Douglas Vandergraph

There are moments in a nation’s life when the noise becomes so constant that people stop noticing it. Authority speaks more often. Decisions arrive faster. Language sharpens. Fear gets normalized. And slowly, almost without realizing it, people adjust their expectations of leadership downward while telling themselves it’s necessary, temporary, or justified by the moment. I find myself living in one of those moments now, not as a political observer first, but as a follower of Christ who is trying to stay awake in a time that encourages sleepwalking.

Before anything else is said, it matters to say what this reflection is and what it is not. This is not an attempt to persuade anyone politically. It is not an argument for or against a party, a platform, or a personality. It is a pastoral examination of conscience in real time, shaped by Scripture and by the unsettling feeling that arises when power no longer sounds like stewardship but like command. It is written for people who feel something shifting beneath their feet but are unsure how to name it without anger, shame, or fear.

Following Jesus has never been about attaching faith to authority. It has always been about holding authority up to the light of Christ. That distinction matters now more than ever, because when leadership becomes louder, conscience must become quieter in order to listen. Loud power drowns out careful thought. Loud power demands loyalty before understanding. Loud power rewards certainty and punishes hesitation. And yet the Jesus I follow consistently moves in the opposite direction. He lowers His voice. He slows the moment down. He asks questions instead of issuing ultimatums. He refuses to trade truth for urgency, even when urgency would make things easier.

What I am watching unfold in this country right now unsettles me not because I dislike order or law or decisiveness, but because I see order drifting away from accountability, law drifting away from due process, and decisiveness drifting away from restraint. I see decisions made rapidly, enforced aggressively, and justified afterward rather than examined beforehand. I see authority exercised with confidence but not always with care. And I recognize something important in myself as I watch this happen: the temptation to excuse what I would otherwise question, simply because the voice issuing the command sounds strong.

That realization alone is worth sitting with. Strength has always been persuasive. People gravitate toward it in uncertain times. When life feels unstable, strong language can feel like safety. Firm action can feel like protection. Decisive movement can feel like leadership. I understand that pull because I feel it too. There are moments when part of me wants someone to take control, move quickly, and silence the chaos. But faith demands that I examine that impulse rather than surrender to it.

Jesus makes a clear distinction between the way power works in the world and the way power works in the kingdom of God. He does not blur that line. He draws it sharply. He tells His followers plainly that the rulers of the world “lord it over” others, that they exercise authority through dominance, fear, and control. Then He says something radical and deeply inconvenient. He says that this must not be the way among those who follow Him. Not sometimes. Not ideally. Not eventually. Now.

That teaching is not abstract. It is practical. It speaks directly into moments when authority begins to feel centralized rather than accountable, when enforcement feels intimidating rather than transparent, when obedience is demanded rather than earned. Jesus does not deny that authority exists. He redefines how it is meant to function. Authority, in His view, is not proven by how quickly it acts or how forcefully it enforces. It is proven by how carefully it listens, how slowly it moves when lives are at stake, and how willing it is to limit itself.

What troubles me most in the present moment is not any single policy or decision in isolation, but the pattern forming beneath them. Patterns tell the truth long before outcomes do. When leadership begins to rely heavily on commands rather than consensus, orders rather than deliberation, enforcement rather than explanation, something fundamental shifts. Power stops asking permission. Power stops explaining itself. Power begins assuming its own righteousness.

Jesus never operates that way. Even when He possesses ultimate authority, He refuses to bypass conscience. He persuades rather than compels. He invites rather than intimidates. He reasons rather than threatens. When confronted with opposition, He does not escalate. He clarifies. When misunderstood, He does not punish confusion. He teaches patiently. When betrayed, He does not retaliate. He absorbs the cost.

That posture is not weakness. It is restraint. And restraint is one of the clearest signs of godly authority.

As I watch the current use of power in this country, I find myself asking a set of simple questions that cut through complexity. Do these actions produce peace, or do they cultivate fear. Do they build trust in institutions, or do they erode confidence and replace it with anxiety. Do they protect human dignity, or do they treat people as problems to be managed rather than neighbors to be seen. These are not political questions. They are moral ones. They are the kinds of questions Jesus trains His followers to ask.

