News broke recently that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has signed a long-term lease for office space in downtown Columbia, South Carolina.

A decision that has reportedly caught city officials off guard, sparking debate about its procedural and political implications.

While I am not interested in the procedural or political calculus of such decisions, I am interested in the theological work of helping people of faith interpret moments like this.

Because for Christians, our conclusions about border policy, detention protocols, or federal authority are never merely pragmatic. They are downstream from our theological convictions about those whom Scripture calls “strangers.”

First, let’s define it.

A stranger is a socially vulnerable outsider, often ethnically, culturally, or politically displaced.

That definition matters because America has long been shaped by two competing narratives of national identity, each carrying its own implicit theology and moral vision of belonging.

One tells a story of refuge, opportunity, and possibility.

The other tells a story of protection, preservation, and purity.

At its best, that first story is the true American Dream.

At its worst, that second story is American exceptionalism, a distorted theology of chosenness popularized within the white evangelical movement, based on the belief that prosperity proves moral superiority and divine preference.

And when that distortion takes root, it turns strangers into suspects.

But such a posture is at odds with the biblical witness, which consistently presents God as attentive to and often identified with the socially vulnerable outsider.

In the Torah, Yahweh commands:

“The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.”

Leviticus 19:34 NIV

Here we see God connecting mercy to memory by reminding them that they were once the vulnerable ones and that their faithfulness to Him would be measured not merely by the vows they made, but by how they treated the vulnerable among them.

Over and over again, the Old Testament pairs three groups together: the widow, the orphan, and the foreigner, and Yahweh makes clear that injustice toward them is not merely a social issue; it’s a spiritual one.

When we turn to Jesus in the New Testament, the pattern intensifies.

When asked to define “neighbor” in Luke 10, a question that one could argue was posed in a prejudiced manner, Jesus responds not with a definition, but with a parable in which a Samaritan, an ethnically despised outsider, becomes the moral exemplar.

And then Jesus goes even further.

In Matthew 25, He self-identifies not with the powerful, but with the hungry, the prisoner, and the stranger:

The Greek term used here, xenos, shares its linguistic root with the word xenophobia, literally meaning “fear of the foreigner.”

The kingdom of God is, among other things, the slow dismantling of xenophobia.

Scripture, therefore, resists any attempt to define “neighbor” narrowly or to collapse moral responsibility into national proximity.

Now, before I go, let me address the political elephant in the room.

Some might read this and assume I am advocating for “open borders.”

I am not.

As Christians, we can affirm the need for policy, process, and lawful systems, but we cannot allow our moral imagination to be discipled by national fear.

As Rev. Dr. Elizabeth Arnold writes:

“Seeing the stranger as an enemy and working toward keeping them away is incompatible with the teachings of the New Testament. For those who claim the Bible’s teachings to be authoritative, the New Testament’s unified command to treat the stranger hospitably should be the lens used in considering matters around immigration.”

Policy may define jurisdiction, but it must not define compassion.

The law may regulate entry, but it must not regulate mercy.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is remembered as a giant in history and rightfully so.

His words were etched into our moral imagination, and his courage helped shape the course of justice in America and around the world.

And yet, every year, especially on this day, the same question resurfaces:

What do we do with his humanity, and does it somehow discredit his legacy?

Before we dive into that, let’s keep it a buck about how we got here.

It would be naïve to treat this renewed fixation on King’s humanity as accidental or merely academic.

This is a concerted effort, particularly by those in power, to demonize King to diminish his legacy.

When a prophetic voice proves inconvenient, the strategy is rarely to engage the message on its own terms. Instead, the messenger is reframed, their complexity weaponized, and their humanity turned into scandal.

But, don’t be fooled, the aim is not historical clarity but moral erosion.

The idea is that if the man can be reduced to his vices, we can ignore his vision.

Unfortunately, this is not new. Power has always sought to domesticate prophets first by silencing them, and later by reshaping how they are remembered.

However, King remains a threat even in death because his message lives on.

His insistence on nonviolent resistance, economic justice, and the inherent dignity of every human being continues to interrogate our modern systems, still built on inequality and fear.

