I want to begin this reflection by being very clear about the posture of my heart, because posture matters. This is not a piece written to persuade anyone politically, to recruit agreement, or to stir reaction. It is written because there are moments in history when the noise outside becomes so loud that the quieter work inside the soul becomes harder to hear, and yet more necessary than ever. This is one of those moments. What follows is not commentary but confession, not instruction but discernment, not argument but examination. It is an attempt to name what many people feel but struggle to articulate, especially those who are trying to follow Jesus faithfully while living in a time of intense pressure, urgency, and power.
There is a growing sense in the air right now that something has shifted. It shows up in conversations that stop abruptly, in news cycles that feel relentless, in the way people brace themselves before speaking, and in the uneasiness that lingers even when words fail. Many people cannot explain it clearly, but they feel it deeply. There is a tension between authority and restraint, between speed and wisdom, between control and care. And for those of us whose faith is not theoretical but lived, this tension does not remain abstract. It presses inward. It asks questions. It demands attention.
One of the great challenges of following Jesus in any era is resisting the pull to let circumstances, fear, or power redefine what we believe strength looks like. Every generation faces this test. Sometimes strength is presented as dominance. Sometimes it is framed as decisiveness at any cost. Sometimes it is praised when it silences dissent, bypasses process, or moves faster than conscience can keep up. And in moments like these, the temptation is subtle. It does not announce itself as temptation. It presents itself as necessity. As urgency. As realism. As the only way forward.
But Jesus has always been clear that the ways of His kingdom do not mirror the ways of the world. This is not a poetic idea. It is a practical one. It shows up in how power is exercised, how people are treated, how decisions are made, and how authority understands its limits. When Jesus speaks about leadership, He does not romanticize force. He does not celebrate domination. He does not glorify control. Instead, He consistently points to restraint, humility, service, and accountability as the true markers of authority that honors God.
This is why moments like the one we are living in require discernment rather than reaction. Discernment is slower. It is quieter. It resists the urge to immediately categorize, defend, or attack. Discernment asks different questions. It does not begin with “Who is winning?” but with “What is being formed?” It does not ask, “Does this make me feel secure?” but “Does this reflect the character of Christ?” Discernment is not weakness. It is spiritual maturity.
Right now, it is impossible to ignore how often authority is exercised through command rather than collaboration, through urgency rather than deliberation, through concentration rather than shared responsibility. Decisions arrive fully formed, swiftly enforced, and confidently justified. The language of speed and strength dominates. Process is treated as an obstacle. Restraint is framed as hesitation. And accountability is sometimes dismissed as disloyalty. These patterns do not belong to one moment in history alone, nor are they unique to one individual or one administration. They are patterns as old as power itself. That is precisely why Scripture speaks to them so consistently.
When authority begins to feel more like ruling than serving, something important has already shifted. When leadership presents itself as above process rather than accountable to it, alarms should quietly go off in the hearts of people who know their history and their faith. When enforcement becomes intimidating rather than transparent, when fear becomes an acceptable tool, when people are reduced to problems instead of neighbors, the question is no longer political. It is moral. It is spiritual.
Jesus never governed by decree. That fact alone should give believers pause when decree becomes the dominant language of leadership. Even when Jesus possessed authority beyond any earthly ruler, He did not bypass conscience. He did not short-circuit moral reflection. He did not treat people as obstacles to be managed. He invited, persuaded, taught, and served. And perhaps most strikingly, He submitted Himself to process even when the process was flawed, unjust, and painful. He did not do this because the systems were righteous. He did it because power restrained is holier than power unleashed.
This is not an argument against law, order, or structure. Law matters. Order matters. Structure matters. Scripture affirms these things clearly. But law without restraint becomes cruelty. Order without compassion becomes oppression. Structure without accountability becomes idolatry. The Bible’s concern is never whether authority exists, but how it is exercised and to what end. Authority is meant to protect dignity, not erode it. It is meant to create space for human flourishing, not shrink it through fear.
