Week 19: The Incongruence of Our Faith and Our Politics

I’m writing this in the early morning hours of January 6th after living through the worst “vacation” of my life. Jamie and I have spent the last three nights in a separate hotel room from our kids, quarantined away because I haven’t been able to keep anything down, hardly able to leave the bed…which has given me MORE than enough time to experience my fill of political commentary over the past few days. And after hours of tossing and turning in the early hours of this morning, I decided to do something I told myself I wouldn’t do… write about politics.

This is a topic our family often discusses—the incongruence of our faith and our politics. It’s a complex and deeply personal conversation, but I’ll start with a simple truth: no political party fully represents my faith, and no system of government can encapsulate the essence of what I believe. Faith, in its truest form, transcends the limitations of human institutions.

You’ll often hear statements like, “Jesus would be a socialist.” And, while I understand the sentiment—that Jesus valued care for the poor, community, and justice—the statement itself reveals a misunderstanding of His mission. Jesus wasn’t here to advocate, or live, for a particular political ideology; He was here to transform hearts, lives, and the way we relate to God and each other. Reducing His radical love and teachings to a political framework, whether socialist, capitalist, or any other system, misses the point.

Faith calls us to something higher, something that exists beyond the confines of political constructs. It challenges us to engage with the world in ways that reflect grace, compassion, and justice—not because of a political platform but because of a kingdom perspective. And when our politics conflict with our faith, it’s an invitation to reassess, realign, and remember that our ultimate allegiance lies not with any party, but with the God who calls us to love others as He has loved us.

Having said that… I feel today is an anniversary that needs attention, especially when it comes to my project.

Four years ago, January 6th became a turning point that reshaped the fabric of American life. It wasn’t just the day itself—the violence, the chaos, the stark display of division—but the ripple effects that have continued to unfold since. It marked a moment when deep political divides became impossible to ignore, driving wedges between loved ones, testing relationships, and challenging long-held beliefs.

Christian nationalism surged into the spotlight, blending faith with political ideology in ways that left countless Christians questioning what it truly means to follow Jesus in a polarized nation. I still remember sitting on our couch, watching the day unfold, and periodically seeing huge posters of Jesus—some even depicting Him wearing the infamous red “Make America Great Again” hat. It felt surreal, like I was watching a scene from a dystopian movie where faith and politics had been twisted into something unrecognizable. The Jesus I had grown up learning about—the one who preached love, humility, and service to others—seemed so far removed from the figure being co-opted and displayed as a symbol of power, dominance, and exclusion.

I couldn’t shake the disconnect. The juxtaposition of violent rhetoric, stormed barricades, and claims of divine endorsement left me questioning how we had arrived at this moment. It was as if the core message of Christianity—grace, mercy, and sacrificial love—had been buried beneath a heavy layer of nationalism, fear, and political tribalism. And in that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder how many people watching this unfold might walk away from faith altogether, unable to reconcile this version of “Jesus” with the one they’d once believed in.

And, in the years that followed… the answer was way more than I ever could have imagined.

For me, that day became a turning point. It forced me to examine what it means to truly follow Jesus in a world where His name is so often used to justify actions that seem completely contrary to His teachings. It sparked an uncomfortable but necessary journey of reflection—on faith, identity, and the ways we’ve allowed politics to shape our understanding of God instead of the other way around.

Family gatherings became battlegrounds for debates about truth, values, and loyalty, with political affiliations often taking precedence over shared histories and relationships. The idea of unity felt increasingly elusive as communities fractured along ideological lines.

This wasn’t just about politics, though. It was about identity and core values—about who we are as individuals, families, and a nation. Questions that had simmered under the surface for decades boiled over: What does it mean to be a Christian in America? Can faith and politics coexist without compromising one or the other? How do we rebuild trust when so much of our shared foundation feels shaken?

In the years since, these challenges have forced many of us to reevaluate everything—our relationships, our priorities, and even our faith. The events of January 6th didn’t just reveal what was broken; they offered an unflinching look at the work that lies ahead. And here I sit, reflecting on all of this in a hotel room far from my kids, sick in body but also in heart, realizing how much healing our families, communities, and nation still need.

Last night, I moved myself to the living area, curled up in a chair, and told Jamie the most hopeless, but honest, thing I’ve said in a while: “I just don’t know if it’s ever going to get better.” The weight of everything—politics, division, the state of the world—felt like too much to bear. It wasn’t just the big, global issues either; it was the everyday, relentless drumbeat of tension and uncertainty.

And the truth is simple… it might not.

As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt the sting of how raw they were. I’ve always been someone who holds on to hope, even in the darkest moments, but this time, I couldn’t muster it. Jamie didn’t say much; he didn’t need to. Sometimes, the most powerful response is just sitting in the silence together, acknowledging the heaviness without trying to fix it.

But even in that moment of despair, something unexpected happened. As the quiet stretched on, I started to think about the little glimmers of light that still break through the cracks—the genuine conversations I’ve had with neighbors, the small acts of kindness I’ve witnessed, the resilience I see in people determined to make their communities better.

And that is where hope lives, not in some sweeping, magical solution that fixes everything overnight… like the election of a politician… but in the small, steady reminders that goodness still exists. It’s in the choice to keep showing up, even when it feels futile, and in the belief that light, no matter how faint, can grow.

So while I may have been honest in my hopelessness, I’m also determined not to stay there. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that hope often starts as a flicker in the darkest of rooms—and sometimes, that’s all we need to keep going.