community – Southwest Conference Blog

There are two ways to look at a 250-year-old entity.

by Rev. Paul A. Whitlock

I have a confession to make, and if you’ve been around me for any length of time, it won’t come as a shock: I am still that nerdy, slightly sarcastic pastor who is utterly obsessed with the details. I’m the guy who wants to look past the Cliff Notes version of history, scratch beneath the surface, and figure out what is actually going on.

And this July 4^th weekend, the details are staggering.

The Fourth of July isn’t just any Fourth of July. We have officially crossed the threshold into the year 2026. Our nation celebrated its Semiquincentennial—a terrifyingly long word to spell or pronounce that simply means America is exactly 250 years old.

Two and a half centuries.

Now, if you tune into the television or scroll through social media this weekend, you are going to see a lot of grand celebrations. You’re going to see multi-million-dollar firework spectacles, endless parades, and politicians of every stripe wrapping themselves in the flag, telling us exactly what patriotism is supposed to look like.

For many progressive people of faith, a weekend like this can stir up some pretty complicated feelings.

We are often told by the louder voices in our culture that patriotism means blind allegiance. We are told it means uncritical praise. We are told that to love your country means you have to nod along, smile, and pretend that everything is—and always has been—perfectly fine.

But if you remember, our national anthem doesn’t end with an exclamation point. The song ends with a question mark: “O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”

It’s an ongoing interrogation. And true patriotism doesn’t require us to ignore our history. It demands that we face it.

As we stand today, looking back at 250 years of this grand experiment called America, we have to ask ourselves: What kind of nation are we celebrating?

There are two ways to look at a 250-year-old entity. You can treat it like a monument, or you can treat it like a living tree.

A monument is made of granite or marble. It’s beautiful, it’s grand, and it’s completely dead. It never changes. It doesn’t grow. It doesn’t adapt.

If a monument cracks, you don’t heal it; you just patch the stone. The purpose of a monument is to look backward, to freeze a single moment in time and worship it.

A lot of the patriotism we see on display today is monument-worship. It’s an insistence that the ink dried in 1776, the story is finished, and our only job is to guard the stone.

But our faith calls us to something entirely different. Our faith calls us to look at our country as a living tree. A tree that was planted 250 years ago with some incredibly rich, revolutionary soil—the promises of liberty, equality, and the pursuit of happiness. But a living tree grows. A living tree faces harsh winters. A living tree gets diseased branches that have to be pruned. A living tree requires us to look at the soil and ask: Is every root getting enough water, or are some parts of the garden being left to rot?

When we look at America through the lens of faith, we are practicing what we call prophetic patriotism. We love the tree enough to pull the weeds around it.

Acknowledging the deep wounds of our society—whether it’s the crisis of homelessness on our streets, the systemic bias that still plagues our justice system, or the way we treat the environment—that isn’t un-American. It is the highest form of civic and spiritual responsibility. To love a nation is to hold it to its highest ideals.

The trouble is, the world doesn’t want us to look at the living tree. The world wants to put blinders on us. It wants to pump us full of fear and control exactly what we see.

Why? Because fear sells. Fear keeps people isolated in their tents. Fear convinces us that our neighbors are our enemies.

It is exhausting to live under that kind of cultural anxiety. It is a heavy, crushing pack to wear.

And it is precisely into that kind of exhaustion that Jesus speaks in our Gospel reading from Matthew. He looks at a crowd of people who are worn out by the demands of the world, worn out by religious systems that don’t give a damn about them, worn out by political empires that use them up, and he 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.”

Now, let’s look at the details of that text. When we hear the word “yoke,” we usually think of something restrictive, a symbol of slavery or hard, lonely labor. But a yoke in the ancient world was actually a tool of partnership. A yoke was a wooden frame designed for two oxen to pull together side-by-side.

When Jesus says, “Take my yoke upon you,” he isn’t saying, “Go off and pull a heavy cart by yourself.” He is saying, “Get into the harness with me. Stop trying to carry the weight of the world on your own back. Let’s pull together.”

If America at 250 years old is an unfinished story, then you and I are called to get out of the world’s harness of cynicism and step into Christ’s yoke of justice. Prophetic patriotism means that we refuse to let our faith be locked up in the tent, and we refuse to carry the exhausting lie that things can never get better.

When the world looks at systemic poverty or the defunding of local programs and says, “Well, that’s just the way it is—it’s too heavy a problem to fix,” the church steps into the yoke. We roll up our sleeves. We know that when we pull together, the burden becomes light.

