We Want to Live A Polyphonic Testament from the Fractured World

Acknowledgments

For those who were never meant to be forgotten.

For those who never made the news.

For the dead, the disappeared, the displaced—

and for those still living among the ruins,

who rebuild without applause.

For the children who did not choose this world.

For the elders who remember what came before it.

For the laborers whose hands built futures they were never allowed to enter.

For those who resist by surviving.

For those who mourn without permission.

For those who speak when silence is demanded.

And for those who speak only through the weight of their presence.

For the unheard.

For the unseen.

For the ones who whisper: we are still here.

This work is for you.

This work is because of you.

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Preface

This is not a book in the traditional sense.

It is not meant to be read beginning to end—though you may.

It is not narrative. It is not argument.

It is a field of voices, gathered from grief, from memory, from hope, from silence.

No names are given here. No speakers are declared.

The words rise from the human soul—

fragmented, aching, enduring.

They speak not from neutrality,

but from the clarity that comes when one dares to see through every shattered pane.

Each section is a room.

You may enter in any order.

You may pause. Return. Read aloud.

There is no map, only resonance.

What is spoken here refuses erasure.

What is withheld is as important as what is said.

What repeats is meant to.

What disturbs is meant to.

What quiets you—that is the doorway.

This is a testament, not to sides,

but to life.

⸻

The Cry

We want to live.

Not as headlines. Not as factions.

Not behind walls or under siege or in camps with no time.

Not as projections.

Not as threats.

We want to live where our names mean something

and our children are not born into rubble

or vengeance

or justification.

We want to live, not as proof of someone else’s fear.

Not as casualties of someone else’s history.

Not as martyrs in your speech.

Just—

to live.

⸻

The Fracture That Grew Teeth

There was once a wound.

And it was not allowed to heal.

So it split.

And it grew teeth.

And those teeth learned to speak.

They spoke of return.

They spoke of safety.

They spoke of borders, and gods, and ancestors.

But they did not speak of forgiveness.

They did not speak of the child.

They did not speak of the orchard that once fed both families.

They forgot the fruit.

They remembered the blade.

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The Long Memory

It began before the maps.

Before the checkpoints and the drones.

Before the slogans carved into steel.

It began with exile.

And silence.

And memory passed down like heirloom grief.

It began with a mother

telling her son

that he must always be ready

because the world forgets the vulnerable

and eats the visible.

It began with a father

tracing keys in his sleep

to a home no one believes existed.

It began with longing.

It turned into policy.

And now we all live inside the consequence.

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The Silence That Feeds Power

Every silence has a beneficiary.

Every omission has an architect.

What is not shown

is not accidental.

What is not named

is not forgotten.

It is chosen.

The silence is a weapon.

A shield.

A strategy.

But it is also a sickness.

It keeps grief from metabolizing.

It turns mourning into militancy.

It makes empathy treason.

And still—

beneath the silence—

the cry continues.

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The Cost of Never Again

They said never again.

They meant it.

They carved it into their laws, their hearts, their silence.

But no one said what the cost would be.

The cost is a fence.

A surveillance tower.

A home reduced to coordinates.

The cost is being too afraid to be gentle.

The cost is justifying ruin because ruin once visited you.

The cost is safety without soul.

The cost is memory hardened into border.

And justice twisted into defense.

Never again, they said.

But the again

became someone else’s always.

⸻

The Child Who Does Not Know Why

There are sirens,

and there is dust,

and there is the body that was whole yesterday

but is not today.

There are loud voices.

There are shoes too small in the rubble.

There is hunger with no metaphor.

The child does not know whose cause this is.

Does not know about vengeance or maps or revenge.

Only that the sky broke open again

and no one could stop it.

The child only asks

why.

And no answer comes

except:

they hate us.

we must protect ourselves.

it’s complicated.

But to the child,

it is not complicated.

It is unbearable.

⸻

The Grief That Cannot Choose Sides

Grief does not care what flag you carry.

It splits the spine the same way.

It hollows out the eyes just as deep.

But the world demands a choice.

You must grieve this death—

not that one.

You must weep in alignment.

You must prove your mourning with ideology.

