Thin Air, High Hope

Before I Moved to Florida…

Actually, let’s wait a minute on Florida and start here: I don’t share my candid thoughts as publicly anymore.

It feels risky these days. We live in a world where one phrase, one misinterpreted word, can get you instantly categorized or labeled. People seem quicker to decide what team you’re on than to listen to what you’re really saying. I used to speak more freely, which, in itself, is a little telling. Still, I don’t think the caution is all bad. I don’t want to add to the noise or hurt anyone. I just want to think carefully about my words, my tone, and how I show up.

That’s probably a reflection of how I’m wired. I recently took a CliftonStrengths assessment, and my top themes are Thinker and Relator, in other words, I overthink everything while simultaneously craving connection. It’s a tricky combination: analyzing and questioning everything deeply while also just wanting to connect.

Having said all that…here are some of my candid thoughts…

What Colorado Taught Me About Community

When we first moved to Colorado, I’ll admit, it wasn’t high on my list. I’d visited once and found it too polished, too pristine. But after six years there, something shifted. Beneath the surface, I discovered pockets of beautiful, genuine community.

My church there wasn’t perfect, no church is, but I grew to deeply respect how the leaders invited diverse voices to the table. They wrestled with complex issues around race, justice, and faith, and somehow managed to do it with humility. And I saw how costly it was for them. I know it took a toll on some of them personally, and in hindsight, I can see how I sometimes added to that tension, pushing hard on poverty and race when my tone could have been gentler or more patient.

Still, one moment has stayed with me. A leader I deeply respected addressed various issues within the church. He reminded us of Jesus’ parable about the weeds and the wheat, how if you pull up the weeds too quickly, you risk uprooting the good along with them. Change, he said, takes humility, intentions and time. That image, a field tended patiently rather than hastily weeded, has stayed with me ever since.

A Return Home, and a New Kind of Unease

I say all of that to set up a sort of framework for the thoughts ahead. I moved to Florida a little over a year ago. We moved back to so many faces and people that we love which has been wonderful. And the beauty of Florida, though it’s not front and center like it was in certain places in Colorado, I love it. There is so much beauty all around: the heavy Spanish Moss hanging from the trees, the misty mornings, the warm humid nights and gorgeous sunsets.

And yet, the longer I’ve been here, the more I’ve felt an undercurrent of unease. The political and cultural climate feels different, more polarized. I don’t mind disagreement; in fact, I sincerely enjoy hearing perspectives that challenge my own. What troubles me isn’t disagreement itself, but when marginalized voices are missing entirely.

I don’t believe that this is normally intentional. I don’t think there is usually some sort of malicious or nefarious agenda creating this dynamic (though unfortunately there may be at times). But the lack of intent might actually be a greater cause for concern. It leads to the same outcomes, only more quietly, and that makes it harder to see. Those struggling the most, financially, emotionally, physically, are often too busy surviving to make it to the “table.” Meanwhile, those of us with the time and means to gather rarely notice who isn’t there. It’s like throwing a party, realizing half the guests couldn’t come, but everyone’s having such a good time that no one thinks to ask why.

Learning, Listening, and Holding Tension

Returning to school for my PhD has widened my perspective even more. I know higher education raises eyebrows in some Christian circles. There’s a fear that too much questioning weakens faith, or that “expanded thought” competes with Scripture. But in my experience, it’s been the opposite.

The more I study, the more awe I have for the Bible. Comparing philosophical ideas side-by-side with Scripture has only deepened my conviction that it’s not the product of human wisdom alone. There’s balance, mystery, and truth there that no academic framework can replicate.

Still, what I’ve learned about education policy, especially here in Florida, has been sobering. Recent laws discourage honest teaching about slavery, encourage presenting it as something that offered “skills” to the enslaved, and ban books like The Diary of Anne Frank. I support age-appropriate teaching, but the impulse to sanitize history or protect students from “discomfort” alarms me.

And what weighs even heavier is how familiar that fear sounds. The same anxious tone I hear driving certain education policies seems to echo in parts of Christian conversation: the fear-filled dialogue, the warnings about moral decay “out there.” In these circles, I hear far less about the moral decay “in here”: greed, consumerism, materialism, and overpacked schedules that leave no room to serve others. I can’t help but wonder if, in our efforts to guard against certain sins, we’ve grown blind to the ones quietly thriving in our own homes.