Every time we donate to a food pantry, every time we partner with local nonprofits to demand better housing and safer streets, every time we look at the immigrant and the asylum seeker, and we don’t see a political talking point—we see a child of God, a fellow traveler no different than our own ancestors who risked everything on the Mayflower because they were desperate for safety.

We bring Christ’s rest to the weary parts of our neighborhoods where the world has given up.

Church, humans are notoriously terrible at guessing what the future holds. We look at the shadows, we look at the thick smoke of political division, and we worry that the light at the end of the tunnel is just an oncoming train.

But God is really good at rewriting the future.

As we step into this 250th year of our nation, let us refuse to offer our country the cheap patriotism of blind allegiance. Let us offer it the deep, costly, beautiful gift of prophetic patriotism.

Let us be the light that shines forth love and civility when racism and misogyny rear their heads. Let us be the light of compassion and mercy when policies favor the rich at the expense of the poor. Let us keep our flags of welcome flying high, refusing to let fear dictate our gospel of radical hospitality.

This is our place. To bind up wounds. To comfort the grieving. To feed the hungry. To house the unhoused. And to proclaim the truth to the country we love, for as long as we have breath.

The weight of the next 250 years is too much for any of us to carry alone. But Christ’s yoke is easy, and Jesus’ burden is light. Let’s step into it, roll up our sleeves, and pull together. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Rev. Paul A. Whitlock, Senior Pastor at The Church of the Palms, UCC. Paul is driven by a passionate belief that faith should be active, inclusive, and deeply committed to social justice. A resident of the Southwest, he has developed a great love for the local landscape, spending his off-hours tending to his cacti, though he is just as likely to be found cheering on his favorite sports teams. This year marks a beautiful milestone for Paul and his wife, Wendy, as they celebrate 40 years of marriage. They have three grown children, a couple of very spoiled cats keeping things lively at home, and three spoiled grand-dogs.

Prophetic Patriotism: Reflecting on America at 250

by Rev. Paul A. Whitlock

As our nation approaches its 250th anniversary this July, we find ourselves inundated with grand celebrations, parades, and highly publicized spectacles. For many in progressive communities of faith, this milestone can stir complicated feelings. We are often told that patriotism means blind allegiance, uncritical praise, or aligning ourselves with whatever political philosophy currently holds power.

But as followers of a gospel rooted in justice, love, and truth-telling, we know there is a deeper, more enduring way to love our country.

True patriotism does not require us to ignore our history; rather, it demands that we face it. To love a nation is to hold it to its highest ideals. James Baldwin beautifully captured this sentiment when he wrote, “I love America more than any other country in the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.”

Our faith calls us to a form of prophetic patriotism. We can celebrate the profound promises of the Declaration of Independence—liberty, equality, and the pursuit of happiness—while simultaneously lamenting the ways our nation has failed, and continues to fail, to extend those promises to all people. Acknowledging the deep wounds of systemic racism, indigenous displacement, economic inequality, and environmental degradation is not un-American. It is the very definition of civic responsibility.

This Semiquincentennial, let us refuse to let our patriotism be questioned just because it is paired with a thirst for justice. We celebrate not by waving flags at partisan rallies, but by recommitting ourselves to building a more perfect union. We honor our country by feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, protecting the marginalized, and continuing the sacred, unfinished work of democracy.

Shalom, Paul

Rev. Paul A. Whitlock, Senior Pastor at The Church of the Palms, UCC. Paul is driven by a passionate belief that faith should be active, inclusive, and deeply committed to social justice. A resident of the Southwest, he has developed a great love for the local landscape, spending his off-hours tending to his cacti, though he is just as likely to be found cheering on his favorite sports teams. This year marks a beautiful milestone for Paul and his wife, Wendy, as they celebrate 40 years of marriage. They have three grown children, a couple of very spoiled grand-cats keeping things lively at home, and three spoiled grand-dogs.

Rethinking Church: What Intentional Communities Can Teach Us

by Rev. Bill Utke

About a decade ago, following twenty years of ordained ministry, I was given a rare gift: time. With the support of my congregation and a grant from the Lilly Foundation’s Clergy Renewal Program, I entered a three-month sabbatical season of rest, reflection, and renewal.

As part of that journey, I spent three weeks living at La’akea, an intentional community on the Big Island of Hawai‘i. Although the course I had planned to attend was canceled just before I arrived, the community still welcomed me as a guest. I lived alongside full members, trial members, and work traders, sharing in the rhythms of their daily life.

What I encountered did not look like church.

