A reflection on the Southern Baptist Convention, theology, psychology, and the temptation of control

Over the past several weeks, I have followed the conversations surrounding Dr. Albert Mohler’s proposed constitutional amendment for the Southern Baptist Convention. As expected, much of the discussion has focused on biblical interpretation, denominational identity, church governance, and the role of women in ministry. Those conversations matter, and sincere Christians have arrived at different conclusions regarding these questions for many years.

As I have listened to the debate unfold, however, I have found myself thinking less about the amendment itself and more about the broader themes that seem to surface whenever conversations about authority emerge within religious communities.

Perhaps that is partly the result of my own background. As both a clinician and someone who has spent decades in church and ministry settings, I have become increasingly interested in the ways individuals and institutions relate to power. I have seen authority used to protect, heal, guide, and serve. I have also seen authority used in ways that create fear, exclusion, and harm. More often than not, the difference has little to do with the stated purpose of the authority and much more to do with the posture of the people holding it.

For that reason, this is not intended to be a point-by-point argument for or against Dr. Mohler’s proposal. Many thoughtful people whom I respect hold differing views on the amendment itself. Rather, I find myself drawn to a different set of questions.

Why do conversations about authority so often capture our attention?

Why do they generate such strong emotions?

Why do human beings seem so consistently drawn toward questions of who may lead, who may decide, who belongs, and who does not?

And what might theology, psychology, and the example of Christ teach us about those tendencies?

Those are the questions I have been wrestling with as the SBC prepares to gather this year.

The Strange Attraction of Power

When conversations about authority arise, we often assume they are primarily about power. In some cases they are. Yet from a psychological perspective, power is rarely experienced as power by the people seeking it.

Most people do not wake up in the morning thinking about how to control others. They are thinking about creating order, preserving stability, protecting what they value, or remaining faithful to their convictions. In their minds, the pursuit of authority is often connected to something they perceive as good and necessary.

This is one reason power can be so difficult to examine honestly.

Power rarely introduces itself as a desire for control. More often it appears in the language of certainty, responsibility, protection, righteousness, or faithfulness. We become convinced that if people would simply adopt the correct beliefs, follow the correct practices, support the correct leaders, or embrace the correct values, many of our problems would be resolved. The desire itself may begin with good intentions, but it can gradually shift from persuasion to control without us fully realizing it.

Psychologists have long observed that human beings are not particularly comfortable with uncertainty. Ambiguity creates anxiety. Complexity can feel overwhelming. As a result, we naturally look for ways to make the world more understandable and predictable.

One of the ways we accomplish this is by creating categories.

Categories are not inherently harmful. In fact, they help us organize information and navigate a complex world. Problems arise when our categories become increasingly rigid and begin carrying moral weight. Instead of simply describing differences, they start dividing people into groups that feel fundamentally distinct from one another.

Over time, we may begin to sort people into categories such as faithful or unfaithful, trustworthy or suspect, orthodox or compromised, insider or outsider. These distinctions often provide a sense of clarity and emotional security. They make a complicated world feel more manageable.

Yet there is also a cost.

The more invested we become in maintaining these categories, the easier it becomes to overlook the complexity of the people within them. Individuals become representatives of a position rather than unique human beings. Nuance becomes difficult to tolerate. Curiosity gives way to certainty. Understanding becomes less important than classification.

This dynamic is not limited to any particular theological, political, or cultural perspective. It is a deeply human tendency. Whenever anxiety rises, the temptation to create increasingly rigid boundaries often rises with it.

The challenge is that while those boundaries may provide a temporary sense of safety, they can also create distance. They can foster suspicion. And, over time, they can contribute to the process psychologists describe as othering which is the tendency to view people primarily through categories rather than through their shared humanity and God-given dignity.

That process is often subtle. It rarely begins with hostility. More often, it begins with the understandable desire to create order in a complicated world. Yet if left unexamined, it can gradually shape the way individuals, institutions, and even churches relate to those who are different from them.

The Psychology of Othering

One of the more concerning tendencies in both individuals and institutions is the process psychologists often refer to as “othering.” At its core, othering occurs when we begin to view people primarily through a category rather than through the fullness of their humanity. We stop encountering them as individuals with stories, experiences, strengths, wounds, and dignity, and instead begin relating to them as representatives of a group, position, belief, or identity.

This is not simply a religious problem. It is a human problem.

We see it throughout history whenever societies divide people into those who belong and those who do not. We see it in politics when opponents become caricatures rather than neighbors. We see it in organizations when loyalty to a system becomes more important than listening to the people within it. We see it in families when one person is assigned the role of “the difficult one,” “the problem,” or “the disappointment,” and every interaction is filtered through that lens.

