish.

And strangely—though I would never wish these fires on anyone—I can’t deny that who I am today has been forged in those fires. And the scars they left behind, though painful, have also become a kind of testimony. My authenticity, my advocacy, my capacity to stand with others in their pain—I am who I am because I’ve been where I’ve been.

So when does healing come? In part, it already has. I breathe through the panic now in ways I couldn’t before. Therapy and SSRIs have helped me find stability. I talk openly about grief and fear that once stayed hidden. I’m learning to trust that my body’s memory, while painful, is also part of my survival.

And I cling to this hope: that healing isn’t only about erasing the pain of the past, but about discovering how to live more fully in the present. Even when the old wounds resurface, healing comes in small ways. In resilience. In breath. In community. In love that refuses to let me go.

The scars don’t vanish, but they testify. Like prophets, they tell the truth about what I’ve endured. They bear witness to the fact that I’m still here. Still breathing. Still becoming. And somehow, that is healing.

But it also wasn’t.

Because in that moment, the juice burst across my tongue with more sweetness than I expected. I stood there chewing, half in disbelief, thinking, Had I forgotten they could taste this good?

Sometimes I forget how good the world can be. How good God is.

Between the headlines and the heartbreak, between the budget spreadsheets and the church calendar and the everyday list of things-that-need-doing, it’s easy to lose touch with wonder. It’s easy to feel like the world is mostly broken, and our job is just to hold the pieces together as best we can.

But then berry season arrives.

Not forever, not even for long. Just long enough to remind us that grace still shows up. That creation is still bearing fruit. That something can be soft, and small, and fleeting—and still be holy.

I don’t think it’s too much to say that berries are sacramental. Not capital-S Sacrament, but lowercase-s sacrament. A visible sign of invisible grace. A tangible reminder that God is not only Creator, but also Artist. Not only source of justice, but also source of joy.

There’s a passage in the psalms that says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8). I often quote that text in the context of the Lord’s Table.

Some days, I taste that goodness in bread and cup.

Some days, I taste it in the sweetness of a summer berry, eaten while standing in the parking lot of a farmers market, sticky-fingered and smiling.
​
Either way, it’s grace.

I used to think of spiritual practice mostly in terms of seeking. Seeking quiet. Seeking clarity. Seeking God. And don’t get me wrong, there’s something good and faithful about pursuing the holy with intention. There’s value in scripture reading, in prayer, in showing up to worship even when you don’t feel like it.

But sometimes we get so caught up in chasing God that we forget to notice God might already be here.

Already present in the interruption. Already whispering through the detour. Already moving in the thing that wasn’t on our calendar but made us pause anyway.

As I age, I'm learning that grace doesn’t always arrive with a trumpet blast and a tidy plan. Sometimes it shows up in the unscheduled phone call. The comment that lingers. The half-finished task that got interrupted by something, or someone, far more important.

Maybe the Spirit doesn’t always need us to go deeper or climb higher or try harder. Maybe the Spirit just needs us to stop long enough to see what’s already unfolding.

So here’s my spiritual practice for the season ahead: I’m still keeping my to-do list, but I’m paying more attention to my to-done list. I’m noticing the sacred in what I didn’t plan. I’m trying to trust that God isn’t waiting for me at the end of the list but is already sitting right in the middle of my day.

And maybe the question I need most right now isn’t “How do I find God?”

Maybe it’s: What if God is already there?

Earlier this year, a teacher in Idaho made international news when she was asked to remove an "Everyone is Welcome Here" poster from her classroom. Her school district demanded its removal, citing a recently adopted policy of "neutrality." According to their reasoning, such a sign might be interpreted as taking a side. Apparently, a poster featuring cartoon children of different skin tones — paired with a simple word of welcome — is offensive to those who believe some of those children don't belong.

And now, state legislators and the Idaho Attorney General have doubled down: making it illegal to display such a message in any public school classroom in Idaho.

Let's be clear: this isn't about neutrality. It's about fear. It's about controlling the narrative of who belongs. It's about using bureaucratic policy to enforce the silence of compassion. And the idea that "everyone is welcome here" is controversial should tell us something about the state of our politics and the fragility of our moral imagination.

Because from a theological perspective, welcome is never neutral.

God's story is full of radical welcome. The Hebrew scriptures remind us again and again: "you shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." (Deut. 10:19). Jesus made a habit of eating with outcasts, crossing boundaries, and telling stories that ended with the outsiders being welcomed in. The early church struggled, but ultimately affirmed, that in Christ there is "no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, male and female." (Galatians 3:28). Paul didn't say, "be neutral." He said, "Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you." (Romans 15:7)

Welcome is not political. It's biblical. Welcome is not a threat. It's a blessing.

And I'm heartened that so many people know that in their bones. 

The teacher who put up the poster has since been hired by the Boise School District, where the superintendent and school board president have just stated, plainly, that they'll keep supporting any teacher who chooses to display the poster in their classroom. Many churches, libraries, businesses, and homes across Idaho and beyond are quietly adding their own signs to windows and front yards. A local screenprinting business made tens of thousands of t-shirts with the welcoming message emblazoned on the front, shipping them far and wide.