That is why the battle over his legacy matters.

A softened King, a compromised King, is far easier to celebrate with platitudes and holiday quotes than a King who still demands repentance, restructuring, and repair.

Back to my initial question:

What do we do with his humanity, and does it somehow discredit his legacy?

I don’t think so.

But, hear me out.

There is a deep temptation, especially in a cynical age, to believe that moral authority requires moral perfection.

However, Scripture tells a different story.

“We have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.” — 2 Corinthians 4:7 (NIV)

The Christian story has never been built on spotless heroes.

Abraham lied.

Moses murdered.

David abused power.

Peter denied.

Paul persecuted.

And still, God advanced redemption through their lives.

Not because their flaws were insignificant but because God’s purposes were more important.

That remains true of King.

What those in power fail to realize is that their plan to highlight King’s humanity doesn’t dishonor him. It places him where he always stood: not above history, but within it. Not as a messiah, but as a messenger. Not as perfection incarnate, but as a man who bore the weight of his moment with courage, conviction, and cost.

The civil rights movement did not require a flawless leader; it required a faithful one.

To honor King is not to canonize him.

By canonize, I mean we do not need to pretend he was more than human.

The power has never been in the vessel.

The power has always been in the treasure it carries.

Before I go, in the spirit of calling a thing a thing: to focus exclusively on King’s humanity without honor isn’t discernment; it’s deflection.

But perhaps that is the hope behind the criticism:

To keep us so busy debating the man that we never have to deal with the message.

A few days ago, a church skit by Druski went viral.

The scene was familiar to many who have spent time in or around certain megachurch cultures: a preacher suspended from the ceiling, dramatic entrances, exaggerated prophecies, emotional offerings, and an atmosphere thick with spectacle.

The video sparked immediate debate.

Some went so far as to accuse Druski of mocking God.

But I want to suggest a way that may run against the grain (pun intended).

What if this wasn’t a mess, but a mirror?

Indulge me.

Art has always played a prophetic role in society.

Not prophecy in the predictive sense, but prophecy in the revealing sense.

Artists have a way of holding up a mirror to a culture and forcing it to see itself.

Satire, especially, does not invent reality; it amplifies it. It takes what already exists and turns the volume up so loud we can no longer ignore it.

And that’s precisely why it makes us uncomfortable.

We can grow remarkably desensitized to our own excesses. Over time, what once felt strange becomes normal. What once felt heavy becomes entertaining. What once felt sacred slowly becomes familiar and eventually theatrical.

When an artist takes those same elements and puts them on display outside the controlled environment of, say, Sunday morning, we suddenly see them for what they are or at least, what they can become.

But in true human fashion, when we don’t like our reflection, our instinct is often to blame the mirror.

We accuse it of distortion, question its motives, and argue about its tone.

Now, that doesn’t mean everything in the skit was fair. Satire is, by nature, exaggerated. It flattens nuance. It collapses the good and the bad into a single caricature. But caricatures only work when there’s enough truth in them to be recognizable.

No one laughed because it was foreign. They laughed because it was familiar.

And that familiarity should give the church pause.

For years, many churches, especially large, platform-driven ones, have blurred the line between worship and performance. We’ve borrowed heavily from entertainment culture, sometimes in the name of relevance, sometimes in the name of growth, and sometimes simply because it works.

But at some point, we have to ask an uncomfortable question:

What are we training people to expect when they come to meet God?

The danger is not that God can’t move through spectacle. He can. The danger is that spectacle begins to replace substance, and no one notices because it still “works.”

Attendance grows.

Clips go viral.

Giving increases.

Meanwhile, formation remains shallow, discernment weak, and faith increasingly dependent on stimulation.

That’s when parody stops being cruel and starts being clarifying.

Druski didn’t invent flying pastors, over-the-top prophetic moments, or emotionally manipulative offering appeals. He simply held them up, stripping them of their spiritual language and placing them in the realm of the absurd. And when spiritual practices look absurd outside of their usual setting, it may be worth asking whether they were ever as sacred as we assumed.

And while we’re here, offering a critique of religious practices isn’t new.

