We often move through the world assuming we’re communicating, when in reality we’re only broadcasting. We talk about what we want, what we feel, what we fear, what we hope for. Our desires are familiar to us; they present themselves readily. So we speak them readily.

But turning the question around—asking someone else, “What do you want from me?”—that requires a different posture. It opens us to responsibility, to change, to the possibility that we might have to become more than what we currently are. Maybe that’s why we avoid it.

The avoidance shows up everywhere: in our relationships, in our writing, in our art, and yes, even in our spiritual lives. It’s a quiet pattern hiding in plain sight.

Verse 1

Let God arise—
Enemies scatter like smoke in the wind,
Wicked melt like wax in the fire,
But the righteous stand and sing.
Raise your voice to the One who rides the storm,
Father to the lost, shelter in the night,
He breaks the chains of the lonely and bound,
But the proud fade into dry ground.

Verse 2

Verse 1

Hear God’s taunt, you king of Babylon:
Your terror is broken and gone.
The earth is at rest and the people sing,
The forests breathe freely again.

Verse 2

Modern culture—especially in the West—teaches that adulthood means independence.
Get out on your own.
Stand on your own two feet.
Build your own life apart from your parents, your history, and often even your church.

And many Christians have read Genesis 2:24 through that same cultural lens, assuming that “leaving father and mother” means breaking ties in order to become fully self-sufficient.

But Scripture paints a much richer picture.

Throughout Christian history—and in many churches today—it’s easy to slip into unspoken assumptions about leadership. We end up orbiting around a personality, a pastor, a charismatic voice, or a beloved parent figure who becomes the center of our stability. We say we trust Jesus, but we act as though the health of the church depends mostly on who holds the earthly steering wheel.

But Scripture tells a very different story.

The church is not built on the charisma of a leader, the steadiness of a parent, or the giftedness of a teacher. The church is built on Christ, held together by His Spirit, and sustained by the mutual support of the Body.

Every generation in America seems to rediscover the same grim refrain: we can’t live with them.

The pronoun changes—Native Americans, Black people, immigrants, feminists, Muslims, liberals—but the underlying fear never does. Each time a new group demands equality, a familiar faction of Americans insists coexistence is impossible. And in 2025, with right-wing commentators warning that the nation is “on the brink of civil war,” it’s clear we’re watching this old story play out again.

From the start, the United States has balanced two opposing ideals: freedom and hierarchy.

Verse 1
What are you doing, man?
Are you trying to be a curse?
You weren’t made to rule her hand —
You were made to lift her first.
You’re not her master, not her king,
You’re half the chord that’s meant to sing.

Pre-Chorus
You were made for each other,
Made equally yoked,
Not a chain, not a burden,
But a promise spoke.

We live in a world where you can type “create a gospel-style hip-hop track about redemption” into an AI music tool like Suno or Udio — and in 30 seconds, a full song appears. Choir harmonies, 808s, even a fake voice that sounds like it grew up in church and cyphers.

For some Christian creators, this feels like a breakthrough: Finally — a way to reach people who don’t listen to traditional worship music.

But that excitement lives beside a landmine.

There’s a question that keeps pressing on my conscience:

How can God judge us for overlooking the poor if we’ve built a world where we don’t even see the poor?

But maybe that question doesn’t go far enough.

Verse 1

In the still of the night,
Heav’n’s glory shines;
Calling tribes, every tongue
Into Your light.
From the lost and the weak
To the strong and free,
You are gathering all
Into unity.
Your promise remains
For each land and race:
One family of nations
In Your house of grace.

Pre-Chorus

Verse 1
Snow on the empty street,
Warm lights but my heart won’t beat
Like it did when you were here—
Love froze in the winter air.
Carols of what might be,
Prayers for a memory.

Chorus
There’ll be Christmas in heaven,
All things made new again.
When you are what I dreamed of,
I can love you then.
Redeemed in Christ forever,
Tears will be wiped away.
I can’t love you now—oh, but I’ll love you then,
When night turns to day.

Verse 2
I can’t be near you now,
Mercy has shown me how.
This year my joy’s not the same—
Freedom and quiet pain.
The manger softly calls,
Healing through bitter loss.

Let’s be clear: this debate was never just about what letter appears on a passport.

When the Trump administration fought—and won—the right to remove the “X” gender marker from passports and force people to use the sex on their birth certificates, it wasn’t because the country was facing a crisis of forged gender identities or airport confusion.

It was a message.

When Donald Trump told 60 Minutes that it would be “hard for me as president to give a lot of money to New York — because if you have a Communist running New York, all you’re doing is wasting the money you’re sending there,” the line traveled fast.