One of the most important spiritual practices in times like these is learning to distinguish between urgency and righteousness. They are not the same thing. Urgency can be manufactured. Fear can be amplified. Threats can be exaggerated. But righteousness is patient. It is consistent. It does not require panic to function. When leadership demands constant urgency, it often does so to bypass reflection. When it discourages questions, it often does so to avoid accountability. When it equates loyalty with silence, it has already stepped outside the moral framework that Jesus models.
It is also important to be honest about how easy it is to confuse confidence with character. Confidence is loud. It is assertive. It feels reassuring, especially in uncertain times. Character, on the other hand, is quieter. It shows up over time. It is revealed not in speeches but in patterns. Not in promises but in fruit. Jesus explicitly tells us that fruit is the measure by which leadership is known. Not charisma. Not certainty. Not strength of will. Fruit.
Fruit takes time. That is why discernment cannot be rushed. It requires watching not just what is done, but how it is done. It requires noticing who benefits, who is harmed, who is heard, and who is dismissed. It requires asking whether fear is increasing or decreasing, whether trust is being built or eroded, whether dignity is being protected or compromised. These are not partisan questions. They are human ones. They are Christian ones.
Many people struggle at this point because they assume that naming discomfort means condemning others. It does not. Naming discomfort can be an act of faithfulness. It can be a refusal to let conscience be dulled by repetition or overwhelmed by noise. It can be a way of saying, “I am paying attention, and I am holding what I see up to the light of Christ.” This is not betrayal. It is vigilance. It is the posture Jesus repeatedly calls His followers to adopt when the world around them grows loud and forceful.
There is also a necessary inward turn that must accompany any outward discernment. It is not enough to evaluate what is happening “out there.” Jesus always brings the question back inside. He asks us to examine our own hearts, our own assumptions, our own willingness to excuse behavior when it benefits us or aligns with our fears. One of the most honest questions a person can ask in this moment is whether they would feel the same if the same actions were taken by someone they already distrust. That question strips away tribal loyalty and exposes whether conscience is truly at work.
This inward examination can be uncomfortable, but it is freeing. It allows us to admit that our earlier understanding of strength may have been incomplete. Many of us were taught, implicitly or explicitly, that strength means cracking down, acting fast, and showing no hesitation. We learned to associate order with control and effectiveness with force. But Jesus dismantles those assumptions gently and persistently. He shows us that real strength knows when to stop. Real leadership knows when to listen. Real authority knows its limits.
The danger of unchecked power is not merely theoretical. History bears witness to it repeatedly. Scripture does too. When power begins to see itself as above restraint, above accountability, above process, it always moves toward harm, even if it begins with good intentions. This is why humility is not a decorative virtue in Christian leadership. It is essential. Humility creates space for correction. Restraint creates room for justice. Accountability keeps authority from collapsing inward on itself.
As I write this, I am aware that some readers may feel tension rising. That tension itself is worth paying attention to. It may come from fear of instability, from fatigue, from longing for clarity, or from deep concern about the future. Jesus does not shame us for feeling these things. But He does invite us to place them in their proper order. Fear is never meant to lead. Power is never meant to be ultimate. And no human authority is ever meant to occupy the place reserved for God alone.
This is why conscience matters so deeply right now. Conscience is not loud. It does not shout over others. It does not dominate conversations. It whispers. It nudges. It unsettles. It asks us to slow down when everything around us is speeding up. It reminds us that following Christ has always required a willingness to resist the seduction of power, even when that power promises safety, order, or success.
The call of Jesus in moments like these is not to panic, not to rage, not to retreat, but to remain awake. To watch carefully. To pray honestly. To refuse to give our hearts away too quickly to anything that does not resemble Him. This kind of faith does not make headlines. It does not satisfy extremes. But it forms people who can stand steady when others are pulled toward fear or force.
As this reflection continues, the question that remains is not whether leadership will continue to exercise power, but whether we will continue to measure that power by the life and teachings of Jesus. That question does not belong to one moment alone. It belongs to every generation. And it is one we must be willing to ask again and again, especially when the stakes feel high and the voices feel loud.