Jesus regularly exposed religious excess not by mocking God, but by confronting the systems that claimed to represent Him. He warned against public displays designed to impress rather than transform. His sharpest words were not for outsiders, but for insiders who had confused appearance with faithfulness.

To be clear, I am not comparing Druski to Jesus or parody to prophecy; I am simply observing that God has a long history of using unexpected moments to reveal uncomfortable truths to His people.

That’s why I’m less concerned with whether this skit “offended” the church, and more concerned with why it resonated so widely.

If the reflection makes us uncomfortable, the solution isn’t to be outraged. It’s repentance, or at least reflection.

Because mirrors, when used well, are gifts.

They show us where we’ve drifted.

They reveal what we’ve normalized.

They invite us to change.

So maybe the question isn’t whether this moment was a mess or a mockery.

Maybe the better question is whether we’re willing to look at it long enough to learn something.

A quick note: Pay attention to what Jesus did and did not say. He didn’t say you couldn’t have both. He did say you couldn’t serve both. Money isn’t just a tool; it’s a rival master. And masters don’t like to share.

Which brings us to the great American paradox.

Every Thanksgiving, we gather with friends and family to pause and give thanks.

Then Black Friday comes.

And the gratitude from the day before is pushed aside in pursuit of more.

Let me be clear, this isn’t a finger-pointing post; I’m in this, too.

It’s not that our gratitude is absent. It is often overwhelmed by the compulsions of a culture formed by hyper-individualism, consumer capitalism, and dopamine-driven urgency.

Studies in behavioral psychology show that scarcity cues, often dominant on Black Friday, such as limited-time sales or low-stock warnings, trigger fear-based responses in our amygdala.

The fear of missing out.

The fear of not having enough.

Or worse, the fear of not being enough.

And sadly, in America, those fears are often fueled by what I call a theology of more.

In too many American churches, the language of faith has been subtly co-opted by consumer logic. What was once a theology of dependence on God has been recast as a transactional spirituality, where divine favor is measured by material gain. Wealth becomes proof of righteousness, and poverty is silently coded as spiritual failure.

This framework not only distorts the teachings of Scripture on contentment and stewardship, but it also reinforces economic inequality by spiritualizing it.

That’s another post for another day.

But as followers of Jesus, there is a better way.

A way not built on fear, but on trust.

Not accelerated by urgency, but anchored in enoughness.

A way that invites us to rest, resist, and remember who we are, and whose we are.

Not measured by consumption, but marked by contentment.

A way that dares to see Thanksgiving as a kind of Sabbath.

Because it’s hard to stay thankful when we can’t stay still.

Walter Brueggemann captures it beautifully in his short book on Sabbath.

He writes:

“The way of mammon (capital, wealth) is the way of the commodity, that is, the way of endless desire, endless productivity, and endless restlessness without any Sabbath. Jesus taught his disciples that they could not have it both ways.”

May we have the courage to choose the better way.

Happy trails.

Since this piece was written, the House has officially passed the bill to end the government shutdown, and the President has signed it into law. While this development changes the headlines, it does not change the heart of this article. In many ways, it underscores it.

Two weeks ago, I wrote about the impact the government shutdown had on SNAP benefits, a piece I titled Oh, SNAP. That post serves as a precursor, setting the stage for what I want to explore today.

If you missed it, I’d recommend reading that one first, then circling back here.

After weeks of the longest government shutdown in American history, something unexpected happened on Sunday, November 9th.

Seven Democrats and one Independent (who caucuses with the Democratic Party) voted with Republicans to reopen the government.

You may not think it’s strange, but I do.

The very lawmakers who refused to support an earlier funding deal (that would’ve prevented a shutdown) because it excluded extending healthcare subsidies for millions are now championing a resolution that leaves those same households exposed.

So, what changed between then and now?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

They caved with no guarantee that their initial demand would be met.

As annoying as that is, that’s not quite what I want to write about this week.

Our system offered two lessers: restore SNAP benefits and pay government workers, or extend healthcare subsidies for millions at risk of losing coverage or having their premiums skyrocket.

Neither comprehensive. Both urgent.

