Piloting Faith: An (Almost) Daily Meditation

Seventy Years

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 08:00:39 GMT

“Just as my ancestors planted for me, I too am planting for my descendants.” —Babylonian Talmud, Taanit 23a

The Babylonian Talmud tells a story about Honi HaMe’aggel, a Jewish sage sometimes called Honi, the Circle Maker.1

One day, Honi was walking along a road when he saw a man planting a carob tree.
“How long will it take this tree to bear fruit?” Honi asked.
“Seventy years,” the man replied.
Honi was puzzled. “Are you certain you will live another seventy years to enjoy it?”
The man answered, “When I came into this world, I found it filled with carob trees planted by my ancestors. Just as they planted for me, I am planting for my descendants.”
The story then shifts unexpectedly. Honi sits down to eat, falls into a deep sleep, and a rocky formation grows around him, hiding him from view as he sleeps for seventy years.
When he awakens, he sees someone gathering fruit from the carob tree.
“Are you the one who planted this tree?” Honi asks.
“No,” the man replies. “I am his grandson.”

I often think about that image - a grandfather planting a seedling, knowing he will likely never taste its fruit. In his mind, there is a child who has not yet been born. He does not know the child’s name or face. He does not know if that child will be grateful, or if anyone will remember who planted the tree. He only knows that someone planted for him. So he kneels in the soil and gives that same love to the future.

We have all eaten from trees we did not plant. We drink water that was protected by people who fought for laws before we were born. We go to schools and libraries built by people whose names we no longer remember. We worship with prayers, songs, and stories passed down through centuries by those who made sure they survived. We live with freedoms won by people who knew they might not live to see them.

Our lives are possible because someone cared about a future that did not include them.

This realization feels especially important to me now, because we have inherited wounds as well as gifts. We have inherited racism in our institutions, economic systems built on exploitation, soil that has been depleted, a changing climate, and a democracy that is more fragile than many of us realized. We inherited carob trees and damaged ground.

Now it is our turn to decide what we will leave behind.

That can feel overwhelming. The problems we face are huge, and our lives are short. We may never see a healed climate, a fair economy, a restored democracy, or a church free from the fears and prejudices that have limited its witness. We may work hard for years and still wonder if anything changed. When the harvest will not come in our lifetime, it is easy to stop planting.

The man by the road shows us a different way to think about faithfulness. He does not think he has to finish the story. He knows his life is just one small part of it. His job is to give the future something that can grow.

Perhaps this is the hope we need now. It is more subtle than optimism. It does not promise that everything will turn out as we hope. It does not ignore the harm already done or pretend that every seed will survive. It simply places something living into the ground.

A teacher does this by helping a child trust their own voice. An elder does it by telling the truth about a past others would rather forget. A congregation does it by shaping people for courage instead of just protecting itself. A community does it by restoring a stream or preparing a young leader whose work will last beyond those who are here now.

We plant whenever we give something to the future without demanding that the future reward us. This takes a special kind of humility. The people who enjoy the fruit may never know our names. They might take for granted what cost us something. They may tell the story in a way we would not have told it. Still, they will need the tree.

I wonder if love has always worked this way. We get more than we can ever repay from those who came before us, and then we spend our lives passing something on. Gratitude turns into responsibility. Memory becomes a promise. The fruit we received becomes the seed we give to someone else.

Today, consider what was planted for you. Think of someone whose courage, kindness, or sacrifice made your life better. Maybe it was a parent or grandparent. Maybe it was a teacher, pastor, neighbor, organizer, or friend. Maybe you never knew their name. Let yourself feel the love contained in what they left behind.

Then ask what you are planting now. Pick one thing to do, even if you may never see its results.

Seventy years from now, someone may rest under branches that are not here yet. They may taste something sweet because you believed their life mattered before you ever knew their name.