And yet, it revealed something essential about what church has been—and what we might aspire to become in today’s world.

Let me be clear: I am not suggesting that congregations adopt every aspect of life at La’akea. The community differs from most churches in significant ways—there is no shared theology, no formal leadership structure, and it embraces lifestyles many congregations would find outside their tradition.

And yet, beneath those differences are practices that echo something deeply biblical: shared life, mutual care, honest speech, and communal discernment. In that sense, La’akea did not challenge my understanding of church as much as it brought me back to the church’s roots.

Shared Values as Covenant

At La’akea, community is grounded in a clearly articulated set of shared values. These are not abstract ideals but lived commitments that guide decisions, relationships, and responsibilities. Everyone who joins the community agrees to uphold them.

This functions much like covenant. It recalls the early church in Acts, where believers ordered their lives around shared commitments, not simply shared beliefs.

Churches often assume belief is enough to hold us together. But belief does not always translate into shared life. What if we were more explicit—not only about what we believe, but how we live together?

Discernment Over Decision-Making

Perhaps the most transformative practice I encountered was consensus decision-making.

Rather than relying on majority vote, La’akea practices communal discernment. A proposal is offered, discussed, and refined by the group. Disagreement is not seen as obstruction, but as engagement.

When it is time to decide, each person responds in one of three ways: agree, step aside, or block. A “block” is rare and signals a serious concern that the proposal violates the community’s core values. On member said, “one only uses a ‘block’ when they are ready to leave the community over the difference of opinion.”

This process echoes Acts 15, where the early church gathers, listens, debates, and ultimately declares what “seems good to the Holy Spirit and to us.”

Consensus takes time. But it also builds trust, deepens commitment, and often leads to stronger outcomes. The decision belongs to the whole community—not just the majority.

Practices That Form Community

What struck me most was that community at La’akea was not left to chance. It was practiced.

Each morning began with a conch shell calling the community together. At breakfast, each person briefly checked in—sharing how they were doing physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

It was simple, but powerful. A daily practice of presence.

Evenings brought shared meals, prepared collaboratively, beginning with a moment of silence, breath, or gratitude. Weekly gatherings called “HeartShare” created space for deeper listening. One person could speak openly while others listened and, with permission, asked questions—without judgment or the need to fix.

These rhythms felt deeply familiar. They echoed the practices of the early church: breaking bread, sharing life, bearing one another’s burdens.

Churches often rely on programs to build community. But programs alone cannot sustain it. Community is formed through repeated practices of presence, listening, and care.

A Culture of Mutual Responsibility

At La’akea, everyone contributed to the life of the community—cooking, cleaning, tending the land. Care was also shared. When someone had a need, they named it, and others responded.

Needs were not hidden. They were spoken.

This reflects the vision of the Body of Christ in 1 Corinthians: if one member suffers, all suffer together. Community depends on both honesty and responsiveness.

Leadership was shared as well. Roles rotated. People were encouraged to step into leadership and grow through experience.

The church speaks of “equipping the saints,” but too often leadership remains concentrated in a few. What if leadership development were better woven into the fabric of congregational life?

Space as Sacred Commons

One of the more eye-opening insights for me was the community’s understanding of space.

The Main House at La’akea—its central gathering place—was held in common. No one could claim it. It belonged to everyone.

In churches, buildings, or certain spaces, can gradually become associated with particular groups or individuals. While understandable, this can create barriers.

What if we reclaimed our buildings as sacred commons—not just for members, but for the wider community? Not as something to protect, but as something to offer?

What Might Church Become?

La’akea does not look like church.

But it embodies something the church has always been called to be: a people shaped not only by belief, but by shared life. A people who listen deeply, speak honestly, care for one another, and trust that wisdom can emerge from the whole.

The invitation is not to abandon our traditions, but to rediscover their heart.

Perhaps the future of the church is not something entirely new, but something deeply ancient: a community where discernment matters more than winning, where leadership is shared and nurtured, where needs are spoken and met with compassion, and where daily life itself becomes a kind of liturgy.

The question is not whether such a church is possible.

The question is whether we are willing to practice our way into it.

Since September 2021, Rev. Bill Utke has been senior pastor of Desert Garden UCC, Sun City West, AZ. Beginning in 1993 he has served churches in Southern Illinois, Michigan and Wisconsin.

Taking a Stand and Bearing Witness

by Rev. James Briney

I think it is a mistake to identify the No Kings gatherings as a protest. Such occasions are far more. They present an opportunity to take a stand and to bear witness. They speak to and transcend the present time.

