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A Lament for a Nation Unmoored

There is blood on the ground again.
A young woman in North Carolina,
who fled one war only to be swallowed by another …
stabbed on a train,
her story cut short before she even had a chance to write it.

A congresswoman in Minnesota and her husband,
executed in the quiet of their own home …
a sanctuary turned into a grave.

Children in a school,
their laughter silenced by gunfire.

And a man … Charlie Kirk …
shot while speaking words to a crowd.
And before the echo of the bullet fades,
before we know who or why,
the blame game begins.
Because we already know, don’t we?
We already have our villains picked out.

This is what it means to be unmoored.
To drift.
To lose sight of the shore.
To shout across the waters
instead of rowing toward one another.

We rage.
We divide.
We accuse.
We forget that we belong to each other.

Sit quietly. Breathe. Let the weight of what we know settle in our bones.
We live in a time of sharp edges …
a time when words are weapons before they are bridges.

The story of America was always a grand experiment …
a fragile dream
that people with different names and faces and prayers
could actually live together.

But somewhere along the way
we confused difference with danger.
And now we are drowning in the waters of our own hate.

And into this chaos,
a voice still whispers:

“Do not be overcome by evil,
but overcome evil with good.” ~Romans 12:21

Let that be our lantern in the dark.
Not to deny evil … to name it, to resist it … but to refuse to become what we despise.
To resist the shrug of indifference, the snap of judgment, the hardening of the heart.

Not platitude.
Not sentiment.
Resistance.
Rebellion.
A counter-narrative in a world where anger is currency
and hate is power.

So what do we do with this ache,
this grief,
this fracture?

We weep.
We lament.
We refuse to numb ourselves.

We name the evil.
We sit in the tension.
We cry out to the One who hears the blood of Abel still
crying from the ground.

And we remember …
we do not have to agree to love.
We do not have to understand to honor.
We do not have to win to serve.

So …. we lament

We lament These are not isolated tragedies; they stitch together a pattern. A rising heat of fear. A widening chasm in what we believe, who we are allowed to be, and who we think deserves justice or pity.

We lament that we do not yet know the full stories … the motives, the shadows, the human hearts in them … yet we so quickly assign them to “other,” to “them.”
We lose integrity in our haste.

We lament that civility is ever more fragile; trust ever more scarce.
That the presence of another … different in speech, in belief, in background … feels like threat. That compassion is increasingly viewed as weakness.

May we live as people who follow the Romans’ call … resisting evil, but not becoming evil; loving even when angry; speaking truth even when tempted by blame.

May our nation, which is unmoored, find its anchor again: justice, mercy, peace.
May our neighbors be recognized … not as enemies to defeat, but as souls to see.

O God … anchor us.
O Christ … heal us.
O Spirit … breathe civility, compassion, and courage
back into our weary lungs.

Until we learn again
that the only way forward
is to be overcome not by rage,
but by good.

Amen.

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Dirty Hands, Holy Ground

A meditation on Luke 10:25–37

So there’s this lawyer.
A Torah expert.
A person who knows the law inside and out…
Knows what’s written.
But isn’t quite sure how to live it.

“Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
It’s the question beneath all the questions.
How do I really live?
What does it mean to be alive in the way God intended?

And Jesus, in classic Jesus form,
Doesn’t answer.
He tosses the question right back.

“What’s written in the Law? How do you read it?”

The man answers:
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind…
And love your neighbor as yourself.”

Jesus says, “Yes. Do this and you will live.”

But the man wants clarity.
Actually, he wants control.
Because clarity is cleaner than compassion.
And control feels safer than proximity.

So he asks: “And who is my neighbor?”

That’s when Jesus tells a story.

A man…
Going from Jerusalem to Jericho.
Robbed.
Beaten.
Left half dead.

A priest passes by.
Sees him.
Moves to the other side.

A Levite.
Sees him.
Moves to the other side.

You know how this works.
You’ve felt it.
When compassion costs too much.
When helping might stain your robes.
Or ruin your schedule.
Or wreck your reputation.

And then…
A Samaritan.

Wait – what?

That’s not how the story’s supposed to go.
Jews and Samaritans…
They don’t mix.
They’re oil and water.
Romeo and Juliet.
Montagues and Capulets.

But this Samaritan…
Sees.
And stops.

He kneels down in the dust.
Touches wounds that aren’t his.
Pours out oil.
Binds up flesh.
Puts the broken man on his own animal.
Takes him to an inn.
Pays the bill.
Leaves a tab open.

The Samaritan doesn’t ask,
“Is this man part of my tribe?”
He doesn’t check for credentials or alignment.
He just loves.
Fully.
Freely.
Recklessly.

Jesus finishes the story.
Looks the lawyer in the eye and says,
“So… who was a neighbor?”

And the lawyer … who can’t even say “Samaritan”
Just mumbles,
“The one who had mercy.”

And Jesus says,
“Go and do likewise.”

See, we think the parable is about someone else.
The guy on the road.
The priest.
The Samaritan.

But maybe…
It’s about us.
All of us.
Because we are the ones who walk by.
And sometimes we’re the ones bleeding.
And sometimes…when grace grips us…
We’re the ones who stop.

The road to Jericho runs through our hearts.
Winding.
Dangerous.
Messy.

And this Jesus…
He keeps telling stories
That wreck our categories.
That flip the script.
That won’t let us settle for religion that avoids the wounded.

He keeps asking,
Not who is your neighbor…
But what kind of neighbor are you becoming?

So maybe today,
It’s not about what we know.
It’s about what we do.
And not just who we love,
But how far we’re willing to cross over
To love the ones we’d rather avoid.