But the body does not grieve politically.

The body collapses.

The mouth shakes.

The soul forgets which names belong to which borders.

Grief—true grief—cannot choose sides.

It can only wail.

And in its wail,

there is a different kind of clarity.

⸻

The Margin That Holds the Center

No one asked for our stories.

We were too inconvenient.

Too messy. Too layered. Too soft in a time of iron.

But we saw it all.

We saw the boy with the gun and the eyes too old.

We saw the girl learning to pray in the language of loss.

We saw the checkpoint, the ritual humiliation.

We saw the empty meeting room, the discarded ceasefire.

We are not your leaders.

We are not your martyrs.

We are not on your news.

But we are what holds the center

when the center forgets its spine.

⸻

The Breath Between Drownings

They call it ceasefire.

We call it a breath.

One breath between drownings.

One hour without fire.

One day to bury the bodies not yet buried.

They call it progress.

We call it almost-human.

It is not peace.

It is not repair.

It is the pause between wounds.

But still—

in that breath—

a child is born and survives.

A meal is shared.

A story is told.

A wound is bandaged.

A breath is not enough.

But it is not nothing.

⸻

The Body That Crosses Checkpoints

Wake before the sun.

Pack the permit.

Say goodbye without promise.

Wait.

Wait again.

Be searched.

Stand still.

Don’t flinch.

Work in silence.

Build what you cannot afford.

Serve those who fear you.

Return.

Be questioned.

Repeat.

No border holds your name.

No law holds your story.

You are the labor behind the rhetoric.

You are the silence behind the walls.

⸻

The One Who Was Erased

They do not speak of me.

I was there, and then I was not.

A village, a name, a path through almond trees—

gone.

My story is not on the tour.

My home is not on the map.

My grief is not in the textbook.

My existence is disputed.

They ask for documents.

But what document survives the bulldozer?

What language survives a silence this deep?

I was.

I am.

I remain.

Even if only in the breath between my daughter’s prayers.

⸻

The One Who Still Returns

They tell me to forget.

That the past is impractical.

That peace requires amnesia.

But I remember the sound of the gate.

The way the soil smelled in the morning.

The song my grandmother hummed before the raid.

I am not here to reclaim.

I am here to return.

To speak the name no one speaks anymore.

To stand where my family stood.

To say: I am still here.

Not as a threat.

Not as a symbol.

But as a human being

who has not forgotten.

⸻

The Ghost in the Algorithm

I am what you see,

curated, cropped, captioned.

I am the crying child on your screen.

I am the broken building time-lapsed into shock.

I am the body blurred for sensitivity.

I rise,

trend,

and vanish.

I am not mourned.

I am monetized.

You do not know my name.

You do not ask if I lived.

You scroll.

You react.

You move on.

And I remain—

not buried,

but compressed into data,

looping forever in a feed that feels like forgetting.

⸻

The Question the Wall Can’t Answer

The wall stands.

Tall.

Cameras blinking.

Shadows moving.

But the wall cannot explain

why a boy paints sunflowers on it.

Why an old woman presses her hand to it like a prayer.

Why a musician plays his oud to the empty air.

The wall cannot speak of inheritance.

Or heartbreak.

Or hope.

It cannot answer:

Who decides who is allowed to belong?

What makes safety worth this silence?

It is tall.

It is hard.

It is real.

But it is not truth.

And it will not last.

⸻

The Architect of Forgetting

I design for the future.

Clean lines. Neutral tones.

No reference to blood or memory.

Nothing political.

Just beauty.

I do not ask who lived here.

I ask what the light will do at 4 p.m.

I ask how many rooms.

I ask how many floors.

I draw over ruins.

Because ruins are messy.

And I was taught to solve problems, not inherit them.

But sometimes—

when the wind hits just right—

I hear something beneath my blueprint.

A name I didn’t draw.

A door that doesn’t belong.

A shadow that will not stay erased.

⸻

The Investor

I don’t deal in history.

I deal in opportunity.

And the future is wide open—

especially when no one owns the past.

Look: this is a blank slate.

A coastal dream.

We can build something new here.

Global. Safe. Profitable.

There’s already funding.

There’s already a plan.