It would be easy to frame this reflection as criticism, but that would miss the deeper work happening here. This is not about condemning others. It is about correcting myself. I am learning in real time how easily I once confused confidence with character, speed with wisdom, and force with effectiveness. I am learning how tempting it is to excuse behavior I would otherwise challenge simply because it promises order. And I am learning how dangerous that temptation can be.

History offers countless warnings about what happens when power loses restraint. Scripture does the same. Again and again, the Bible tells stories of leaders who begin with good intentions and end with unchecked authority, convinced that their position justifies their actions. The danger is rarely obvious at first. It creeps in through necessity, through crisis, through urgency. People tell themselves there is no time for process, no room for delay, no patience for dissent. And before long, power no longer serves the people. It demands submission.

Jesus confronts that impulse directly. He refuses to let necessity override love. He refuses to let urgency silence truth. He refuses to let power justify itself. Even when His own followers push Him toward domination, toward retaliation, toward force, He stops them and asks a sobering question. He asks what spirit is driving them. That question echoes in my mind now more than ever.

What spirit is shaping our response to uncertainty. What spirit is guiding our use of authority. What spirit is being formed in us as we watch, support, excuse, or resist the exercise of power. These questions do not have easy answers, but they are necessary ones. Faith that avoids them becomes decoration. Faith that confronts them becomes formation.

I am not interested in performative outrage or righteous posturing. I am interested in fidelity to Christ. And fidelity requires that I slow down when the world tells me to hurry, that I listen when the world tells me to shout, and that I examine my own heart before examining anyone else’s actions. It requires that I refuse to baptize power simply because it claims to protect me.

The longer I sit with these thoughts, the clearer one thing becomes. Jesus never leads by intimidation. He never governs by fear. He never treats people as disposable. His authority flows from love, not from control. And any form of leadership that moves in the opposite direction deserves careful, prayerful scrutiny from those who claim His name.

This reflection does not leave me angry. It leaves me sober. It does not push me toward withdrawal. It pushes me toward vigilance. It reminds me that faithfulness in uncertain times rarely looks dramatic. It looks like paying attention. It looks like refusing to rush to judgment. It looks like holding power to account without surrendering compassion.

Most of all, it reminds me that my hope cannot rest in leaders, systems, or strength as the world defines it. Those things shift too quickly. They demand too much. They disappoint too often. My hope rests in Christ, whose authority never needs to shout, whose leadership never needs to threaten, and whose power never requires fear to sustain it.

That is where I am choosing to stand now. Quietly. Watchfully. Prayerfully. With my eyes open and my heart anchored.

As I continue sitting with this moment, I become more aware of how easily people mistake discomfort for danger. Discomfort invites reflection. Danger demands reaction. The problem arises when leaders blur that distinction and treat discomfort as something to be crushed rather than something to be addressed. Faith teaches patience in moments like these. It teaches us to pause long enough to tell the difference between a threat and a challenge, between disorder and dissent, between fear and conviction. Jesus never rushed that discernment. He always slowed it down.

What troubles me is not that leaders act. Leadership requires action. What troubles me is when action becomes insulated from accountability and urgency becomes an excuse to bypass reflection. When decisions are framed as too important to question, too necessary to debate, or too urgent to delay, conscience begins to shrink. People stop asking whether something is right and settle for whether it is effective. That shift is subtle, but it is dangerous.

The Gospels show Jesus resisting that temptation at every turn. When crowds want Him to seize power, He withdraws. When followers want Him to escalate conflict, He refuses. When authority figures pressure Him to conform or comply, He answers carefully, never surrendering truth for safety. Even when His silence is mistaken for weakness, He remains restrained. That restraint is not passivity. It is moral clarity.

Watching current events unfold, I sense how easily restraint is portrayed as indecision and humility as weakness. Yet Jesus consistently inverts those assumptions. He teaches that those who hunger for power reveal their insecurity, while those who restrain themselves reveal strength. He teaches that leadership is proven not by dominance but by service, not by command but by care. That teaching remains profoundly relevant now.