The Water We Swim In

In 2020, I was helping oversee social media for my local church. It was a year full of tension, outrage, and noise. I remember feeling frustrated, sometimes even indignant, at the things people said (and didn’t say). One day, I poured out my heart to a church leader. He listened patiently and then said something that stuck: “Your empathy will always color what you see.”

That statement was so helpful. It wasn’t a rebuke, it was an observation. My empathy is both my lens and my bias. I will always be drawn to pain, injustice, and power imbalances. That’s not wrong, but it does mean I have to hold empathy with humility. It can’t just drive me to judgment; it has to lead me to listen.

That conversation changed how I move through the world. It taught me the importance of noticing the water we swim in, the cultural and ideological currents that shape how we think, speak, and respond without even realizing it. Fish don’t see water because it’s all they’ve ever known, and in the same way, we can move through life unaware of the assumptions and narratives we’re immersed in. Learning to see the water, to recognize the forces that influence our fears, our priorities, and our faith, is, I think, one of the first steps toward genuine spiritual maturity.

The more I’ve paid attention to those currents, the more I’ve realized that truth rarely lives at the extremes. Most things are layered with nuance, and the more I listen, the more I realize how much I still have to learn.

Holding Mercy and Justice Together

In all of this, I keep coming back to Jesus.

When I look at Him, I see someone who refused to separate mercy from justice. He called out hypocrisy but never forgot compassion. He named sin but never reduced people to it. He didn’t just warn against evil “out there”; He invited His followers to confront what was festering within.

Matthew 25 reminds me that the dividing line of faith isn’t about doctrinal precision, it’s about love. “I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink.” The truest measure of faith is not how fiercely we defend morality, but how faithfully we love the person right in front of us.

I often think about a question I once heard: If your church disappeared tomorrow, would your community miss it? Would the local food banks, schools, and shelters notice we were gone? Would the lonely neighbor down the street? Would anyone say, “They were the ones who showed up”?

I hope so. I really do.

I hope our neighborhoods would say that about us: that we were lights. That when people were hungry for relationship, we fed them. When they were thirsty for connection, we noticed them. When they were imprisoned by fear or sin, we met them with compassion rather than condemnation. That when they were at their most naked and vulnerable, they found us to be a safe place, not because we ignored truth or softened conviction, but because the Jesus we stood for was also for them.

Final Ramblings

I’m not even sure why I dumped all of this here. Maybe just to make sense of my own thoughts, or perhaps to connect with someone else who also feels weary..

If that’s you, maybe this could be one of those small “you too” moments that C.S. Lewis described when he wrote that friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, “What! You too?” There’s something sacred about realizing we’re not alone in the questions we carry.

And if you see things differently, you’re also welcome at the table! The whole point, I think, is to make space for the kind of conversations that help us understand each other a little more, honest ones that linger long enough for real listening to happen. Maybe that’s one of the quiet ways we reflect the kingdom of God here on earth.

I might just catch a glimpse of what this looks like on Friday mornings. As often as possible, I meet my dad for breakfast at a local diner. It’s a tradition he and my snowbird Uncle started, and when my Uncle is up north, I gladly take his place until he returns. My dad and I don’t necessarily align on political views, but I treasure those mornings. It’s so good to sit together, laughing and talking openly about politics, life, and faith. I always leave with a little more understanding and a wider perspective. (honestly, the best home fries in the county don’t hurt either).

I guess that’s what all of this has been: an honest rambling to process the unease I feel in our current climate, especially within church communities. There’s so much fear in the air, and I don’t always agree upon or know how to respond to it with wisdom, grace, and faith. Maybe that’s why I hold onto memories of Denver and the Friday mornings at the diner, they remind me that conversation and growth are possible. Those moments, however, don’t erase the harder questions. I’m still trying to make sense of the fear, the noise, the polarization that seems to swallow nuance, and the ache I feel for something deeper and truer. Honestly, I’m holding on because I believe there’s a way to live that doesn’t feed fear or exclusion but speaks of love, sacrifice, truth, and mercy. I might just still be learning what that is.