Religious communities are not immune to these dynamics. In fact, because faith communities often hold deep convictions about truth, morality, and identity, they can be especially vulnerable to them.

What begins as a desire to preserve doctrine or protect tradition can slowly shift into something else. Instead of asking, “How do we faithfully care for people while holding our convictions?” the conversation can become focused on determining who is acceptable, who is suspect, who belongs, and who does not. Over time, the category begins to overshadow the person.

From a psychological perspective, this tendency often emerges when people experience uncertainty or threat. Human beings naturally seek clarity, predictability, and a sense of order. One way we create that sense of order is by sorting people into increasingly rigid categories. Doing so can temporarily reduce anxiety because it simplifies a complex world. The problem is that people are rarely simple.

When we reduce people to categories, it becomes easier to dismiss their experiences, ignore their perspectives, or overlook the impact of our actions on them. Most of the time this does not happen because people are intentionally cruel. Rather, it happens because they become convinced that they are protecting something important such as a doctrine, a tradition, a culture, a denomination, or an institution and in the process lose sight of the people affected by those decisions.

Theologically, this should concern us because Christianity begins with the belief that every person bears the image of God. Before someone is a conservative or a progressive, male or female, pastor or congregant, insider or outsider, they are an image bearer. When our categories become more important than the people themselves, we risk losing sight of one of the most fundamental truths of our faith.

Jesus and Power

One of the things I find most striking about Jesus is the way He related to power. This may sound like an odd observation given that Christians believe Jesus possessed all authority, but that is precisely what makes it so noteworthy. Throughout the Gospels, Jesus consistently demonstrates authority while showing remarkably little interest in controlling people.

He certainly confronted people when necessary. He challenged religious leaders, corrected His disciples, and spoke hard truths that often made people uncomfortable. Yet His ministry rarely seemed focused on securing influence, protecting status, or consolidating power. In fact, many of the tensions between Jesus and those around Him emerged because others expected Him to pursue power in ways that He simply did not.

His disciples frequently viewed the kingdom through the lens of status and position. They argued about who would be greatest. They sought places of honor. At times they appeared eager to establish clear hierarchies and determine who belonged and who did not. Yet Jesus repeatedly redirected their attention elsewhere. Rather than emphasizing rank, He emphasized service. Rather than teaching them how to exercise authority over others, He taught them how to love, serve, forgive, and sacrifice.

This theme appears throughout the Gospels. While many expected a political Messiah who would establish power through force and authority, Jesus consistently moved in a different direction. He spent time with those who held little social power. He welcomed people who were often marginalized by religious systems. He challenged assumptions about who was worthy of attention, dignity, and belonging. Even at the height of His public ministry, He seemed remarkably unconcerned with preserving His position.

From both a theological and psychological perspective, this is significant. Human beings often assume that influence is best maintained through control. We tend to believe that if something is important, it must be protected through increasingly rigid structures of authority. Yet Jesus frequently demonstrated a different kind of leadership rooted not in coercion but in invitation, not in domination but in service.

Of course, this does not mean that boundaries are unnecessary or that doctrine lacks importance. The New Testament clearly shows that truth matters. The early church wrestled with theological questions, ethical concerns, and questions of community identity. But there is a meaningful difference between clarifying what a community believes and becoming preoccupied with regulating who may hold power within it.

As I read the Gospels, I am repeatedly drawn back to the observation that Jesus seemed far more concerned with the condition of people’s hearts than with securing His own authority. The kingdom He described was not built through control but through transformation. It did not advance through dominance but through sacrificial love. And that distinction feels especially important whenever the church finds itself investing significant energy in questions of power, status, and control.

Trauma, Power, and Religious Systems

My work in trauma care has profoundly shaped the way I think about power. Over the years, I have sat with individuals, families, organizations, churches, and leaders who have experienced both the healing and the harmful effects of authority. What I have learned is that power itself is not inherently good or bad. Power is simply the ability to influence outcomes, establish priorities, make decisions, and affect the lives of others.

Used wisely, power can create safety. It can protect vulnerable people, establish healthy boundaries, provide structure, and help communities flourish. Healthy leadership requires some degree of authority. Parents exercise authority. Teachers exercise authority. Pastors exercise authority. Organizational leaders exercise authority. The question is rarely whether power exists. The more important question is how it is being used and whether those who hold it remain accountable to the people they serve.

One of the more challenging realities I have encountered in trauma work is that harm is not always the result of malicious intent. In fact, some of the deepest wounds people carry were inflicted by individuals who genuinely believed they were doing the right thing. They believed they were protecting their family, defending their church, preserving an institution, or standing for truth. Their intentions may have been sincere. Yet sincerity alone does not prevent harm.