All we need is your consent.

Or at least your silence.

What was here before?

War.

Grief.

Division.

What will be here next?

Luxury.

Security.

Innovation.

We call it peace.

⸻

The Voice of the New Riviera

We will build again.

It will be beautiful.

Shiny façades.

Boulevards lined with pines.

Solar-powered, AI-managed, eco-conscious.

A future that erases the bloodstains beneath its sidewalks.

We do not speak of what came before.

That would ruin the aesthetic.

We are here to curate, not to remember.

This will be a Riviera.

A place for cruise ships.

For conferences.

For curated narratives.

For wine poured beside imported jasmine.

The children buried here—

we do not name them.

The names chiseled into broken stones—

we call that archaeology.

Progress must be built on something.

We choose silence.

We choose steel.

We choose to look forward,

even if it means never looking down.

⸻

The Voice That Refuses the Riviera

Do not build over my bones.

Do not pave the story.

Do not plant trees where the fig once stood

without asking who planted it.

I am not against your towers.

But I remember the garden.

You want to move on.

I want to move through.

Let the new rise—

but let it rise with memory.

With grief still breathing in its walls.

With names carved into its foundation.

Let your Riviera hold ghosts.

Let your city shimmer with remorse.

Let the laughter echo alongside the laments.

Then maybe—

then maybe—

we will have built something worthy

of the lives lost beneath it.

⸻

The Voice of the Soil

I remember everything.

The footprints.

The ashes.

The seeds never harvested.

You build on me like I am forgetting.

But I hold the memory of every name you paved over.

I crack through your concrete.

I send roots through your marble.

I whisper through your ventilation.

You may build again.

You may plant new gardens.

You may invite tourists to the view.

But you will never silence me.

I am what holds you.

And I am what will rise

when the forgetting fails.

⸻

The Seeing That Changes Us

It happens without permission.

You hear the story

you weren’t supposed to hear.

You see the face

you weren’t supposed to recognize.

You soften.

You try to hold two truths in your body,

and something breaks—

but it is a holy breaking.

You begin to mourn

without dividing your grief into categories.

You begin to ask:

Who taught me to unsee?

You begin to unlearn.

You begin to listen.

You begin again.

And in that beginning,

there is the seed

of a different world.

⸻

Closing Invocation

Let this be

a remembering

of what the soul knew

before history hardened into flags

and names were turned into weapons.

Let this be

a listening

that breaks the trance of vengeance

and softens the grip of inherited pain.

Let this be

a turning

toward the face of the other

as if it were your own.

Let this be

the breath before the rebuilding,

the pause before the return,

the silence that births a new voice.

Let this be

for life—

not in theory,

not in rhetoric,

but in the small, sacred act

of choosing to see

and refusing to forget.

⸻

End of Work

We Want to Live: A Polyphonic Testament from the Fractured World

⸻

Reference Points

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Historical Memory & Displacement

• Ilan Pappé – The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine

Illuminates the foundational acts of dispossession that continue to shape Palestinian reality.

• Edward Said – The Question of Palestine

Frames the Palestinian struggle as a human, cultural, and political experience of exile and narrative erasure.

• The Nakba Archive, UNRWA, BADIL Resource Center

Oral testimonies and data on Palestinian dispossession, displacement, and resistance.

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Colonialism, Power, and Systemic Violence

• Frantz Fanon – The Wretched of the Earth

A seminal text on colonization, trauma, and the psychology of the oppressed under systemic control.

• Achille Mbembe – Necropolitics

Explores how modern regimes exercise control through deciding who may live and who must die.

• B’Tselem, Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International Reports (2020–2024)

Documentation of systemic violations, apartheid conditions, and structural violence in Israel/Palestine.

⸻

Comparative Histories

• Partition of India, The Trail of Tears, Balkan Wars, South African Apartheid

These historical precedents echo the dynamics of forced displacement, mythic nationalism, and unresolved trauma cycles.

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Trauma, Grief, and Collective Nervous Systems

• Bessel van der Kolk – The Body Keeps the Score

Insight into how trauma is stored in the body—relevant to both individual and collective wounds.