Plant for them.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

What have you inherited because someone before you cared about a future they would never see?
What wounds or unfinished work has your generation been given to tend?
Where has your need for visible results kept you from beginning something worthwhile?
What could you plant now for people whose names you will never know?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Those Who Will Come After Us

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God of seed and soil,
of seasons we will see
and seasons beyond our seeing,

thank you for those who planted before us.

For every shelter we did not build,
every freedom we did not win,
every truth kept alive until it reached us,
we give thanks.

Teach us to become faithful ancestors.

Free us from the need
to finish every story,
control every outcome,
or receive credit for every gift.

Give us courage to plant
in damaged soil.

Bless the work that will outlive us.
Bless the hands that will continue it.
Bless the children who will gather fruit
from trees whose branches are still hidden.

May what we leave behind
offer shelter, nourishment,justice, beauty, and belonging.

And when we cannot see the harvest,
help us trust the sacredness
of the seed.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Plant for the Future

Choose one thing you received from someone who came before you: an opportunity, a tradition, a place, a skill, a story, or an act of courage.

Write down the person’s name, if you know it, and what their gift made possible. Offer a word of gratitude for them.

Then choose one action you can take for someone who will come after you. Keep it small enough to begin today and meaningful enough to continue tending.

You might mentor a younger person, preserve a family or community story, support a long-term justice effort, restore a patch of land, contribute to an organization’s future, or plant something living.

Do it without asking whether you will be there for the harvest.

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Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…

My team and I launched a new experiment we are calling “The Commons.” It’s an online space centered around communities of practice: groups of people who share a common concern, set of problems, or passion for a topic, and deepen their knowledge and expertise by interacting on an ongoing basis. Join the community here.

August 4 - September 1, 2026, 12:30-1:30pmET - Book Club in The Commons - FREE - We are reading our next book, “I Eat The Stars” by Sarah Wilson. We will meet each Tuesday for 6 weeks. It’s such great fun. I hope you will be a part. All are welcome! RSVP HERE.

August 6, 2026, 7-8pm ET - FREE EVENT - Join me in conversation with Rev. Natalia Terfa about her new book, “It All Counts: Finding God Beyond the Boundaries.” What if the moments you’ve been taught don’t “count” spiritually are actually where God is waiting to be found? Many of us were handed a version of faith that divided life into sacred and secular, holy and ordinary, faithful and doubtful. But what if those boundaries were never real? Whether you’ve left church, stayed in it, or find yourself somewhere in between, this conversation will offer fresh language for a faith that is expansive, embodied, and deeply human. REGISTER HERE.

August 20, 2026, 7-8:45pm ET - I will be joining Jackie Sussman for an online session on practicing eidetics as a part of our “Reclaiming the Power of Imagination” monthly series. Eidetic Imagery is a powerful tool for pastors, denominational leaders, coaches, and spiritual directors working with others, and for individuals seeking deeper integration and healing in their own lives. Jackie is a psychotherapist, author, and leading expert in Eidetic Image Psychology, and has spent over forty years helping leaders and individuals unlock creativity, uncover hidden strengths, and move through limiting patterns. During this session, she will lead a live Eidetic process shaped by mythic imagery, offering a direct experience of the work. REGISTER HERE.

September 8, 2026, 7-9pm ET, ONLINE EVENT - I’ll be hosting a powerful online gathering on The Black Madonna: Sacred Wisdom for a World in Crisis with Matthew Fox, Alessandra Belloni, and Christena Cleveland. We will explore the Black Madonna as a symbol of resilience, liberation, sacred feminine wisdom, and healing in a fractured world through conversation, story, music, and spiritual reflection. If you feel drawn toward a deeper encounter with the Divine Feminine and the ancient traditions that continue to nourish movements for justice and wholeness, I hope you’ll join us. Learn more and REGISTER HERE.