The roots of what has become of our representative democracy began to take hold in 1970 when state legislatures were organized to favor Gerrymandering based on race, and voter suppression. Conservative think tanks drafted boilerplate language to accomplish their intentions and identified bill sponsors.

On Saturday, March 28th as I stood with the thousands of individuals bearing witness to their belief in democracy and inclusion, I spoke with a man who is older than I am. He has never been an activist, but he has awakened to the necessity of standing for the values he was introduced to in civics class as a schoolboy.

I sought a seat in the Michigan House of Representatives in 1968. I ran as a Republican. The 8-term incumbent I sought to oppose was backed by vestiges of the Klan. The legislator who represented me had done nothing to eliminate redlining and other practices sanctioned in law that stifled opportunities for many of his constituents.

As a post-graduate student in Indianapolis, I served as assistant to the mayor when Dick Lugar held the office. Subsequently he became a United States Senator, serving multiple terms, until he was defeated by a Tea Party candidate in the primary. In recent decades, low voter turnout has favored the nomination and election of extremists. The key to reclaiming what the founders, and veterans who have risked their lives and died, is voting and basing our preferences on reason, information, and facts.

Ethical constructs may acquaint us with the right thing to do. Integrity is doing it. When you know the right thing to do, but are not certain of the outcome, do it anyway. You will be joining a long line of patriots who have taken a stand when it counts and have borne witness throughout our history as a nation.

KATRINA

by Dr. Kristina “Tina” Campbell

Last Sunday I had the opportunity to observe Dr. Gloria Smith sit on the floor surrounded by young adults. She was addressing the 20^th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, an event that took place before most of them were born. In her typically respectful posture toward the young, Dr. Smith carefully explained the rise of the storm and the circumstances that made it so devastating. She went on to clearly describe not only the real-life physical aftermath of Katrina, but the reality of those who were the most physically, emotionally and morally injured…the harsh reality for the poor and disenfranchised. However, Dr. Smith did not stop here. She talked about the importance of the concept of neighbor helping neighbor, how the UCC rolled up its collective sleeves, and began picking up one stick at a time.

Katrina slammed into New Orleans, reportedly as one of the worst five storms in American history, and like the open casket of Emmett Louis Till, forced Americans to see the ugly divide of race. I watched in horror as Brian Williams reported his personal experience with Katrina’s aftermath in an NBC news special that appeared a year after the storm hit. Williams repeated over and over again that the post Katrina situation did not resemble anything that could happen in the United States, and that the human suffering was incredible by modern standards. As the crowd in the Superdome grew to more than 30,000, Williams lost his reporter’s neutrality, and talked about the inhabitants as being “obviously poor” and mostly African American. He went on to report that the Superdome inhabitants were treated roughly by the National Guard, and the whole situation “felt bad.” After the storm passed, and the levees broke, flooding at least 80% of the city, Williams, hoping to use the media’s influence in a positive way, further dropped his neutrality and pleaded with any authorities who would listen to recognize that there were people still in desperate need of help. Williams stated in an interview that he viewed the situation from his own standing as a father and husband, and related back to his childhood values that we are all of equal value. He summarized that the families of color in New Orleans were not treated with equal value.

This news special put my own mind and heart into motion. Who were these people who remained in New Orleans during and after the storm? Why did they stay? How did the rest of the country view them? Why didn’t we know about them before?

The term “underclass” was coined in the United States by journalist Ken Auletta, and it focuses attention on the basement of the American social system (those who are viewed to be “under” the rest of us). Christopher Jencks suggests three different kinds of “underclass”: economic (those who are working age and unable to get steady work); moral (whose with deviant behavioral norms such as addiction) and educational (those lacking in cultural and social skills). These citizens are the least privileged in our culture. Many of those most harshly affected by Katrina were already the poorest of the poor. The people who remained during and after Katrina lacked basic resources to evacuate the area.

Barack Obama responded by saying, “I hope we realize that the people of New Orleans weren’t just abandoned during the hurricane. They were abandoned long ago—to murder and mayhem in the streets, to substandard schools, to dilapidated housing, to inadequate health care, to a pervasive sense of hopelessness.”

The moral question becomes: Will Americans continue to turn a blind eye to the underclass and support political decisions based on hate, privilege and prejudice or will we come together to form a community of hope, picking up one spiritual stick at a time? Will we learn the painful lessons that Katrina was trying to teach? Will we, like Dr. Gloria Smith, pass on our learnings to the next generation, roll up our sleeves, suit up and show up, and say a resounding “no” to hate and hopelessness??? I say it’s time to get to work.