• Resmaa Menakem – My Grandmother’s Hands

Explores racialized trauma and the need for embodied healing across groups in conflict.

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Digital Influence & Narrative Warfare

• Shoshana Zuboff – The Age of Surveillance Capitalism

Reveals the ways data and algorithmic systems shape public perception, attention, and dehumanization.

• Media Education Foundation – The Occupation of the American Mind

Documents narrative framing and information control regarding the Israel/Palestine conflict.

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Spiritual & Ethical Frameworks

• Jewish Voice for Peace, IfNotNow, Breaking the Silence (Israeli veterans)

Sources for ethical resistance to state violence from within Jewish and Israeli communities.

• Kairos Palestine, Christian Liberation Theologies, Muslim Peacebuilding Networks

Religious frameworks that center justice and co-existence without erasure or dominance.

• Mystical Teachings from Judaism, Islam, Christianity, and Indigenous Wisdom Traditions

Each holds a deep current of prophetic truth: the sacredness of life, the need for reckoning, the possibility of return.

⸻

Creative Influence

• Nayyirah Waheed, Mahmoud Darwish, Ocean Vuong, Warsan Shire

Poets whose voices echo through themes of longing, diaspora, displacement, and radical tenderness.

• Refaat Alareer (Gaza poet, educator, martyred 2023)

Whose final words—“If I must die, let it bring hope”—formed part of the heartbeat of this work.

⸻

Conceptual Framework

• Sarvadrsti (Sanskrit: “the view through all views”)

Drawn from Mahayana Buddhist and Jain philosophical traditions, this multidirectional seeing enables moral clarity without collapsing into neutrality. It guides the structure, tone, and core ethic of the text.

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The Gravity of Belonging: A Reflection on Connection, Misrecognition, and Woundedness

The Gravity of Belonging: A Reflection on Connection, Misrecognition, and Woundedness

The Search for Resonance

To create is to reach. Whether through music, words, or shared moments in digital spaces, every act of expression is, at its core, a gesture toward connection. We cast ourselves outward, hoping that someone, somewhere, will catch the thread and pull it into their own world. We seek not just to be seen, but to be understood—to have our presence acknowledged in a way that affirms we belong.

And yet, in the fragile exchange between self-expression and recognition, there is always the risk of misfire. A word is misread, a tone misheard, a meaning lost in translation. A gesture meant to affirm is taken as intrusion. A moment that was supposed to bring connection instead delivers a sharp, unexpected sting of rejection.

It is in these moments—when we feel suddenly othered, suddenly cast out of orbit—that we glimpse something deeper, something beneath the surface of the immediate interaction. Why does this wound hurt more than it logically should? Why does a fleeting misunderstanding feel like something ancient and familiar?

The Shadow of Old Wounds

Pain, especially the kind that lingers, rarely belongs only to the moment that triggers it. It is a thread woven through time, tangled in the echoes of past absences, past exclusions, past moments when we reached out and found only empty air. A single instance of being misinterpreted on a live stream, of being subtly shut out, should not feel like being left behind on the playground or like the silence that followed a father walking away. And yet, it does.

The past leaves imprints on the present, shaping the way we receive even the smallest moments of disconnection. To be misunderstood is not simply frustrating—it can be devastating, because it threatens the very thing we are seeking: belonging. If we are misunderstood, does that mean we do not belong here? If our presence is not recognized in the way we expected, does that mean it was never truly wanted?

These fears are rarely spoken aloud, yet they hum beneath so many of our interactions, particularly in spaces where validation feels fleeting and ephemeral—where the connection we seek is mediated by screens, algorithms, and the unpredictability of human attention.

The Unseen Weight of Others

But what is remarkable is that even in the sting of that misrecognition, there is a deeper awareness at play—an understanding that pain is not a solitary experience. If we feel this way when we are misread, then surely others do too. If we carry wounds into these interactions, then so does the person on the other side of the screen, of the stage, of the conversation.

What compels someone to react defensively to an innocuous comment? What past experience shapes their perception of being “commanded” rather than supported? Just as we carry our own ghosts, so too do they.