I notice how fear travels quickly in moments like this. Fear spreads faster than understanding. Fear simplifies complex realities into threats and enemies. Fear rewards certainty and punishes nuance. And fear is incredibly useful to those who wish to consolidate authority. Scripture never denies the presence of fear, but it repeatedly warns against letting fear rule. “Fear not” is not a sentimental phrase in the Bible. It is a command grounded in trust.

When fear becomes a tool of governance rather than a condition to be addressed, something breaks. Communities fracture. Compassion narrows. People begin to justify actions they would once have condemned. I recognize that temptation in myself, and that recognition humbles me. Faith does not exempt anyone from fear. It teaches us how to confront it honestly.

Jesus confronts fear by refusing to exploit it. He does not promise safety through force. He promises peace through truth. He does not rally people against perceived enemies. He invites them to love even those they fear. That posture is deeply uncomfortable, especially in times of uncertainty, but it is unmistakably Christlike.

The longer I reflect, the more I realize how important it is to name this moment without becoming consumed by it. There is a difference between vigilance and obsession, between attention and fixation. Faith calls for the former, not the latter. Staying awake does not mean living in constant alarm. It means remaining grounded enough to notice when something no longer aligns with the teachings of Christ.

I am learning to resist the pressure to react quickly or declare certainty. Instead, I am choosing to stay curious, prayerful, and anchored. That choice does not always feel satisfying. It does not provide instant clarity or emotional release. But it keeps my conscience alive. It keeps me from surrendering discernment to urgency.

One of the most important lessons Scripture teaches is that God does not rush formation. Growth takes time. Wisdom develops slowly. Character is revealed over seasons, not moments. When leadership demands immediate allegiance and discourages reflection, it runs counter to the way God works. That insight matters deeply to me right now.

I also think about those who feel silenced or afraid to speak. When authority becomes intimidating, people retreat inward. They second-guess themselves. They wonder whether asking questions will cost them safety or belonging. Jesus never creates that atmosphere. He welcomes questions. He invites doubt. He treats honest inquiry as faith in motion, not rebellion.

This reflection pushes me to examine how I respond when others express concern. Do I listen, or do I dismiss? Do I remain open, or do I retreat into certainty? Faithfulness requires humility not only toward leaders but toward neighbors. It requires patience with disagreement and charity in conversation.

I am aware that some will misunderstand this reflection. Some will hear criticism where none is intended. Others will hear caution as betrayal. That risk comes with speaking honestly in charged times. Jesus faced the same risk. He was misunderstood by authorities, followers, and crowds alike. Yet He continued to speak truth with gentleness and clarity.

Ultimately, this reflection brings me back to where my hope rests. It does not rest in outcomes or assurances. It does not rest in strength as the world defines it. It rests in Christ, whose kingdom does not advance through fear or force, whose authority does not require intimidation, and whose leadership never sacrifices love for control.

That hope steadies me. It reminds me that no moment, no leader, no system stands outside God’s sovereignty. It reminds me that my calling is not to predict outcomes but to remain faithful. Faithfulness looks like discernment, prayer, humility, and courage to speak when conscience requires it.

As I close this reflection, I return to a simple commitment. I choose to stay awake. I choose to remain anchored. I choose to measure leadership by Christ’s example rather than by my comfort or fear. I choose to resist the temptation to confuse power with righteousness or urgency with wisdom.

This is not a declaration of certainty. It is an act of faith. Faith that God continues to speak through conscience. Faith that truth does not need volume to endure. Faith that restraint is not weakness, and humility is not defeat.

I remain hopeful, not because circumstances are easy, but because Christ remains faithful. His voice still cuts through the noise. His example still clarifies the path. And His love still calls people—not to panic or polarization—but to prayer, discernment, and trust.

That is where I stand. That is how I choose to live. And that is the posture I pray will shape me, whatever comes next.

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Your friend,
Douglas Vandergraph