What often concerns me more than bad intentions is unexamined certainty.

When individuals or institutions become deeply convinced that their position is unquestionably correct, curiosity tends to disappear. Listening becomes less important. Feedback becomes easier to dismiss. Questions are interpreted as threats rather than opportunities for understanding. Gradually, attention shifts away from the experiences of people and toward the preservation of the system itself.

This dynamic is not unique to religious organizations. It can occur in corporations, schools, nonprofits, political movements, and families. However, religious systems face a unique challenge because they often operate with moral and spiritual authority. Decisions are not merely framed as practical or organizational; they are frequently presented as matters of faithfulness, obedience, and divine conviction.

That reality can make self-examination more difficult.

If leaders believe they are protecting God’s truth, it can become tempting to view disagreement as rebellion, concern as criticism, or questions as threats to the mission. Over time, preserving the institution may begin to feel synonymous with protecting the faith itself. Yet those two things are not always the same.

Trauma-informed care encourages us to pay attention not only to our intentions but also to our impact. It invites us to ask difficult questions: Who benefits from a particular decision? Who bears the cost? Who has a voice in the conversation? Who feels safe enough to express disagreement? What happens to those who find themselves on the margins of the system?

These questions are not signs of weakness. They are signs of humility.

In my experience, healthy leaders and healthy organizations remain willing to ask them, even when the answers are uncomfortable. They understand that authority is best exercised in the context of accountability, curiosity, and care for the people entrusted to them.

For churches, this may be especially important. If we believe that every person bears the image of God, then our systems should never become so important that we stop paying attention to the people those systems affect. Faithfulness requires conviction, but it also requires humility. It requires the willingness to ask not only whether we are defending what we believe is true, but also whether we are reflecting the character of Christ in the way we exercise authority.

What Are We Focusing On?

As I have reflected on the proposed amendment and the broader conversations surrounding it, I find myself returning to a question that extends beyond this particular issue.

What are we choosing to focus our collective attention on?

Every organization has limited resources. There is limited time, limited energy, limited emotional capacity, and limited institutional attention. Because of that, the issues that repeatedly rise to the surface often tell us something important about what we perceive to be most urgent.

This is where I find myself wrestling.

Over the past several decades, both as a clinician and as someone actively involved in church life, I have watched the challenges facing individuals, families, and congregations grow increasingly complex. Many pastors are exhausted. Many churches are struggling to navigate cultural polarization. Anxiety, loneliness, depression, trauma, addiction, and relational disconnection affect people in nearly every congregation. Survivors of abuse continue to seek places where they can be heard, believed, and supported. Younger generations often express deep spiritual questions while simultaneously feeling disconnected from institutional religion.

These are not hypothetical concerns. They are realities I encounter regularly in my office, in churches, in training events, and in conversations with ministry leaders.

For that reason, I find myself wondering what it communicates when questions about authority structures repeatedly emerge as matters of denominational urgency.

To be clear, I am not suggesting that questions of church governance or theological conviction are unimportant. Every denomination must wrestle with questions of doctrine, identity, and practice. Those conversations are part of organizational life and theological stewardship.

At the same time, priorities inevitably communicate values.

When significant amounts of time, attention, and energy are devoted to determining who may hold authority, I think it is reasonable to ask what other conversations might be receiving less attention as a result.

What would it look like if we brought the same level of passion and intentionality to helping churches become places of healing for those carrying trauma?

What would happen if we invested similar energy in equipping pastors to lead in ways that are emotionally healthy and sustainable?

How might our communities change if we focused more deeply on addressing loneliness, strengthening relationships, supporting families, and helping people develop genuine spiritual maturity?

What if the church became known not primarily for its internal debates about authority, but for its capacity to reflect the compassion, wisdom, humility, and healing presence of Christ?

These are not competing concerns. Churches can and should care about both doctrine and discipleship, both theological clarity and human flourishing. Yet I believe it is worth asking whether our public priorities accurately reflect the needs of the people we have been called to serve.

The questions we return to again and again often reveal what we fear, what we value, and what we believe is most important. As I observe the conversations taking place within the SBC, I cannot help but wonder what our priorities are communicating, not only to those inside our churches, but also to those watching from the outside.

Are we known primarily for protecting positions and structures, or are we known for helping people encounter the transforming love of Christ?

That question seems increasingly important to me.

The Witness of Humility

As I have reflected on these issues, one thought continues to return to me: power is often easiest to recognize when it belongs to someone else.