The question of how followers of Jesus live faithfully when power speaks loudly is not new. It did not begin in our generation, and it will not end with it. What makes the present moment feel so heavy is not only the actions we are witnessing, but the speed at which they are happening and the way they are justified. Speed creates momentum, and momentum can silence reflection. When everything moves quickly, there is little time to ask whether what is being done aligns with what we claim to believe. That is precisely why conscience must be exercised intentionally rather than assumed automatically.
One of the most difficult disciplines for believers in any age is learning how to remain grounded when authority feels overwhelming. There is a natural human impulse to seek shelter under strong leadership, especially when uncertainty rises. We long for someone to promise order, security, and control. We want reassurance that someone is in charge and knows what they are doing. That desire is not sinful in itself. It is human. But it becomes spiritually dangerous when it replaces discernment with dependence, or when it asks us to excuse behavior that contradicts the character of Christ.
Jesus never discourages order, but He consistently resists domination. He never undermines responsibility, but He refuses coercion. He does not reject authority, but He redefines it. Authority in the kingdom of God is never about elevating oneself above others. It is always about responsibility toward others. This distinction is subtle, but it is critical. Authority that serves seeks the good of those under it. Authority that dominates seeks obedience for its own sake. The difference between the two is often revealed not in what is said, but in how dissent is treated.
In times like these, dissent itself becomes a test. When questioning is framed as disloyalty, something unhealthy has already taken root. Jesus welcomed questions. He answered challenges. He engaged doubt without threat. Even those who opposed Him were not silenced by force. They were met with truth. When authority begins to fear questions, it reveals insecurity. When it punishes dissent, it reveals fragility. When it demands unquestioning loyalty, it reveals that it has moved beyond service and into self-preservation.
This is why restraint is such a powerful virtue. Restraint is evidence that authority is confident enough to limit itself. It signals that leadership understands its own fallibility. It allows space for correction, dialogue, and moral accountability. Restraint is not weakness. It is strength under control. Scripture consistently praises this kind of strength. It is the strength that refuses to escalate unnecessarily, that resists the urge to prove itself, that understands that not every tool available must be used simply because it exists.
One of the reasons restraint feels rare today is because it does not generate immediate applause. Force feels decisive. Speed feels impressive. Control feels reassuring. Restraint, on the other hand, often looks slow, cautious, and even uncertain. But this is precisely why Jesus models it. He knows that the long-term health of a people depends not on how quickly power can be exercised, but on how carefully it is handled. The kingdom of God grows like a seed, not like a conquest. It spreads through transformation, not intimidation.
As followers of Jesus, we are called to be attentive to what power produces over time. Does it calm the social atmosphere or agitate it? Does it invite participation or enforce compliance? Does it increase trust in institutions or corrode it? These questions matter because they reveal whether authority is operating within healthy limits or pushing beyond them. Fruit is not always immediate, but it is always telling.
Fear is one of the clearest indicators that power is being misused. Fear may produce short-term obedience, but it destroys long-term trust. When people begin to feel watched rather than protected, silenced rather than heard, managed rather than respected, something essential has been lost. Jesus never governs through fear. His call is demanding, but it is never coercive. He invites people to follow Him freely, even knowing that many will walk away.
That freedom is central to Christian faith. God does not compel love. He invites it. He does not force obedience. He calls for it. This should shape how believers evaluate any form of authority. When leadership relies heavily on fear to maintain order, it departs from the pattern Christ establishes. When it treats people as threats rather than neighbors, it loses sight of the image of God in every human being.
It is important to say clearly that recognizing these patterns does not require hatred, contempt, or hostility. Discernment is not anger. It is attentiveness. It is the willingness to hold what we see up against what we believe. It is the courage to say, “This may be effective, but is it faithful?” That question does not make someone disloyal. It makes them spiritually awake.
Being spiritually awake is not the same as being perpetually alarmed. Jesus does not call His followers to constant outrage. He calls them to steady faithfulness. That faithfulness includes the ability to remain calm while still being clear, to remain loving while still being honest, and to remain hopeful while still being realistic. These qualities are especially important when public life becomes polarized and reactive.
