PILGRIM NOTES

A society doesn't simply appear, fully formed, either. It is made up of millions of people, each being shaped by families and communities, experiences and traditions, teachers and preachers, algorithms and news feeds, and—I hope—by God. And what—or who—is forming us will inevitably shape what we build together.

My vote. The candidates I support. The policies I advocate. The causes to which I give my time and money. Even the way I regard people whose politics I find objectionable. All of it must be subject to the same question I ask about the rest of my life: Is this what God wants of me? And perhaps there is another question beneath that one: What is my influence actually serving? Is it serving the purposes of God as I understand them—love of neighbor, truth, justice, mercy, human d

It makes me sad when I think about the sacrifices our parents’ generation made to leave a better life to us. We should not so easily accept the way things are. There is a moral difference between recognizing that inequality has always existed—and probably always will—and deciding that nothing could—or should—be done about it. Why are we so quick to accept systemic economic inequality as a permanent reality rather than a problem we can address together—or at least weaken its i

Can we dream together? What might it look like if Jesus’ prayer really began shaping how Christians practiced citizenship? Not a Christian government. Not Christians controlling the government. But Christians actually praying—and living— “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” What would it look like if Christians became known as the people who lowered the temperature in a room rather than raised it?

From the beginning, God risks rejection. Throughout Scripture he continues taking that risk. Israel rejects him. Prophets are ignored. Jesus is rejected and crucified. The Holy Spirit is resisted. Nowhere is God's willingness to risk rejection seen more clearly than at the cross. Rather than overwhelming humanity with irresistible power, Christ entered our world in vulnerability. He healed, taught, forgave, and loved—even knowing many would reject him.

Looking back, I realize my civic conscience—love for God, love for neighbor, and gratitude for the privilege of living in a free society—was being developed at home, at school, and at church. Long before I had the right to vote, I had the freedom to ask questions, debate ideas, and discover that citizenship requires participation, not merely observation. I'm deeply thankful for the people who taught me that.

When fear searches for an explanation, simple stories become attractive. Some point to immigration, religious pluralism, ethnic groups, or political opponents. Whether these explanations contain elements of truth or not, they often reduce a complicated cultural transformation to a single villain. Fear rarely tolerates complexity. It searches for someone to blame. And once fear has identified an enemy, taking back political control begins to look like the obvious solution.

Does Jesus call His followers to influence the world—or control it? Human beings have long assumed that power is the surest way to influence others. Yet from the pages of Scripture to the unfolding story of history, God consistently works through humble, self-giving love. Twenty years ago, I was pastoring a small church in Tucson. A leader in the congregation came to me, excited about a video series produced by historian and political activist David Barton, who argues that

As a Christian, I believe that when we use the terms faith and faithfulness, we are talking about promising to God, and to one another, that we will do our best with what we have been given. When, out of self-interest, greed, or a lust for power, people seek to dominate others, they corrupt this sacred trust and oppression inevitably follows.

Before they said a word, three things struck me: they were young, they were comrades, and they represented the diversity of Texas itself. They looked like the future of civic leadership.