Most of us can readily identify the ways authority can be misused by people with whom we disagree. We can see the blind spots in other movements, other organizations, other leaders, and other theological camps. What is much more difficult is recognizing our own relationship with power and examining the ways we may become attached to influence, certainty, status, or control.

This is one reason humility occupies such a central place in the Christian life.

Humility is not the absence of conviction. It is not indecisiveness, passivity, or a reluctance to speak clearly. Rather, humility is the recognition that our understanding is always incomplete, our motives are often mixed, and our need for God’s grace remains constant. Humility allows us to hold our convictions sincerely while remaining open to self-examination.

From both a theological and psychological perspective, this matters more than we often realize.

One of the recurring patterns I have observed in individuals and institutions is the tendency to evaluate ourselves according to our intentions while evaluating others according to their impact. We know the reasons behind our own decisions. We understand our motives. We are aware of the fears, concerns, and convictions that shape our actions. Others, however, often see only the outcome.

As a result, it becomes easy to assume that our use of influence is justified while viewing the influence of others with suspicion. We may sincerely believe that we are protecting truth, preserving faithfulness, or defending what matters. Sometimes we may be. Yet humility invites us to ask an additional question: How are our actions affecting the people around us?

I find this particularly compelling when I consider the example of Christ.

Jesus possessed an authority unlike any other, yet He consistently used that authority in ways that drew people toward restoration rather than domination. He confronted injustice, challenged hypocrisy, and spoke truth with remarkable clarity. Yet His life was marked by service, sacrifice, compassion, and a willingness to lay down privilege rather than grasp for it.

For Christians, that example should shape not only what we believe but also how we hold those beliefs.

The credibility of the church has never rested solely on the accuracy of its doctrinal statements. Doctrine matters deeply, but throughout history the church’s witness has been most compelling when truth has been accompanied by humility, compassion, integrity, and love. People are often drawn to Christ not merely because Christians articulate theological positions clearly, but because they see something of Christ’s character reflected in the way those convictions are lived out.

As Southern Baptists gather this year, I find myself praying less about the outcome of a particular amendment and more about the posture of our hearts. That prayer includes my own heart as much as anyone else’s.

I pray that we would be people who hold conviction without contempt, authority without domination, and confidence without arrogance. I pray that we would remain willing to listen, willing to learn, and willing to examine ourselves honestly before asking others to do the same.

Most of all, I pray that we would remember that the central question facing the church is not ultimately how authority should be distributed, but how faithfully we are reflecting the character of Christ.

In a culture increasingly defined by conflict, certainty, and the pursuit of influence, a humble church may be one of the most powerful witnesses we have to offer.

There’s something I’ve been sitting with lately that feels difficult to name out loud, though I suspect many women inside the Church have felt it in their bodies for years.

Sometimes the same systems that struggle to protect women are also the systems most invested in silencing them, not always intentionally and not always maliciously, but structurally, culturally, and theologically.

And I think that distinction matters.

Over the years, I’ve watched many churches ask extraordinary things of women. Women disciple children, organize ministries, hold communities together emotionally, show up when people are grieving, teach Bible studies, coordinate meals, visit the hurting, lead behind the scenes and carry relational labor that often goes unseen and unnamed.

Women are often expected to pour themselves out endlessly in service to the Body of Christ.

But when conversations begin about authority, leadership, accountability, abuse, or institutional power, the tone can shift quickly. Then the language becomes about “biblical order,” and about submission, not causing division, and protecting the church.

And somewhere inside that shift, many women begin to recognize a painful reality: sometimes what is being protected is not humility, faithfulness, or even Scripture itself, but hierarchy.

That realization can feel deeply disorienting for people who genuinely love the Church, especially because many of us were raised to believe the Church would be the safest place to tell the truth.

The recent debates within the Southern Baptist Convention have brought some of these tensions painfully back into view. The conversations around restricting women from leadership roles are happening against a larger backdrop that many people cannot ignore: decades of struggling to address abuse, institutional protectionism, and the silencing of survivors.

For years, appeals to “church autonomy” were often used to resist centralized accountability around abuse and predatory leadership. But now, some of those same structures appear willing to exercise denominational authority when the issue becomes whether women may lead, teach, or serve in visible ways.

That contradiction is difficult not to notice and, for many women, it lands not merely as a theological disagreement, but as something far more personal.

Because when people repeatedly experience being dismissed, overexplained to, interrupted, spiritually scrutinized, or mistrusted, those experiences do not remain merely intellectual. They become embodied. Over time, people begin learning what parts of themselves feel safe to express and what parts do not.

Trauma always shapes voice. People learn when speaking honestly creates danger. They learn when asking questions creates relational rupture. They learn when visibility carries punishment. And eventually many stop speaking not because they have nothing to say, but because silence begins to feel safer than honesty.