Because that’s where eternal life lives.
In the dust.
On the road.
In the reach.

Go and do likewise.

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What If You’re The Treasure?

A Meditation on Matthew 13:44-46

44 “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. 45 “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. 46 When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.”

Jesus says,
the kingdom of heaven is like a man
who finds a treasure in a field…
and sells everything
to have it.

Or a merchant
who sees a pearl
and walks away
from everything else
because nothing compares.

And for years,
we’ve been told:
You’re the one who must give it all up.
You’re the one who has to surrender.
You’re the one who has to find the kingdom.
Seek harder.
Dig deeper.
Sell more.

But…
what if that’s not the only way to read this?

What if,
you’re the treasure in the field?

What if,
you’re the pearl of great price?

And God,
God is the one who goes looking.

God,
wandering the wild fields of humanity.
God,
searching the dusty markets of the world.

God,
not stumbling,
not rushing,
but with eyes full of knowing
and a heart full of longing…
sees you.

Hidden.
Overlooked.
Covered in dirt.
Pressed down by shame and stories that were never true.

And God says:
That one.

And sells everything.

Divinity wrapped in skin.
Infinite squeezed into an infant.
A cross.
A grave.
A resurrection.

Why?

Because you
are worth it.

Not someday.
Not when you clean yourself up.
Not once you prove yourself.
Now.
As you are.

That’s the twist.

The kingdom isn’t just something you find.
It’s something that finds you.
Because you’re the joy.
You’re the prize.
You’re the one worth everything
to the One who made everything.

So maybe the invitation
isn’t just to sell it all.
Maybe it’s to believe
you’re worth the cost
that’s already been paid.

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When the noise breaks, the Voice speaks

A Journey Through Psalm 34 (included at the end)

There’s something sacred about being undone.

Not in the way the world talks about coming undone…like a meltdown or a failure or a moment where everything spirals out of control. No, I’m talking about the kind of undoing where all the noise finally drops, where your white-knuckled grip on trying to manage everything loosens just long enough for the Spirit to get in.

David writes in Psalm 34, “I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears.”

Let that sink in: delivered from all my fears.

Not avoided.
Not numbed.
Not suppressed.

Delivered.

David was in a cave when he wrote this. Not on a mountain. Not on a spiritual high. He was hiding. Escaping. Traumatized. Yet, in the shadows of the cave, he gives us a path to peace. A trail through the wild terrain of anxiety.

Here’s what this psalm whispers to our busy brains:

1. Seek.
David says, “I sought the Lord.” When anxiety rises, our instinct is to seek control. But the invitation is to seek Presence. Try this: Breathe in deeply and simply whisper, “Here I am, Lord.” Let that be your seeking. A posture more than a prayer.

2. Speak.
David says, “His praise will always be on my lips.” Praise in a cave? Yes. Not because the cave is good, but because God is still good in the cave. Speak gratitude out loud…list three things right now. Name them. Words have power to reroute our panic.

3. See.
“Those who look to Him are radiant.” What you gaze upon shapes your soul. Shift your focus. Turn your eyes from what terrifies you to what anchors you. Try this: Picture the face of Christ…gentle, unhurried, knowing. Let your soul make eye contact.

4. Surrender.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” You don’t have to fix yourself before God gets close. You just have to stop pretending you’re not broken. Lay down the armor. Let Him be close. That nearness is what heals.

5. Rest.
Not everything gets resolved in a moment. Psalm 34 is not a formula…it’s a rhythm. Return to it again and again. When the brain races, return to the words: “He delivered me from all my fears.” Memorize it. Whisper it like a lullaby for your soul.

When your mind runs in circles and your chest tightens with the weight of everything, come back to this:

“Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him.”
(Psalm 34:8)

Refuge doesn’t mean retreat…it means safety. It means belonging. It means you’re not alone.

Even in the cave.

Psalm 34

Praise for Deliverance from Trouble

Of David, when he feigned madness before Abimelech, so that he drove him out, and he went away.

1 I will bless the Lord at all times;
    his praise shall continually be in my mouth.
2 My soul makes its boast in the Lord;
    let the humble hear and be glad.
3 O magnify the Lord with me,
    and let us exalt his name together.

4 I sought the Lord, and he answered me,
    and delivered me from all my fears.
5 Look to him, and be radiant;
    so your[a] faces shall never be ashamed.
6 This poor soul cried, and was heard by the Lord,
    and was saved from every trouble.
7 The angel of the Lord encamps
    around those who fear him, and delivers them.
8 O taste and see that the Lord is good;
    happy are those who take refuge in him.
9 O fear the Lord, you his holy ones,
    for those who fear him have no want.
10 The young lions suffer want and hunger,
    but those who seek the Lord lack no good thing.

11 Come, O children, listen to me;
    I will teach you the fear of the Lord.
12 Which of you desires life,
    and covets many days to enjoy good?
13 Keep your tongue from evil,
    and your lips from speaking deceit.
14 Depart from evil, and do good;
    seek peace, and pursue it.

15 The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous,
    and his ears are open to their cry.
16 The face of the Lord is against evildoers,
    to cut off the remembrance of them from the earth.
17 When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears,
    and rescues them from all their troubles.
18 The Lord is near to the broken-hearted,
    and saves the crushed in spirit.

19 Many are the afflictions of the righteous,
    but the Lord rescues them from them all.
20 He keeps all their bones;
    not one of them will be broken.
21 Evil brings death to the wicked,
    and those who hate the righteous will be condemned.
22 The Lord redeems the life of his servants;
    none of those who take refuge in him will be condemned.