Lately, it feels like all my spiritual senses are heightened, as if my discernment is on high alert, signaling that something is deeply wrong. It’s not just news headlines or political shifts; it’s an undercurrent, a weight in the air that presses against my soul. I feel it when I scroll through social media, when I hear people talk, when I watch the world move in ways that seem detached from truth, justice, and love. My spirit reacts, unsettled and searching, but the hardest part isn’t the feeling itself—it’s knowing what to do with it.
Does this resonate with you?
Despite the draw to engage in the cultural and political wars that currently consume our world, I choose to be a conscientious objector to these battles, refusing to be drawn into the polarization and vitriol that define them. And yet, I cannot walk away from them either. I feel a little like the conscientious objector Desmond Doss from Mel Gibson’s World War II film Hacksaw Ridge, whose faith prohibited him from fighting in the war but also prohibited him from walking away from it. Doss was a real person, a man of deep faith who enlisted in World War II not to take life but to save it. He served as a battlefield medic and did not bear arms. He was ridiculed for refusing to carry a weapon, seen as weak by his fellow soldiers. But when the battle for Okinawa came, while others were taking lives, he was risking his own—running into enemy fire again and again to pull wounded soldiers from the battlefield. He prayed, "Lord, help me get one more," and by the end of that night, he had saved 75 men.
I think about Doss often because I feel a similar pull. I may not be dodging bullets, but the cultural battlefield is real, and the wounds are deep. My role is not to pick up a weapon, not to engage in the endless cycle of attacks and counterattacks, but to tend to those who are hurt, disoriented, and afraid. But how? How do we navigate these times without being consumed by them? How do we remain faithful to the call of Christ when fear and outrage seem to be the dominant currencies of our age?
Scripture gives us glimpses into these moments—when discernment is sharp, but direction is unclear. When the Israelites were enslaved in Egypt, they longed for liberation. But Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, unmoved by their suffering. No reasoning, no plea for justice would change his course. And yet, God still moved. There is a time to confront injustice, but also a time to recognize when hearts are too hardened to hear. There is a time to recognize that the battle is not yours and that only God can change a world shaped by the hardened hearts of unrighteous leaders.
Jesus, in Matthew 15, when describing the dominant religious group at the time, warned that they were like the blind leading the blind who would inevitably fall into a ditch. Curiously, he told his disciples to “let them be.” There are times when arguing does nothing but drain us, when the better response is to step aside and focus on those who are still searching for light instead of those who claim they have found it while clearly stumbling around in their own darkness. Additionally, Jesus also cautioned his disciples in Matthew 7 against casting their pearls before swine, reminding us that not every word we speak will find a willing heart. That tension—when to speak, when to step back, when to keep our words sacred—is one I wrestle with daily.
Then there’s the man possessed by demons in the Gospels, whose identity was swallowed by the many voices that lived within him. Some scholars suggest this was not just a story of spiritual possession, but a reflection of the effects of Roman occupation, cued by the name the demon(s) gave for themselves: Legion, a name shared by the Roman military occupation force who violently mistreated the people of Israel. These people were so overwhelmed by the empire’s influence on their day-to-day lives that they lost themselves entirely to it. I see echoes of this in our world today. The constant flood of social media, the relentless stream of outrage, the competing narratives—it is easy to lose ourselves in the noise, to forget who we are and what we are called to be. When I feel my own identity slipping under the weight of it all, I remind myself that Jesus didn’t just cast out the demon; he restored the man to himself. That is the work I want to do—not to fight for the sake of fighting, or winning, but to help us remember who we are in the midst of the chaos.
And then there is fear—the undercurrent of dread that so many of us carry these days. Fear of what is happening in our country, fear of what might be coming, fear that justice will not prevail. It is natural to feel this way. But Scripture shows us that fear, when unchecked, leads us to idolatry. When the Israelites were finally free from the threats of their cruel ruler, fear eventually crept back in. When Moses was gone too long on the mountain, in their anxiety, they grasped for security, fashioning a golden calf. Their fear led them to idolatry—turning toward something tangible, something that gave the illusion of control. How often do we do the same? When uncertainty grips us, do we place our trust in God, or do we cling to the nearest political movement, ideology, or leader who promises stability?
I have struggled with these thoughts deeply. When I raise my concerns and critiques, I am often met with responses that tell me I am overreacting. I feel as if I am standing in a storm, trying to point out the lightning, only to be told it is just a flickering light. That moment of being dismissed is where the confusion settles in—am I seeing clearly, or am I wrong? Should I push harder, or is my voice wasted? This cycle repeats itself until I retreat, not out of fear but out of exhaustion. I withdraw, not because I have nothing left to say, but because I do not want to cast my pearls in places where they will be trampled.
But withdrawal is not the answer, either. Those who are truly wounded in the culture wars do not need silence; they need guidance, clarity, and care. The question is not whether to speak but how to do so in a way that strengthens the weary, rather than fueling the endless shouting match. I have found that symbols, stories, and Scripture offer a way forward—an apocalyptic lens, not in the sense of destruction, but in the sense of revelation. The truth must be uncovered, not forced. The light must be revealed, not wielded as a weapon. And above all, the words must serve a purpose—not to win arguments but to tend to the wounded and offer a way forward.
For those of us who feel this weight, who sense the battle but do not seek to fight in the way others do, the challenge is to remain faithful. Faithful to truth, faithful to justice, and faithful to the call to heal rather than destroy. We are not alone in this tension, and we are not without guidance. The wisdom has always been there—we just have to learn how to walk in it.