And yet, we’re being told to celebrate one while ignoring the other.

Unfortunately, we have not solved the crisis; we have merely shifted the burden.

For me, this isn’t just about what’s on the table; it’s about how the table got set, who set it, and why it only seats these two choices.

Let’s briefly interrogate what I see as three drivers:

Structural Invisibility

The quietest crises, like hunger and healthcare, are often the deadliest because they operate in media silence.

Out of sight, out of cycle.

They don’t trend or rally headlines these days unless the optics are useful.

But structural invisibility is a policy in itself.

The systems that govern food assistance and healthcare access are designed to function in the background, like plumbing. You only notice when something breaks. And even then, it’s easier to blame the flood than the faulty infrastructure.

That’s why SNAP cuts and lapsed subsidies rarely spark moral outrage; they remain invisible until the consequences are impossible to ignore, but by then, someone’s fridge is empty or their prescription has run out.

Political Theatre

Shutdowns are not policy debates; they’re performance.

We watch them unfold like a Netflix series with conflict and cliffhangers.

But this isn’t drama, it’s daily life, and it’s dysfunction.

The storylines are scripted, the players rarely change, and the people most affected are never in the room.

In this theater, hunger and healthcare became leverage, not sacred rights or signs of collective care. They’re just tools of negotiation in a partisan tug-of-war, a war we’re expected to cheer for even when the “victory” is temporary.

Because as long as people remain hungry and uninsured, how can we possibly call that a win?

Narrative Inertia

We’ve been taught to choose the lesser evil, rarely pausing to ask why those are always our only options.

But in a culture shaped by capitalism and discipled by individualism, it’s clear.

It’s easier to approve emergency measures than to reimagine the system that created the emergency.

And once that narrative sets in, anything more feels unrealistic, idealistic, or radical.

What’s truly radical, though, isn’t choosing the lesser of two evils but naming the evil of two lessers and refusing to play the game.

When crisis knocks again (and it will), may we have the courage to hold the line.

Happy trails.

³⁵ For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, ³⁶ I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

³⁷ “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? ³⁸ When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? ³⁹ When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

⁴⁰ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Matthew 25:35-40 NIV

We are weeks into a government shutdown.

Millions of vulnerable citizens brace for what happens when the system supposedly designed to serve them starves them. SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) benefits, a critical lifeline for nearly 40 million Americans, are set to expire at the end of this month.

But what’s more troubling than the crisis itself is the indifference that surrounds it.

Somewhere along the way, we started believing that hardship is personal, not communal, viewing poverty through a lens of distance and suspicion.

We tell ourselves that “those people” should’ve just worked harder.

We believe that hunger is a result of irresponsibility, not inequality.

We adopt the dangerous logic that says: if it doesn’t affect me, it’s not my problem.

And before you check out on me, this isn’t just a political issue. It’s a moral one.

Currently, On My Shelf (pun intended) is the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ book, Morality.

He writes:

“A free society is a moral achievement, and it is made by us and our habits of thought, speech, and deed. Morality cannot be outsourced because it depends on each of us. Without self-restraint, without the capacity to defer the gratification of instinct, and without the habits of heart and deed that we call virtues, we will eventually lose our freedom.”

Yes, we live in a democracy (at least for now), but our freedom only survives on the back of mutual responsibility. You can’t have liberty without virtue. You can’t have community without compassion.

So what can we do?

We can resist the impulse to scroll past suffering.

We can support organizations that feed the vulnerable.

We can raise our voices to demand better from our civic leaders.

A shutdown may seem like a temporary inconvenience to some, but it’s life-altering for others. And if we continue to outsource our moral responsibility, waiting on institutions to act while we look the other way, we’ll not only fail the vulnerable, we’ll fail ourselves.

Because suffering never stays in its lane, it always spills over.

If we’re going to follow Jesus in a culture of indifference, we must swim upstream, remembering his words:

“Whatever you did for one of the least of these…you did for me.”