One of the dangers of polarized times is that people are pushed toward extremes. Nuance is lost. Complexity is flattened. Individuals are pressured to declare absolute allegiance or absolute opposition. But Jesus rarely operates in extremes. He operates in truth. He does not simplify reality to make it easier to manage. He enters its complexity and redeems it from within. This means that following Him often requires resisting the pressure to reduce moral questions to slogans or talking points.
Conscience plays a vital role here. Conscience is the faculty that allows us to perceive moral tension even when we cannot immediately resolve it. It alerts us when something is misaligned, even before we can articulate exactly why. Ignoring conscience dulls spiritual sensitivity. Honoring conscience sharpens it. Scripture repeatedly affirms the importance of conscience, not as an infallible guide, but as a gift that must be cultivated, examined, and kept responsive.
Keeping conscience responsive requires humility. It requires admitting that our understanding may grow, that our assumptions may be challenged, and that our earlier conclusions may need revision. This is not instability. It is faithfulness. Faith is not static. It is responsive. It listens. It learns. It remains open to correction by the Spirit of God.
This is why the posture of slowing down matters so much right now. Slowing down allows space for prayer. It allows room for reflection. It creates distance from the emotional charge of the moment. Slowing down does not mean disengaging. It means engaging more deeply. It means refusing to let urgency dictate values. It means choosing faithfulness over speed.
Prayer, in this context, is not escapism. It is grounding. Prayer reminds us that no leader, no system, no authority is ultimate. It re-centers our allegiance. It restores perspective. It reminds us that the kingdom of God does not rise or fall with any administration. It endures beyond them. That truth frees believers from panic and from blind loyalty alike.
Anchoring ourselves in Christ is especially important when power becomes loud. Loud power seeks attention. Loud power demands reaction. Loud power thrives on fear and loyalty. Christ, by contrast, speaks quietly and persistently. He calls His followers to watchfulness, to patience, and to love. He does not rush them. He forms them over time.
One of the most stabilizing realizations a believer can have is that hope does not depend on political outcomes. Hope is not anchored in leaders or systems. Hope is anchored in Christ. This does not make public life irrelevant, but it keeps it in proper proportion. When hope is misplaced, disappointment becomes devastating. When hope is rightly placed, engagement becomes steadier and less reactive.
It is also worth acknowledging that speaking about these things carries risk. Some will misunderstand. Some will feel challenged. Some will interpret discernment as criticism or caution as condemnation. That discomfort cannot always be avoided. Jesus Himself warns that truth unsettles. But He also assures us that truth frees. The goal is not to avoid discomfort at all costs, but to ensure that whatever discomfort arises is rooted in honesty and love, not in hostility or contempt.
This reflection is offered in that spirit. It is not a declaration of superiority. It is not a claim to perfect clarity. It is an attempt to remain faithful in a moment that demands faithfulness. It is a commitment to keep measuring what happens in the public square by the life and teachings of Jesus rather than by fear, loyalty, or power.
As believers, we are called to be a people who can live with tension without surrendering integrity. We are called to resist both despair and idolatry. We are called to speak carefully, listen deeply, and love consistently. These are not easy tasks, especially when the environment around us is charged and urgent. But they are essential tasks if our witness is to remain credible.
In closing, it is worth returning to what Jesus consistently emphasizes. He tells His followers not to be afraid. He tells them to watch and pray. He tells them to remain faithful. He does not promise ease, but He promises presence. He does not promise control, but He promises peace. That peace is not the absence of conflict. It is the presence of God in the midst of it.
The invitation, then, is simple but demanding. Stay awake. Stay prayerful. Stay humble. Do not give your heart away too quickly to anything that does not resemble Christ. Measure power by its fruit. Measure authority by its restraint. Measure leadership by its service. And keep your hope anchored where it belongs.
Not in leaders.
Not in systems.
Not in force or control.
But in Christ.
That is how faith remains steady when the world feels unsettled. That is how conscience stays alive when power grows loud. And that is how followers of Jesus continue to bear witness to a different kingdom, one shaped not by fear or domination, but by love, humility, and truth.
Your friend,
Douglas Vandergraph
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