And this is where empathy becomes both a gift and a burden. To recognize our own pain is one thing; to recognize it in another, even in the very moment they cause us pain, is something else entirely. It can soften the blow, certainly, but it can also deepen the complexity—because now we are not just reckoning with our own wound, but with theirs as well. The gravity of belonging pulls at all of us, and yet the very wounds that make us long for connection can also make us fear it, distort it, or push it away.

The Core Mass: Belonging and Woundedness

At the center of all this is a paradox: we seek belonging, but we are also shaped by the wounds that make it difficult to fully grasp. The gravitational mass that holds this entire dynamic in place is not just connection—it is wounded connection. We are all orbiting this space, pulled toward each other by a longing to be understood, but also repelled at times by the unseen forces of past pain, fear, and miscommunication.

To exist in this space, then, requires both courage and grace. Courage to keep reaching, despite the risk of rejection. Grace to allow for misunderstandings, knowing they are often the result of someone else’s unspoken wounds rather than a reflection of our worth. And perhaps most of all, patience—with ourselves, with others, with the delicate, imperfect process of finding and maintaining true connection.

Moving Forward with Awareness

The question is not whether we will encounter these moments again—we will. There will be more misfires, more unexpected hurts, more moments when the space between what we meant and how we were received feels impossibly vast. But what matters is what we do next.

Do we retreat, convinced that we do not belong after all? Do we lash out, mirroring the very defensiveness that wounded us? Or do we pause, recognize the deeper forces at play, and choose to keep orbiting—knowing that for every moment of disconnection, there will also be moments of resonance, where we are fully seen, fully understood, and fully part of something greater than ourselves?

Perhaps belonging is not a fixed state, but a constant motion—a gravitational pull that we must continue to follow, despite the turbulence along the way. And perhaps, in recognizing both our own wounds and those of others, we move just a little closer to the connection we all seek.

The themes explored in this reflection—belonging, misrecognition, woundedness, and the gravitational pull of connection—have deep roots in philosophy, psychology, and sociology. Here are some key reference points that align with the ideas in this essay:

Philosophy and the Nature of Recognition

• Hegel’s Theory of Recognition (G.W.F. Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit)

Hegel argues that human identity is formed through recognition by others. When that recognition is denied or distorted, it creates conflict and alienation, which is at the heart of much interpersonal struggle. This directly relates to the pain of misrecognition in online interactions, where validation is often fragile and uncertain.

• Martin Buber’s “I-Thou” vs. “I-It” Relationships (I and Thou, 1923)

Buber describes two fundamental ways of relating: “I-Thou,” where people engage in true, meaningful connection, and “I-It,” where others are treated as objects. The pain of misrecognition often comes from expecting an “I-Thou” moment and instead being met with an “I-It” interaction.

Psychology and Woundedness in Connection

• Attachment Theory (John Bowlby & Mary Ainsworth)

Early experiences with attachment shape how we navigate relationships. Moments of perceived exclusion or rejection can trigger deep-seated fears of abandonment, particularly for those with insecure attachment histories. The pain of being “left out” online can sometimes tap into these early wounds.

• The Looking-Glass Self (Charles Horton Cooley)

Cooley suggests that our self-concept is shaped by how we believe others perceive us. In digital spaces, where feedback is instantaneous and public, this can lead to heightened sensitivity to misinterpretation or rejection.

• Social Pain Overlap Theory (Eisenberger & Lieberman, 2004)

Neuroscientific research shows that social rejection activates the same brain regions as physical pain, reinforcing why moments of exclusion or misrecognition can feel so intense.

Digital Culture and Connection

• Sherry Turkle’s “Alone Together” (2011)

Turkle explores how digital spaces both connect and alienate us, creating a paradox where we are more accessible to each other than ever but also more vulnerable to shallow, fleeting interactions that can wound rather than fulfill.

• Parasocial Relationships (Donald Horton & R. Richard Wohl, 1956)

Online communities create a sense of closeness between creators and followers, but this relationship is often asymmetrical. Moments of disconnection can feel disproportionately painful because they rupture an expectation of mutual recognition.