Not just because of its bluntness, but because of the assumption tucked inside it: that helping people through government is a kind of fiscal sin — while helping the powerful somehow isn’t.

The question almost asks itself: what do you mean, a waste of money?

When Georgia Congressman Buddy Carter introduced the so-called “MAMDANI Act” — a symbolic bill to cut off all federal funds to New York City now that a self-described socialist, Zohran Mamdani, has become mayor — he wasn’t legislating policy. He was legislating fear.

Fear of the idea that ordinary people might, at last, see public money used for their benefit.

For decades, American conservatives have wielded the word socialism as a political bludgeon — a shorthand for inefficiency, tyranny, or moral decay. Yet when public money flows upward — to corporations, investors, or politically connected firms — the same people call it “economic development,” “bailouts,” or “market support.”

In the ancient Book of Daniel, King Belshazzar holds a lavish feast in defiance of looming danger. In the midst of his arrogance, a mysterious hand appears and writes on the wall:
“Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.”

Daniel translates:

Mene — Your days are numbered.

Verse 1
Lord, when the night surrounds my soul,
And all the world forgets my name,
I cry like David in the dark,
“Remember me in steadfast grace.”
For You are near to broken hearts,
You write my tears in sacred lines,
You hold my frame within Your hands,
Your mercy spans all troubled times.

Chorus
Remember me, O Faithful One,
When others turn their face away;
You never leave, You never fade,
Your covenant love forever stays.
Jesus, when You come in Your Kingdom,
Remember me, remember me.

Verse 2
Like the thief upon the cross,
With nothing left but desperate plea,
He whispered, “Lord, remember me,”
And heaven opened quietly.
You answered him through blood and pain,
“Today with Me you’ll surely be,”
A promise carved in love and truth,
Hope spoken through eternity.

Verse 1
Hear me now, you sky and land,
I’ll sing of the Father’s hand.
He found us in the desert dry,
Carried us safe like an eagle’s cry.
He fed us milk and wheat so fine,
Honey from stone, and the sweetest wine.

Chorus
But we wandered, we forgot,
Traded the Rock for gods of rot.
Oh, the Lord watched silently,
Said, “Let them learn what it is to be free.”
Yet His heart, though filled with flame,
Never forgot our name.

Verse 2
He said, “I’ll hide My face from you,
See what your pride will do.
You chased new gods, strange and cold—
Forgotten the Love you knew of old.
I’ll let a foolish nation rise,
To open your blinded eyes.”

Verse 1
Let us pray like the prophet Habakkuk,
Lord, we’ve heard of Your mighty ways.
In these years, revive Your wonders,
In Your wrath, let mercy stay.
From the mountains Your glory thundered,
Heaven blazed with holy light,
Earth was full of songs and shivers,
At the coming of Your might.

Chorus
Though the fig trees bear no blossoms,
And the vines yield not a sign,
Though the fields are dry and empty,
No sheep and no cattle to find—
Still I’ll rejoice in my Savior,
Still I will sing of His grace.
For the Lord God is my strength and my shelter,
He sets my feet in high places.

Verse 2
You came riding on the storm wind,
Through the rivers, through the sea.
With Your arrows flashing lightning,
Sun and moon stood silently.
Nations trembled, hills were shattered,
Ancient mountains bowed down low.
You marched out to save Your people,
Crushed the wicked with one blow.

Verse 1
Come all you people, lift your voice,
Make a joyful noise, rejoice,
We are His flock, we are His own,
Sheep of the pasture, led back home.
Enter His gates with thankful hearts,
Into His courts with praise we start,
For the Lord is good, His love won’t fade,
His faithfulness through every age.

Chorus
Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good,
His steadfast love forever will endure.
From generation to generation sing,
Bless the Lord, O my soul—give thanks to the King.

Verse 2
Oh come, let us sing to the Rock of our salvation,
Bow down before the Maker of all creation.
He holds the mountains high and the valleys low,
The sea is His and the rivers that flow.
Give thanks, for He heard the cry of the lost,
Gathered the wandering, no matter the cost.
He heals the broken, lifts up the weak,
His mercy is the song we speak.

1
When Israel’s leaders took the lead,
The people volunteered—
So praise the Lord, the God of all,
Whose name is to be feared.

2
Hear, kings and princes, listen close;
I sing unto the Lord.
When He marched out from Edom’s land,
The earth shook at His word.

3
The mountains trembled in His path,
The clouds poured down their rain.
In Shamgar’s days the roads were still,
Fear ruled the land with pain.