This is part of why these conversations matter far beyond denominational politics. They shape nervous systems. They shape identity. They shape people’s capacity to remain spiritually connected without abandoning themselves.

I keep thinking about Jesus and the way He consistently interacted with women in the Gospels, not performatively or symbolically, but relationally.

He spoke to women publicly in cultures that often did not.
He listened to them.
He allowed women to travel with Him and support His ministry.
Women remained near Him at the cross.
Women were entrusted with the first witness of the resurrection itself.

Again and again, Jesus seemed remarkably unconcerned with protecting male religious status. The people most threatened by women in Scripture were often religious systems themselves and I think that’s important to sit with honestly because it’s possible to defend a structure so fiercely that we stop noticing what kind of fruit it is producing.

Jesus said we would know things by their fruit.

So it is fair to ask:
Does our theology produce humility?
Safety?
Honesty?
Mutuality?
Compassion?
Freedom?
Christlikeness?

Or does it sometimes produce fear, silence, image management, and the protection of institutional power?

Those are uncomfortable questions. But I don’t believe they are unfaithful ones.

I also think many of these conversations flatten Scripture into something far smaller and more rigid than it actually is. The New Testament presents women praying, prophesying, teaching alongside husbands, funding ministry, leading house churches, serving as deacons, laboring alongside apostles, and participating actively in the life of the early Church.

And perhaps one of the most striking realities is this: spiritual gifts in the New Testament are never categorized according to gender. The Spirit gives gifts according to grace, not hierarchy.

That does not erase distinction nor does it erase embodiment or difference, but the Gospel repeatedly dismantles systems of spiritual status and superiority.

“There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” Paul’s words in Galatians were radically disruptive because the Gospel was radically disruptive.

The Kingdom of God consistently moves toward shared dignity rather than protected status and honestly, I think part of what makes these conversations so emotionally charged is that they are rarely just about theology. They are about power, belonging, fear, identity, and whose voices are considered trustworthy.

Sometimes institutions become so afraid of losing control that they confuse control with faithfulness but the Spirit of Christ has never seemed particularly dependent on coercion.

Jesus did not build His Kingdom through dominance. He built it through servanthood, truth-telling, humility, and love and perhaps the Church is healthiest not when certain people are protected from sharing power, but when every believer is invited to participate fully, responsibly, and humbly in the life of the Body of Christ, not because hierarchy disappeared, or because discernment no longer matters, or because every role is identical, but because the Gospel was always meant to move us toward deeper mutuality, deeper humility, and deeper recognition of the image of God in one another.

Honestly, I don’t think most women are asking for status. I think many are simply asking to exist fully in the Body of Christ without having to shrink in order to belong.

There is a quiet lie many of us learn early:
Be strong. Don’t need too much. Figure it out yourself.

It can sound responsible. Mature. Faithful, even. But it is not the story Scripture tells. From the very beginning, God looks at a world still untouched by sin and says something is not good:

“It is not good for the human to be alone.”

Before failure. Before fracture. Before fear. Loneliness was already named as a burden too heavy to carry solo.

Community is not a bonus feature of faith. It is part of God’s design for how we survive, heal, and remain human.

The Myth of Self-Sufficiency

Somewhere along the way, many of us were taught, explicitly or subtly, that needing others is a weakness. That mature faith looks like quiet endurance. That prayer replaces people.

But even Jesus did not live that way.

He gathered friends.
He ate with them.
He wept in front of them.
And on the night of His deepest anguish, He asked them to stay awake with Him.

Jesus did not say, “I’ve got this. Go home.” He said, “Remain with me.”

If the Son of God did not choose isolation, why do we believe holiness requires it?

Why Community Heals What Faith Alone Cannot

God absolutely meets us in solitude. But healing often requires witnesses.

There are places inside us that only soften when they are seen. Grief that loosens when it is named out loud. Shame that shrinks when it is met with compassion. Fear that quiets when someone steady stays near.

Community does not fix us. It holds us.

Scripture reminds us: “Carry one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

Notice the word carry, not advise, correct, or rush through. Carry implies weight. Time. Shared effort.

Some burdens are simply too heavy for one nervous system, one heart, one body to hold.

The Risk and the Gift of Letting Others In

Community is beautiful. And it is risky. People disappoint us. Misunderstand us. Leave. Some of us learned early that connection comes with cost.

So we adapt. We manage alone. We spiritualize our isolation and call it strength. But avoidance is not the same as safety.

True community does not mean constant closeness or forced vulnerability. It means chosen connection. Safe people. Honest pacing. Mutual care.