Symbolism and the Metaphor of Gravity

• Jean-Paul Sartre’s “The Look” (Being and Nothingness, 1943)

Sartre describes how being seen by another person can feel like a force exerted on us, shaping our sense of self. This idea ties into the gravitational metaphor of belonging—how we are pulled toward recognition and repelled by misrecognition.

• Carl Sagan’s “Pale Blue Dot” (1994)

While focused on a cosmic scale, Sagan’s reflections on humanity’s interconnectedness and our place in the universe echo the idea that belonging is a vast, shared experience—one that transcends individual misunderstandings.

These references provide a broad intellectual and emotional foundation for the ideas in the essay, grounding them in well-established theories while also allowing room for personal and contemporary reflection.

#Belonging #Connection #Miscommunication #Recognition #Woundedness #Empathy #DigitalInteractions #SocialMedia #Creativity #Vulnerability #Healing #Philosophy #Psychology #AttachmentTheory #ParasocialRelationships #Authenticity #EmotionalGrowth #SelfReflection

A Monday in March

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1gr4j-Vqk23C7tkzceYhvvlHXwoKhNJIJ/view?usp=drivesdk

Gearing up to post some music from various projects I am involved with. Here is something I did live recently. Basically built a loop live. It was named A Monday in March.

My two cents on Christian nationalism

The rise of Christian nationalism presents a particularly complex and concerning challenge to the preservation of the core values of Christianity. At its heart, Christian nationalism is the blending of Christian identity with national identity, advocating for a society where Christian values, laws, and symbols are not only prominent but are also intertwined with the very fabric of political and civic life.

Here’s how it raises important questions about the preservation of Christianity’s core values:

1. The Relationship Between Faith and Power:

Christianity, in its essence, is about the redemption of individuals and the transformative power of God’s grace. It’s a faith deeply rooted in selflessness, humility, and servanthood—values that often stand in stark contrast to the power dynamics and authority structures typically associated with nationalism. The spiritual kingdom of Christ, where the last shall be first and the meek shall inherit the earth, seems to be at odds with a political system that elevates certain groups based on their religious identity.

When Christianity is merged with national power, there is a risk of distorting its message and reducing it to a tool for political gain, thus undermining its spiritual integrity. The danger lies in how easily faith can be used for political power or control, which diverges from the radical love and grace exemplified by Christ. Christian nationalism can potentially blur the line between faith-based influence and political authority, leading to the idea that one’s salvation and loyalty to Christ are tied to political affiliation or national identity.

2. Core Values of the Kingdom of God:

The core values of Christianity emphasize universal love, grace, and justice—principles that are not bound by national borders, political ideologies, or ethnic identities. Christianity, in its early form, spread beyond national and cultural lines and was meant to be an inclusive faith, accessible to all people, regardless of their background.

Christian nationalism, in contrast, tends to define Christianity narrowly, often privileging certain national or cultural identities over others. This runs counter to the inclusive and universally accessible nature of the gospel. It risks turning Christianity into a tribal religion, where belonging is based more on ethnicity or political identity than on the life-transforming encounter with Christ.

3. Idolatry of the Nation:

Another key issue with Christian nationalism is the potential idolatry of the nation. When a nation’s values, symbols, and political structures become equated with Christianity, it can lead to a situation where the nation itself becomes an object of worship. This distorts the Christian message because it shifts the focus from the Kingdom of God to a worldly kingdom, where faith is subjugated to the needs and desires of the state.

Scripture warns against the temptation to elevate anything, including a nation, to a level of idolatry. Jesus famously said, “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36), pointing to the separation between the eternal values of God’s kingdom and the temporary, fleeting power of earthly kingdoms.

4. The Danger of Exclusive Identity:

Christian nationalism often leads to exclusive identity formation, where only those who adhere to a specific national or political identity are seen as true Christians. This marginalizes and alienates those who do not share the same identity, causing division within the body of Christ. The gospel, on the other hand, invites all people to become part of God’s family—not based on political affiliation or national origin, but on the grace of Christ.

This tendency to exclude those who are different contradicts the inclusive nature of Christ’s ministry, where He reached out to the marginalized, the outsider, and the sinner. The church is called to be a unified bodythat transcends cultural, racial, and national divisions, welcoming all who accept Christ into the fold.