What once might've gone unnoticed is now a bright, visible reminder that love is not afraid.

So yes, I'm angry. I'm angry that a message so gentle and good has been treated as a threat. I'm angry that children in our state are learning that the most basic form of hospitality — of saying "you belong" -- is too dangerous to name out loud.

But I'm also hopeful. Hopeful because I've seen what happens when communities refuse to give up welcome. Hopeful because love doesn't go away when you legislate against it. It just gets more creative. More visible. More stubborn.

When you walk past one of those yard signs, or a person wearing the t-shirt, or enter a classroom that dares to affirm every child's belovedness, remember: this isn't political.

It's a promise.

​And some of us intend to keep it. Not in defiance, but in faith.

We are a nation that chooses, again and again, to build walls and cages rather than communities of care. A nation that would sooner offer tax breaks to billionaires than ensure children have enough to eat or the sick can see a doctor. We are a people whose leaders laugh as they contemplate letting migrants be eaten by alligators or drown at our borders. They sneer at the loss of health care in rural communities. They shrug at the suffering that will come from slashing Medicaid, as if the lives that hang in the balance are of no consequence at all.

And if that weren’t enough, we stand beneath the shadow of a Supreme Court that has handed vast new, unchecked powers – and near-total immunity – to the executive branch. Powers that will outlast this administration, and the next, and perhaps the one after that. Powers that should terrify all who care about justice, democracy, and the fragile promise of liberty.

I know it hurts. Especially for those of us who don’t see ourselves as an active part in the downward spiral of society. Still, we can’t keep pretending otherwise. A majority of our nation's citizens (us!) voted for this. We voted for racism. We voted for modern internment camps. We voted for highly-weaponized immigration agents. We voted for brutal cuts to Medicaid and SNAP benefits. We voted for cruelty. This is who we are.

But (and here’s the hard hope in this moment) – this doesn’t have to be who we remain.

​Scripture knows this story all too well. Isaiah cried out to a people who claimed to seek God but lived lives soaked in injustice:

Jesus, too, made it plain. In Matthew 25 he told us that the nations will be judged by how they treated the least of these: the hungry, the sick, the stranger, the imprisoned. Not by their grandstanding speeches. Not by their immense prosperity. Not by how efficiently they trimmed a budget or secured their borders. They would be judged by love in action.

When we look at our national life today, we see how far we have strayed. But let us be clear: we are not the first generation to face this choice. The Bible is full of moments where God’s people must decide: will we serve the God of justice or the gods of greed and fear?

Brutal, not-at-all beautiful bills may pass. Glorified internment camps (concentration camps?) may be built. Wars may be started. Cuts may go through. Billionaires may get their handouts. But none of this changes our call as followers of Jesus: to stand with the vulnerable, to speak truth to power, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim release to the captives.

So if this is who we are, what do we do?

Let’s be the ones who refuse to let this chapter of our history be the end of our story.

We tell the truth. We don’t sugarcoat or minimize. We name the harm being done to the poor, the sick, the migrant, the child. We resist the temptation to retreat into comfortable denial or hollow optimism. We push back against people and policies who use the language of Christian faith to defend bigotry and violence.

And, we don’t stop there. People of conscience and moral character have work to do:

• Advocate. Keep writing, calling, and showing up. The passage of one big bill is not the end of the story. Legislators need to hear, again and again, that we are watching and we will not stand silent.
• Mobilize. The choices made by this Congress can be challenged at the ballot box. Organize. Register voters. Support candidates committed to justice and compassion.
• Pray. Not as a substitute for action but as its foundation. Pray for courage. Pray for wisdom. Pray for the vulnerable. Pray for those who have hardened their hearts that they may yet be moved to compassion.
• Gather. Find your people. We need one another more than ever. Grief shared is bearable. Action taken together is powerful.
• Care for those hit hardest. The cuts to healthcare and hunger programs will fall hardest on the poor, the disabled, the elderly, rural families. The camps will target migrants and asylum-seekers. Immigration policies will focus upon people of color. Be the hands of Christ in tangible, practical ways.
• Practice defiant joy. When cruelty reigns, joy is an act of resistance. Celebrate beauty. Make art. Laugh with your loved ones. Tend your garden. Dance at weddings. Refuse to let the powers of death steal your soul.
• Care for yourself. Justice work is not a sprint, it’s a long, sustained note. Picture the choir holding that note, singers staggering their breaths so the song continues. Take your breath when you need it. Rest. See a therapist. Fill that anxiety prescription. Step away when you must. Trust that others will carry the note until you’re ready to rejoin the song.

Friends, it is tempting to despair. But despair is a luxury we cannot afford, if we claim to follow Jesus. The same Jesus who was crucified by the violence of empire is the one who rose again. The same Jesus who preached good news to the poor still calls to us now: follow me.

​So let’s follow him, not with empty words but with lives that say: this is not who we will remain.