Image by Milano Ryce on flickr

12 Safeguards for Spiritual Caregivers

by Christopher Schouten

For clergy or lay members engaged in the demanding and holy work of pastoral care, sustainability is key. The following safeguards are designed to help you protect your spirit, maintain healthy boundaries, and continue to serve from a place of fullness rather than depletion, preventing burnout and compassion fatigue.

Anchor Yourself in Personal Spiritual Practices You cannot pour out what you have not first received. Your personal time for prayer, scripture study, and quiet contemplation is not a luxury – it is the very source of the grace you extend to others. Protect this time fiercely so you can minister from a place of genuine connection with God.
Acknowledge the Sacred Weight of the Work The stories you hear and the pain you witness are heavy. Acknowledge the emotional and spiritual toll of this ministry. Like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, it is okay to feel the weight of this work. Naming it prevents the burden from silently crushing your spirit.
Set Healthy Ministry Boundaries Your role is to be a companion, not a savior. Practice compassionate detachment by walking with people in their pain without taking their burdens on as your own. Know when a visit is over, be clear about your availability, and protect your family and personal time.
Actively Give and Receive Care Within Your Team Your care team meetings should be more than just case management. They must be a safe space for you to be vulnerable, to share your own struggles, and to pray for one another. Intentionally practice being a caregiver to your fellow team members.
Know When to Refer You are a spiritual companion, not a professional therapist or social worker. A critical part of responsible pastoral care is recognizing situations that are beyond the scope of your training. See it as a strength, not a failure, to connect someone with professional counseling or other resources.
Practice Spiritual and Emotional Self-Awareness Regularly and prayerfully check in with yourself. What are your personal signs of stress or fatigue? Are you feeling irritable, cynical, or emotionally numb? Pay attention to these signals from your body and spirit as a prompt to seek rest and support.
Embrace the Discipline of Sabbath True Sabbath is more than just a day off; it is a deliberate ceasing from work and worry to delight in God and creation. Intentionally schedule time for rest, hobbies, and activities that replenish your soul and have nothing to do with your ministry role.
Nurture Your Life Outside of Ministry Your identity is more than “pastoral caregiver.” Cultivate your friendships, family relationships, and personal interests. Maintaining a full and varied life provides perspective, joy, and resilience that will, in turn, enrich your ministry.
Seek Continual Spiritual Formation Continue to be a student of faith. Participating in Bible studies, attending workshops, or going on retreats for your own spiritual growth will deepen your wellspring of wisdom and grace, equipping you for the long haul of ministry.
Practice Grace-Filled Self-Compassion You will not always have the right words. You will sometimes feel like you have failed. In these moments, extend the same grace to yourself that you are called to extend to others. Remember that your worth is not in your effectiveness, but in your identity as a beloved child of God.
Reconnect with Your Calling When you feel weary, take time to remember and reflect on why you first felt called to this ministry. Sharing these stories with your team can be a powerful reminder of your shared purpose and God’s faithfulness.
Lean on Church Leadership You are not in this alone. Your senior minister and other church leaders are there to support you. Be honest with them about the team’s weariness and your personal need for support. A healthy ministry is one where caregivers feel seen, valued, and supported by their leadership.

Based on the works of:

Barton, R. H. (2008). Strengthening the Soul of Your Leadership: Seeking God in the Crucible of Ministry. InterVarsity Press.

Burns, B., Chapman, T. D., & Guthrie, D. C. (2013). Resilient Ministry: What Pastors Told Us About Surviving and Thriving. IVP Books.

Beyond the Ballot: A Christian Call to Understanding in Divided Times

by Christopher Schouten

We live in deeply polarized times. If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve felt bewildered, frustrated, or even angered by the political choices of fellow Americans, perhaps even friends or family members. The rise and continued support for figures like Donald Trump often elicit strong reactions, and the question “How can they possibly support him?” echoes in many conversations. For those of us guided by faith, this political chasm presents not only a civic challenge but a spiritual one. How do we respond when faced with views that seem diametrically opposed to our own, especially when guided by Christ’s teachings?

Common answers often point to racism, ignorance, or blind allegiance. While prejudice and misinformation are undeniably part of the complex picture, relying solely on these explanations can sometimes feel insufficient. It can shut down curiosity and prevent us from understanding the deeper currents that might be influencing millions of people. As Christians, we are called to something deeper than surface judgment. We’re called to look beyond outward appearances, remembering that “The Lord does not look at the things people look at… the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). If our goal is not just to win arguments, but perhaps to build bridges as peacemakers (Matthew 5:9) and reflect Christ’s love, we need to be willing to explore the underlying human experiences with a spirit of compassion.