5. The Role of the Church in Society:

The church’s primary role is spiritual, not political. The preservation of core Christian values is best accomplished through loving service, proclamation of the gospel, and active care for the poor and oppressed—not through coercion or the wielding of political power. The mission of the church is to call individuals to follow Christ, not to establish a political system in which Christianity is enshrined as the state religion.

Christianity’s core values—love, justice, mercy, humility, and peace—cannot be fully realized through political power or manipulation. They can only be embodied in the everyday lives of individual Christians, who live out the gospel through relationships, actions, and sacrifices in the world.

Conclusion:

The rise of Christian nationalism raises the crucial question of how Christianity can be faithfully preserved in an increasingly polarized world. The core values of Christianity—love, humility, grace, justice—are deeply challenged when mixed with nationalistic ideals that prioritize power, exclusion, and dominance. The church must continually ask itself whether it is living out the message of Christ or whether it is being co-opted by political agendas.

In many ways, Christian nationalism risks diluting the transformative power of the gospel, replacing it with a cultural or political identity that is rooted in the world rather than in the Kingdom of God. For the true preservation of Christianity’s core values, the church must resist being tied to any political or national identity, focusing instead on the universal and eternal message of Christ, which transcends all earthly kingdoms.

Christianity, in its truest form, should stand as a light that illuminates the world, not as a tool used to enforce political or national power. Its values must remain counter-cultural, challenging the systems of this world rather than conforming to them. Only then can Christianity truly remain faithful to its core calling.

reference points:

1. Christian Nationalism: A movement where Christianity and national identity are intertwined, elevating Christian values in governance and social structures, potentially blending religious faith with political power.

2. Core Values of Christianity: Love, grace, justice, humility, and peace — principles central to the faith, often at odds with nationalism’s emphasis on exclusivity and power.

3. The Kingdom of God: A spiritual kingdom not tied to earthly political structures, as seen in Jesus’ declaration, “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36). The gospel calls for an inclusiveand universally accessible approach, transcending national or cultural borders.

4. Power and Faith: The intersection of faith with political authority may risk the distortion of Christian teachings, reducing the transformative nature of the gospel to a tool for political power, rather than a message of salvation and spiritual renewal.

5. The Idolatry of the Nation: When the state or nation becomes equated with Christianity, it risks idolatry, turning the nation’s political and cultural identity into something sacred and ultimately distracting from the eternal nature of Christ’s kingdom.

6. Exclusion and Identity: Christian nationalism can lead to an exclusive identity that marginalizes those who don’t align with its cultural or political framework, which goes against the inclusive nature of the gospel message, as Christ welcomed the marginalized, sinners, and outsiders.

7. The Church’s Role: Christianity is about spiritual transformation, not about wielding political power. The church’s role is to spread the gospel, live out Christ’s values of justice, mercy, and love, and not seek political control or national dominance.

8. Coercion vs. Love: The pursuit of political power can blur the gospel’s message of loving service and voluntary transformation through grace. Faith is to be lived through humility and sacrifice, not forced through political means.

These reference points highlight the tension between Christian values and the rise of Christian nationalism, questioning how true faith can be preserved in the midst of political power, national identity, and cultural manipulation. The underlying theme is the importance of keeping Christianity focused on its spiritual mission rather than being reduced to a political tool.

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often at once

i have known both emptiness and fullness… often at once

~csr

A Notion

I am struck by a long-held notion that if I could just find the right words or create the perfect melody, I could somehow change everything… everyone. That we could drop the need for pretense and simply create a safe space for one another. That would be paradise.

~csr

true freedom

to be free

 of needing approval,

   when not accepted,

     is a wonderful sort of freedom.

 to be free

  of needing approval ,

   while accepted,

is closer to true freedom.

~csr

Steal The Now

i will hide in this story

i will live in this tale

reside in the wind

but not in this sail

live in this moment

live in this dream

live for a moment

seem

live in the wind

not in the sail

the end

must not steal the now

~csr

We Break Down

leaves fall... they break down

from the decay comes new life...

we fall... we break down

~csr

subjective realities

 empathy is how one subjective reality learns to connect with other subjective realities.  

~csr