It might look like:

• One friend who knows the real story
• A small group where you don’t have to perform
• A counselor, pastor, or spiritual director who can hold what feels too heavy
• A table where laughter and lament are both welcome

Community grows slowly. Gently. With consent.

And it often begins with a quiet, brave prayer: “God, show me who is safe.”

You Are Not a Burden

If you’ve ever held back because you didn’t want to be “too much,” hear this clearly:

Your need does not disqualify you from belonging.
Your weariness does not make you a burden.
Your longing for connection is not a failure of faith.

It is evidence that you are human.

And God, again and again, chooses to meet human need through human presence.

The early church understood this instinctively. They shared meals. Resources. Tears. Hope.
Not because life was easy but because it was hard.

Community was how they endured.

A Gentle Invitation

You don’t have to build community all at once.
You don’t have to trust everyone.
You don’t have to tell your whole story today.

But you might consider this small step:

Who is one person you could let a little closer?
One place you could show up as you are, not as who you think you should be?

God often answers prayers for strength by offering companionship.

May you notice the hands reaching toward you.
May you have the courage to reach back.
And may you remember on the days it feels hardest: You were never meant to carry it alone.

There are moments when faith calls us to slow down and return to what is most essential.

At the heart of Christian belief is a simple, sacred truth: every human being is created in the image of God. This is not a metaphor. It is a theological claim about worth, dignity, and belonging. Before we hold opinions, assumptions, or fears, we are first image-bearers who are made, known, and loved by God.

“So God created humankind in his image; in the image of God he created them.”
—Genesis 1:27

To see another person as an image-bearer is to recognize that their life carries inherent value, independent of how familiar they feel to us or how easily we understand their story. It invites us to look beyond the surface and trust that God’s handiwork is present in every face we encounter.

When Fear Distorts Our Vision

Scripture is honest about how easily fear can shape our perceptions. Fear narrows our vision. It tempts us to rely on appearances rather than truth, on assumptions rather than relationship. Over time, fear can harden into prejudice and a quiet distancing of the heart that keeps us from seeing others clearly.

But God consistently calls us away from that way of seeing.

“People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
—1 Samuel 16:7

God’s gaze is deeper, more patient, more discerning. And as people formed by faith, we are invited to let our vision be reshaped by God’s own way of seeing leads not to suspicion, but to compassion.

Love That Refuses Partiality

The New Testament speaks plainly about favoritism and fear-based judgments:

“My brothers and sisters, believers in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ must not show favoritism.”
—James 2:1

This is not a call to ignore difference, but to honor humanity within it. Difference was never meant to divide us into categories of worth. Instead, it reflects the breadth of God’s creativity and the richness of God’s world.

When we reject prejudice, we are not losing anything—we are recovering something precious: the ability to love our neighbor as ourselves.

A Gentle Turning of the Heart

Faith does not demand perfection from us, but it does invite reflection. It asks us to notice where fear has taken root, where assumptions have gone unchallenged, and where love may have grown cautious or selective.

Repentance, in its truest sense, is not about shame. It is about turning toward love again—toward truth, humility, and grace.

“Perfect love casts out fear.”
—1 John 4:18

As we move through a world marked by difference and division, may we be people who pause, who look again, and who choose to see one another as God does: with mercy, dignity, and deep respect.

Because when we honor the image of God in others, we also honor the God who made us all.

Scripture does not call us to sameness. It calls us to love.

From Genesis to Revelation, the biblical story is one of a God who delights in diversity and repeatedly draws near to those pushed to the margins. Difference (racial, cultural, economic, gendered, experiential) is not an interruption of God’s plan. It is part of the world God entered, redeemed, and continues to reconcile.

And yet, tolerating difference is one of the places where our faith is most tested.

Created Different Yet Equally Bearing God’s Image

Genesis tells us that all people are created in the image of God. Not some. Not only those who reflect our values, culture, or theology. All.

That truth alone dismantles any framework that allows us to diminish, dismiss, or dehumanize others based on race, gender, socioeconomic status, nationality, or lived experience.

When we encounter difference, we are not encountering a problem to solve. We are encountering an image-bearer to honor.

Jesus never treats difference as a threat. He treats people as sacred.

Fear Shrinks Love. Christ Expands It

Many of our reactions to difference are driven not by faith, but by fear. Fear of losing control. Fear of being wrong. Fear of the unfamiliar. Fear of proximity to stories that unsettle us.

Scripture is clear about this:

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind.”

Fear narrows our vision. It makes us defensive, rigid, quick to judge. Love, rooted in Christ, does the opposite. Love stretches us beyond what feels comfortable and invites us into humility.