This isn’t about excusing harmful beliefs or actions. Understanding is not endorsement, and we must always speak truth to injustice. But it is about recognizing the shared humanity, the Imago Dei, in every person, and exploring the complex motivations that might lead someone to a vastly different political conclusion. Drawing from conversations, observations, and trying to piece together the ‘why’, I believe a significant driver is a profound anxiety rooted in the dizzying pace and nature of change transforming America and the world.

The Currents Beneath the Surface: Change, Fear, and the Search for Stability

Imagine feeling like the ground is constantly shifting beneath your feet. For decades, many communities, particularly outside major urban centers, have experienced significant economic disruption – manufacturing jobs disappear, small towns struggle, and promises of prosperity ring hollow. But even for those not directly experiencing all these shifts locally, the perception of rapid, unsettling change elsewhere – witnessed daily through news feeds, social media, and television – can be profoundly destabilizing. This perceived pace of transformation, often focusing on urban centers or evolving cultural norms, is frequently highlighted and amplified by political narratives seeking to exploit the resulting anxiety. Simultaneously, technology reframes entire industries and social interactions at lightning speed across the board. Cultural norms evolve, demographic landscapes shift, and long-held identities or social hierarchies feel questioned or overturned, contributing to this widespread sense of unease.

For someone whose identity, livelihood, or sense of community feels deeply tied to a particular way of life, this relentless change – whether directly experienced or intensely observed – isn’t just an abstract concept; it can feel like a direct threat. It can breed anxiety about the future, nostalgia for a perceived simpler past, and a feeling of being left behind or ignored by a mainstream culture that seems to celebrate constant disruption. This anxiety is real, even if the conclusions drawn from it are ones we strongly disagree with. Recognizing this vulnerability is an act of compassion, reflecting the call to “clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience” (Colossians 3:12).

Consider the perspective from some rural areas. They might see rapid cultural shifts portrayed in national media that feel alien to their daily lives and values. It can foster a sense of “us vs. them,” a feeling that their way of life is misunderstood, mocked, or under siege by distant forces. Similarly, older individuals often have decades invested in the world as it was; rapid change can feel particularly destabilizing when you’ve built a life within a certain framework. This isn’t necessarily about rejecting progress wholesale, but about the speed and nature of the change feeling overwhelming and imposed.

When people feel anxious, destabilized, and ignored, they become understandably receptive to narratives that offer clarity, validation, and a sense of control. This is where political leadership and messaging become crucial.

Narratives of Restoration and the Appeal of the Strongman

Fear and anxiety create fertile ground for leaders who promise to restore order, defend traditional values, and fight back against the perceived sources of disruption. The appeal lies in the promise of stability, of returning to a time when things felt more certain or when their group held a more central place in the American narrative.

This is often accompanied by identifying clear ‘enemies’ or scapegoats – be it immigrants, ‘elites’, liberals, or specific minority groups. Channeling complex anxieties about economic insecurity or cultural change onto specific groups simplifies the world. It offers someone to blame and unites people in shared opposition. This mechanism is as old as politics itself, but it finds powerful resonance in times of widespread unease. As people of faith, we must be wary of such divisions, remembering the call to unity and the inherent worth of all people.

When a figure like Trump speaks directly to these feelings – validating the anger, acknowledging the sense of loss, promising to “make things great again” – it can feel incredibly powerful to those who feel left behind. His actions, such as rolling back regulations or appointing conservative judges, can be interpreted by supporters as concrete proof that he is fulfilling his promise to turn back the clock, providing tangible reassurance that someone is fighting for them against the tide of change. It’s less about critical analysis of policy impacts and more about the symbolic affirmation that their fears are recognized and acted upon.

Bridging the Gap: A Christian Mandate to Reach Out

Acknowledging these underlying dynamics doesn’t mean we agree with the conclusions or condone the prejudices that can arise. The real-world consequences of certain political choices and rhetoric are severe, and faithfulness often requires speaking out against them. Faced with the pain and division these viewpoints can cause, many of us, understandably, have made the difficult choice to distance ourselves, sometimes cutting ties altogether to protect our own well-being. That decision is deeply personal and often necessary. Yet, we must also recognize that disengagement, while preserving peace in one sense, closes the door on the possibility of mutual understanding or gentle influence.