Beginning this week, “with Sean Dreher” is rolling out a new cadence of short-form notes. Most Wednesdays, you’ll receive a brief but thoughtful reflection from one of my two newsletters:

→ Work These Words (spiritual formation + the way of Jesus)

→ Against the Grain (culture, conscience, and curiosity)

The longer, feature-length writings will be released monthly, primarily as primers for our upcoming teaching series at Kingdom South. These weekly notes will help us stay connected in between.

Now the Lord God had planted a garden in the east, in Eden; and there he put the man he had formed. The Lord God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food. In the middle of the garden were the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

Genesis 2:8-9 NIV

There’s a proposed bill in South Carolina that would make abortion illegal with almost no exceptions and criminalize anyone who helps someone pursue one.

Let me be clear: I am pro-choice. And I believe God is, too.

Not in the way the culture frames it, but in the way the Scriptures reveal it, starting in Eden. If God’s highest value were mere compliance, the forbidden tree of the knowledge of good and evil would’ve never been planted.

But it was.

Right in the middle of the garden.

Why? Because love that’s forced isn’t love.

And obedience without the option of disobedience isn’t devotion, it’s domination.

From the very beginning, God dignified humanity with agency. He extended invitation over imposition. He honored freedom even when it led people away from His preferred future and into pain.

So, if God Himself didn’t impose obedience in a world untainted by sin, what makes us think laws that impose obedience in a world marred by it will somehow produce righteousness if that’s even what we’re truly after?

That same ethic should inform how we navigate the complexities of abortion, not just with policy, but with presence, not just with conviction, but with compassion.

Let me be clear: No, I don’t believe abortion should be used as casual birth control.

But I also believe the government has no business forcing a woman to carry a child at the expense of her health, autonomy, or trauma recovery, especially when the systems that create the conditions for unwanted pregnancies go largely untouched.

We can do better than performative policy. We can build a life ethic that tells the truth about women, poverty, access to healthcare, maternal mortality, and racial disparities.

Tell the truth!

Oh, and before I go, let me be clear: I am not against those who are pro-life, but I am against hypocrisy. If you’re going to be pro-life, be all the way pro-life. 🤸🏾‍♂️

Happy trails.

I love the idea of America.

The words penned by imperfect men, in imperfect times.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

The words were powerful, even prophetic.

They offered a vision of what could be. A nation where liberty and justice are not the privilege of a few but the birthright of all.

Sounds good, right?

But I find myself, year after year, in the same place as a frustrated idealist. Caught between the beauty of our founding words and the brokenness of our lived experience.

From the beginning, America's founding documents brought a radical hope into the world. The Declaration of Independence declared independence from tyranny and oppression, and then the Constitution sought to establish a framework for a republic governed by laws, not kings.

It’s crazy how they’ve inspired nations to ignite movements challenging oppressive forms of government around the world while also existing alongside and in contradiction to domestic realities like slavery, disenfranchisement, and systemic injustice.

How can a nation that promised liberty build its wealth on the backs of the enslaved?

How can a land that declared equality withhold it from women, Indigenous people, immigrants, and countless others?

How can a country that claims freedom of conscience persecute dissent?

Although I don’t have the answers, I do know these contradictions don't negate the ideals; instead, they remind us that we have yet to reach them, which is where my frustration as an idealist grows and is often misunderstood on both sides.

I am not alone.

Frustrated idealists are prophets to the nation, and we come in various forms: activists, artists, creatives, podcasters, preachers, teachers, writers, etc.

We don't hate America, and that makes some people mad.

At the same time, we are not blind to, nor silent about, the gap between what America says and what she does, and that makes some people mad.

However, I hope, especially on a day like today, that we can create space for both, which is why I refuse to condemn anyone celebrating today.

Nevertheless, I would like to challenge us all to adopt a different kind of patriotism.

The kind that is honest, sober, and hopeful.

The kind that demands alignment between word and deed.

The kind that celebrates progress while insisting there's more to be done.

Because ideals need more than celebration, they need commitment.

So this year, I won't settle for cynicism or cheap pride.

I'll remain a frustrated idealist.

I'll pray for America and work for justice.

And I'll keep praying and working until the promise is realized:

That all people are created equal.

That liberty and justice belong to everyone.

That love of country means loving it enough to want more for it and from it.