Tolerance, from a Christian lens, is not moral compromise. It is trust. Trust that God is big enough to hold difference. Trust that truth does not require cruelty to defend it. Trust that the Holy Spirit is at work beyond our limited understanding.

Jesus Crossed Lines We Still Struggle to Cross

Jesus consistently moved toward those others avoided.

He spoke with women as equals.
He welcomed children in a culture that dismissed them.
He healed those labeled “unclean.”
He praised the faith of foreigners.
He confronted religious leaders who prioritized purity over mercy.

Again and again, Jesus chose compassion over comfort and relationship over rigidity.

If we follow Christ, we cannot avoid this pattern.

Our faith is not proven by how well we guard boundaries, but by how faithfully we love our neighbors including those who challenge us, confuse us, or live differently than we do.

Tolerance Is Not Agreement. It Is Obedience

Loving across difference does not mean abandoning convictions. It means refusing to abandon people.

Jesus commands us to love our neighbor and then radically expands the definition of neighbor. Love does not require agreement, but it does require presence, dignity, and restraint of harm.

Scripture reminds us:

“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I am nothing.”

We may be correct in belief and still be unfaithful in posture.

Christian tolerance looks like listening before judging. It looks like curiosity instead of contempt. It looks like holding truth with humility rather than weaponizing it.

The Body and the Spirit Both Matter

When difference activates fear, our bodies often react before our theology does. We argue, withdraw, shut down, or cling tightly to certainty. This is not sin. It is human.

But discipleship invites us to pause.

To breathe.
To pray.
To notice what is stirring in us.
To ask the Spirit to lead rather than our fear.

Love requires regulation. Patience requires practice. Tolerance grows as we submit not just our beliefs, but our reactions, to Christ.

A Wider Table Reflects the Kingdom of God

The biblical vision of heaven is not uniform. It is beautifully diverse.

“From every nation, tribe, people, and language.”

The table of Christ is wide. There is room for those who are different from us, those we do not fully understand, and those whose stories stretch us beyond our comfort zones.

A faith that cannot tolerate difference becomes small and brittle. A faith rooted in Christ becomes expansive, resilient, and deeply human.

A Closing Prayer

Lord Jesus,
Teach us to love as You loved without fear, without superiority, and without exclusion.
Soften our hearts where we have hardened.
Slow us down where we react too quickly.
Give us courage to remain present with those who are different from us,
And humility to remember that we see only in part.

May our lives bear witness not just to what we believe,
But to the love by which we follow You.

Amen.

As a new year unfolds, I find myself less interested in grand resolutions and more drawn to quiet reorientation. Not what should I accomplish? but how am I being invited to live?

When I return to the life and words of Jesus, what strikes me is how simple and how demanding His focus was.

Again and again, He returned people to the question of love.

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind… and you shall love your neighbor as yourself.”
(Matthew 22:37–39)

Not as sentiment.
Not as abstraction.
But as a way of being in the world.

Jesus did not separate faith from daily life. He wove belief, behavior, and relationship together until they were indistinguishable. He spoke about anger and reconciliation, generosity and secrecy, power and humility, not to burden people, but to free them into a more integrated life.

A Faith Lived From the Inside Out

Jesus seemed deeply attentive to the inner life and the place from which our words, choices, and actions emerge.

“Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”
(Luke 6:45)

He knew that how we live flows from what we attend to, what we carry, what we allow to shape us. His invitation was not toward perfection, but toward alignment and a life where the heart, the hands, and the voice move in the same direction.

This kind of faith shows up quietly:

• in how we speak when we are tired or afraid,
• in how we treat people who inconvenience us,
• in how we hold difference without withdrawing love,
• in how we choose gentleness when harshness would be easier.

“Blessed are the meek… blessed are the merciful… blessed are the peacemakers.”
(Matthew 5:5–9)

These were not abstract ideals. They were descriptions of a way of life Jesus believed was possible.

How We Are to Live

When asked what faithfulness looks like, Scripture often answers with remarkable clarity:

“What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”
(Micah 6:8)

Justice.
Kindness.
Humility.

Not loudly.
Not perfectly.
But faithfully.

Jesus seemed less concerned with whether people could articulate correct doctrine and more concerned with whether love was becoming visible in their lives. He noticed who was excluded, who was burdened, who was overlooked and He consistently moved toward them.

Letting This Shape Our Year

Perhaps the invitation this year is not to strive harder, but to listen more closely.

To notice:

• what shapes our reactions,
• what governs our choices,
• what forms our relationships,
• what kind of presence we bring into the spaces we inhabit.

“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”
(Philippians 2:5)

This is not a call to self-erasure, but to Christ-shaped love marked by humility, compassion, and restraint with power.