If we hope to be agents of reconciliation, however small, it likely won’t come through winning arguments that prove weare right. Rather, it might emerge from embodying Christ’s love through compassionate engagement – an approach that seeks to understand the person behind the views and, perhaps, opens a door for them to encounter alternative perspectives as human and valid, not just threatening.

How, then, do we navigate this tension? How do we remain faithful to truth and justice while also heeding Christ’s radical command in Matthew 5:44: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you”? This isn’t a suggestion; it’s a core tenet of following Him. It challenges us to see even those whose views we find harmful not merely as opponents, but as people loved by God, potentially captive to fear or misinformation.

So, how can we embody this difficult love in practical ways?

Listen with Humility: Approach conversations with genuine curiosity and humility, seeking to understand before seeking to be understood (James 1:19). Ask open-ended questions about their experiences, worries, and hopes. Resist the urge to immediately rebut or formulate your counter-argument. Focus first on hearing their story, recognizing their inherent dignity.
Seek Common Ground: Look for shared values or frustrations outside of hot-button politics. Concerns about family, community well-being, honesty, fairness – these often transcend political labels. Connect on shared humanity first. Remember Paul’s approach in Athens, finding common ground before introducing a different perspective (Acts 17).
Validate Feelings, Not Necessarily Beliefs: You can acknowledge someone’s frustration or fear (“It sounds like you feel really left behind by the economy”) without agreeing with their explanation for it. This reflects compassion and opens doors rather than slamming them shut.
Share Your Story with Grace: Sometimes, sharing your own experiences or perspectives, perhaps how your faith informs your views on social justice or compassion, can be powerful. Do so gently, focusing on shared values and human experience. (As my own LGBTQIA+ activism has shown, personal stories can sometimes reach hearts when facts alone cannot.)
Challenge Ideas Gently, Focus on Impact: If you do discuss contentious issues, focus on the impact of policies or actions, guided by principles of justice and love for neighbor. Instead of judgment (“How could you believe that?”), try inquiry (“Have you considered how that policy might affect the ‘least of these’ Jesus spoke of?”). Avoid personal attacks, striving to “live at peace with everyone,” as far as it depends on you (Romans 12:18).
Pray and Be Patient: Deeply held beliefs rarely change overnight. Pray for wisdom, for patience, and for the hearts of those you engage with. Aim for relationship and faithful witness, not necessarily immediate conversion or political agreement. Building bridges is slow, often unseen work, like planting seeds (1 Corinthians 3:6-7).

Moving Forward in Faith

There are no easy answers to the divisions we face. But defaulting to dismissal, demonization or caricature of those we disagree with deepens the trenches and falls short of our Christian calling. By making an effort to understand the anxieties, fears, and desires that might fuel different political choices – particularly the profound human reaction to rapid, destabilizing change – we equip ourselves with the compassion needed to connect. It requires us to actively choose love over judgment, peace over conflict, and humility over certainty. It’s difficult, often thankless work, demanding patience and prayer. But perhaps it’s the very work Jesus calls us to: reflecting His love in a fractured world, one conversation, one relationship at a time.

Unpacking White Privilege: Personal and Church-Wide Reflection on Decentering Whiteness

by Christopher Schouten, Southwest Conference Decentering Whiteness Task Force

The Decentering Whiteness Task Force of the Southwest Conference of the UCC will be present at the 2025 Annual Meeting in Albuquerque. We will be offering a workshop titled “Calling People In,” a method designed to address problematic behaviors or statements, especially those rooted in racial bias, with compassion and education rather than public shaming. In the context of racial justice and decentering whiteness, this approach fosters accountability while recognizing that everyone is on a learning journey, prioritizing understanding and growth over punitive measures. This seeks to create a safer space for dialogue, particularly for those from marginalized groups, by fostering a learning environment where individuals can recognize and correct their biases, thus shifting away from a culture that protects white comfort at the expense of addressing systemic inequity. Additionally, we will host a table with various resources to support churches in their quest for decentering whiteness, both personally and within their congregations.

We will also be revamping the Decentering Whitness Resources section of the conference website in order to offer a comprehensive set of ideas and tools for decentering whiteness in the church and in our own lives. This article is an example of the kinds of resources we will make available, providing a starting point for deeper reflection and action.

Introduction

Our journey towards racial justice and decentering whiteness is a dual path, demanding both personal introspection and communal accountability, particularly within our church communities. As individuals, we must confront the ways white privilege has shaped our lives. As a church, we must examine how our institutions and practices have perpetuated racial inequality. This article is designed to facilitate this dual reflection, providing separate sets of critical questions for personal and church-wide consideration. By engaging with these questions, we can move towards a deeper understanding and take meaningful action for racial justice.

