Another school.
Another shooting.
Another place of learning and laughter turned into a scene of chaos and grief.
This week, it was Florida State University. But it could have been anywhere. And that’s what breaks us open again and again.

We weren’t made for this.
Our hearts weren’t meant to learn how to read the signs, rehearse lockdown drills, or scan a classroom for the safest hiding spot. Our children weren’t created to carry the weight of wondering if their school might be next. And yet, here we are—again.

There’s a particular ache that comes with these headlines. A kind of spiritual nausea. Because how many more? How many times can we offer thoughts and prayers while holding the staggering reality that the world feels increasingly unsafe—and seemingly unchanged?

As people of faith, we believe in a God who sees. Who hears the blood of Abel still crying from the ground. Who weeps with us in the hallways of our grief. And still, we wrestle: What do we do when prayers feel powerless and action feels paralyzed?

Here are a few reflections I’m sitting with this week:

1. Grief Is a Holy Response

Lament is not weakness—it is worship. Scripture is filled with cries of “How long, O Lord?” and “Why have You forsaken me?” We are invited to bring our sorrow before the throne of grace, not sanitize it. We don’t need to rush past our heartbreak. Jesus Himself wept over death. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. And we are never more like Him than when we grieve with those who grieve.

2. Proximity Matters

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by the scale of the problem and retreat into helplessness. But love calls us to proximity. To see the people in our immediate circles who are afraid, angry, or numb. To check on the teachers, students, parents, and first responders. To be present in the long aftermath, not just the news cycle. This is how we become the hands and feet of Christ—by moving toward pain, not away from it.

3. Peacemaking Is Not Passive

Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” not the peacekeepers. Making peace requires courage. It demands we enter the mess and do the hard, often unseen work of healing. That might mean advocacy. It might mean deeper conversations about mental health, gun violence, access to care, or the spiritual formation of our communities. It might mean raising our voices in love, even when it’s uncomfortable. The Gospel does not call us to comfort—it calls us to cross-bearing.

4. Resurrection Is Our Anchor

The cross tells us that evil is real. But the empty tomb tells us it doesn’t get the final word. As Christians, we hold a dual citizenship—one foot in a broken world, the other in the unshakable Kingdom of God. We mourn the present pain, but we do not despair. Because we know the arc of history bends toward redemption. Because even in the valley of the shadow, we are not alone.

So, what do we do?

We pray.
We grieve.
We show up.
We listen.
We advocate.
We hold tight to hope.

Not a shallow, sugarcoated hope—but a gritty, resurrection-shaped hope that refuses to give up on a world that God still so deeply loves.

And maybe, in the face of so much senseless violence, we take up a different kind of weapon:
Kindness that disrupts hate.
Courage that interrupts apathy.
Faith that insists light is still stronger than darkness.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
Make us instruments of Your peace.