A Quiet Hope

Faith, as Jesus lived and taught it, is not something we perform.
It is something we practice.

It grows slowly, through ordinary faithfulness:
a softened response,
a repaired relationship,
a courageous act of kindness,
a decision to remain loving in a moment that invites hardness.

“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
(John 13:35)

May this be our focus this year, not louder faith, not busier faith, but deeper faith.

A faith that shapes how we live.
A faith that shows itself in how we treat others.
A faith that becomes visible, not through certainty, but through love.

And may our lives, in their quiet faithfulness, bear gentle witness to the way of Jesus.

I’ve been thinking lately about how many younger believers have come to understand faith primarily as a feeling.

If I feel God’s presence, I must be faithful. If I feel peace, clarity, or spiritual warmth, I must be on the right path. And if I don’t feel those things, if God feels quiet, distant, or absent, then maybe my faith is failing.

But Scripture paints a very different picture.

Faith, in its truest form, is not a sensation. It is not certainty. It is not emotional reassurance.

Faith is movement.

Faith is choosing to keep walking in the direction God has set before you even when your nervous system is loud, your heart is tired, and your prayers feel like they’re hitting the ceiling.

If we always felt God’s nearness or if obedience always felt right or if following God always came with clarity, comfort, and confirmation, then it wouldn’t really be faith at all.

It would just be agreement.

Biblical faith is often quiet and unremarkable. It looks like doing the next right thing when nothing inside you feels spiritually impressive. It looks like keeping your integrity when cutting corners would be easier. It looks like loving your neighbor when your heart feels dry. It looks like showing up again even after disappointment, after grief, after unanswered prayers.

Scripture never says, “The righteous will live by their feelings.” It says, “The righteous will live by faith.”

And faith, most days, looks like trust expressed through action.

Sometimes walking in faith means saying, “I don’t feel close to God today but I will still choose goodness.” Sometimes it means saying, “I don’t feel sure but I will still be faithful.” Sometimes it means saying, “I don’t feel peace but I will still do what is right.”

This kind of faith takes courage, maturity and a deeper trust that doesn’t require constant emotional reassurance to keep going.

God has always met His people in the walking. Not always in the feeling. Not always in the certainty. But in the choosing. In the obedience. In the quiet faithfulness of doing the next right thing.

So if you’re in a season where faith feels flat, dull, or distant, you are not failing. You may actually be practicing a stronger faith than you realize.

Keep walking. Keep choosing what is good. Keep doing the next right thing.

That, too, is faith.

This week the headlines have been crushing: another school shooting in Colorado, an assassination here at home, a Ukrainian refugee killed in Charlotte, new drone attacks spilling into Poland, and wars raging in both Ukraine and the Middle East. It feels like the world is unraveling—and our hearts are carrying more than they can hold.

The Bible never asks us to look away from violence. Instead, it gives us words of lament:
“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1)
God is not offended by our grief or our questions. He welcomes our cries. To lament is an act of faith—it means we believe God cares enough to hear.

Paul reminds us that “the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time” (Romans 8:22). The violence we witness is part of that groaning. It is not the way things were meant to be, and it stirs our longing for the kingdom of peace Christ promised.

At the cross, Jesus did not sidestep violence—He entered into it. “He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities” (Isaiah 53:5). This means we do not carry the world’s brokenness alone. Christ shoulders it with us, and He is redeeming it even now.

Scripture calls us not to give in to despair, but to live as peacemakers:
“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21)
In a violent world, every act of compassion, every prayer for peace, every refusal to hate is an act of resistance against the darkness.

Revelation paints a picture of the day when violence will finally end:
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain” (Revelation 21:4). This promise is not sentimental—it is certain. The God who conquered death will make all things new.

Prayer is where we begin—but it cannot be where we stop.

• Support those who are suffering: reach out to families, neighbors, and communities touched by violence with tangible care.
• Advocate for peace and justice: use your voice to call for safer schools, protection for the vulnerable, and wise leadership that seeks the common good.
• Practice everyday peacemaking: in conversations, on social media, in how you treat those who disagree with you—let your presence reduce fear and not add to it.
• Stand with the global body of Christ: partner with ministries, counselors, and humanitarian efforts bringing healing in places torn apart by war.

To follow Jesus is to refuse despair and to embody hope in action.

Lord, our hearts are weary from bearing the weight of so much violence. We grieve the lives lost, the wars that rage, and the fear that shadows our days. Draw near to the brokenhearted. Teach us to be peacemakers in our words, our homes, our communities. And anchor us in the hope that one day, You will wipe away every tear and make all things new. Until that day, help us to hold fast to You. Amen.