Part 1: Personal Reflection on White Privilege

Introduction:

This section focuses on individual self-examination, encouraging white individuals to confront their own experiences and biases related to race.

10 Critical Questions for Personal Reflection:

When was the first time you became aware of your own race, and what were the circumstances?
How has your racial identity shaped your access to opportunities (education, housing, employment, etc.)?
What are some instances where you’ve been treated as an individual, while people of color were treated as representatives of their entire race?
How have you benefited from a system that historically and currently disadvantages people of color?
In what ways have you been silent or complicit in the face of racial injustice, even if unintentionally?
How have you perpetuated stereotypes or microaggressions, even if you didn’t intend to cause harm?
What are the limitations of your current understanding of race and racism, and what steps are you taking to expand your knowledge?
How do you center the voices and experiences of people of color in your life and work?
What specific actions are you taking to dismantle white supremacy and promote racial justice in your sphere of influence?
How will you hold yourself accountable for continued growth and avoid reverting to harmful patterns of thought or behavior?

Part 2: Church-Wide Reflection on Racial Justice

Introduction:

This section focuses on communal reflection within the church, encouraging congregations to examine their role in perpetuating or dismantling racial inequality.

10 Critical Questions for Church-Wide Reflection:

How has our church’s history and demographics reflected or perpetuated racial segregation or exclusion?
How do our church’s programs and outreach initiatives address or fail to address the needs of racially diverse communities?
How do we ensure that the voices and experiences of people of color are centered and valued in our worship, leadership, and decision-making?
How has our church benefited from or been complicit in systems of racial oppression, both historically and in the present?
In what ways has our church remained silent or inactive in addressing racial injustice within our community and beyond?
How might our church’s language, imagery, and traditions perpetuate harmful stereotypes or microaggressions?
What resources and educational opportunities are we providing to help our congregation deepen their understanding of race and racism?
How are we actively building relationships with and supporting the leadership of people of color within our church and community?
What specific actions are we taking as a church to dismantle white supremacy and promote racial justice within our congregation and community?
How will we hold ourselves accountable as a church for continued growth and avoid reverting to harmful patterns of thought or behavior regarding race?

Conclusion:

This process of self-examination and communal reflection is not a one-time event, but an ongoing commitment. It requires vulnerability, a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths, and a dedication to continuous learning. By engaging with these questions, both personally and as a church community, we can move beyond passive awareness and actively contribute to building a more just and equitable society, reflecting the true nature of God’s love and justice. Remember, the goal is not to dwell in guilt or shame, but to transform understanding into meaningful action, fostering a church that truly embodies the unity and reconciliation envisioned in our faith. This is a journey of lifelong learning, and the commitment to this path, both individually and collectively, is what truly creates lasting change within ourselves and within our church.

The Stone of Resentment

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

The rock is cumbersome. And I keep taking it out of my pocket and leaving it places. In the car. On my desk. At the office.

It was my friend’s idea to ritualize my surrender of resentments for Lent. Carry a stone around with me to live into the weight of resentment. It’s been helpful as a reminder that I really want to let go. And the taking it out and leaving it reminds me that the things we carry around with us, the grudges, the bitterness, don’t just stay in one place, one relationship. Rather, we take them into other places, other relationships, other parts of our lives.

It is my intention to think of a different resentment each week, write a letter to the thing I resent, the person I have not yet been reconciled with and finally, let the rock go.

Then pick up another and start again.

It’s interesting to consider how the antagonistic feelings, the negative emotions take up so much room in my spirit, interesting to consider the ways stones block the flow of grace. I am now more aware than ever that unhealed wounds harden, what has been left unforgiven takes up soul space.

I’ve picked up my third rock this third week of Lent, working on an old resentment, one I thought I had made peace with. But the stone is sharp and clumsy in my pocket, reminding me that the old pain is still there and still in need of resolution. I take it out, turn it over in my hands and recall how it felt when the incident first happened, how raw and sore I was for a while, how I thought I was well past it.

I return the rock to my pocket and head out for a meeting, the weight of the suffering still present, still felt.

One by one, I pray to let go. One by one I ask for the burden to be lightened. One by one I know I stand in the need of grace in this work of forgiveness and surrender.

Lent has become important to me this year serving as the reminder that so often what I had imagined was over and done is still, sometimes, present and sometimes still weighing me down. And like Lazarus called forth from the grave by the Living Christ, I am invited to be unbound and set free.