October 6, 2026 - 7-8:30pm ET, ONLINE EVENT - Matthew Fox and I are teaming up again to launch a series called Journeying with the Mystics. The mystics have always emerged in times of uncertainty. They appear when old certainties are crumbling, when institutions no longer provide easy answers, and when people find themselves longing for a deeper experience of the Sacred. Join us for an 18-session exploration of the teachings of St. John of the Cross, Thomas Merton, Hildegard of Bingen, Kabir and Rumi, Meister Eckhart and more. This is more than a lecture series. It is an invitation into a living spiritual journey. REGISTRATION COMING SOON!

October 18-21, 2026 - PREACH! 2026 Conference- I’ll be co-hosting PREACH in Minneapolis with Church Anew, a new gathering for preachers, storytellers, worship leaders, and spiritual communicators navigating what it means to speak with clarity, compassion, and courage in a changing world. If you’ve sensed that the preaching moment has changed and are longing for thoughtful community and renewed imagination for this work, I hope you’ll join us.

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

I get to work with such amazing, creative people. This section is my way of celebrating them—no paid promotions, just joy in what they’re creating.

Dr. Timothy Snyder, the author of On Tyranny, has publicly released the first lecture of a ten-lecture course he taught at the University of Toronto this past year. The course is called “Hitler and Stalin Today.” He is offering this as a public resource for students, researchers, and anyone interested in understanding the relationship between history and contemporary democracy. Follow his posts here or watch on YouTube.

July 29, 2026, 12pm ET - ONLINE WRITING GROUP - My dear friend, Meryl Marshall-Daniels, is leading a writing group open to all. This is a simple and spacious writing circle for people who want time to listen inwardly and put words on the page without overthinking, performing, or polishing. Meryl offers a prompt designed to invite reflection, imagination, and attunement to what is already alive within you. The practice honors writing as a way of listening, of letting images, memories, questions, and insights surface in their own time. Learn more here.

My friends over at Spiritual Wanderlust have some of the coolest classes. One I am particularly drawn to is their Celtic Spirituality School where you get to learn from people like John Philip Newell, Ilia Delio, Carl McColman, Sharon Blackie, and more. Read more about their program.

If you are a leader or member of a congregation looking for consulting support in visioning, planning, hiring or staffing, please consider Convergence.

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https://www.sefaria.org/Taanit.23a?lang=en

What the Market Cannot Measure

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 08:02:15 GMT

“There was not a needy person among them.” —Acts 4:34 (NRSVUE)

Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

Yesterday, the US stock market dropped sharply. The Dow fell by more than 1,100 points, marking its worst day in over a year. The S&P 500 and Nasdaq also declined after the Federal Reserve kept interest rates the same and Chairman Kevin Warsh discussed inflation and the economy’s strength. The Fed described the economy as expanding at a “solid pace.”

Maybe that’s true. Economies are complex, and I don’t want to claim expertise I don’t have. Still, I noticed how different that description feels from the reality many people I know experience.

“Solid” is not the word they would use. They would mention the rising costs of groceries, insurance, prescription drugs, rent, student loans, and child care. They would talk about working longer hours but still falling behind. Some are delaying retirement. Others are helping adult children who can’t afford homes while also caring for aging parents who can’t pay for long-term care.

The economy might look strong from one perspective, but from another, it feels very fragile.

We often talk about “the economy” as if it were a single living thing. We say the economy is growing or slowing, the market is nervous, or consumers are worried. Talking this way can make the economy seem like something that just happens to us, like the weather. But the economy is something we build. It’s shaped by laws, wages, prices, taxes, investments, debts, and our daily choices about whose work matters. It shows what we value, what we accept, and whose struggles we ignore.

Even the word ‘economy’ comes from a word about households. It first meant how a household was managed, how resources were shared, how people were cared for, and how life was supported.

When we wonder if the economy is healthy, maybe we’re really asking if the household is doing well. Can people get enough to eat? Can they find a place to live? Can they see a doctor? Can they send their children to school? Can they rest? Can they grow old without fear? Can they use their talents and share in the benefits their work creates?

The stock market cannot answer those questions. When the market goes up, it can help retirement accounts and create opportunities. When it goes down, it can put pensions, jobs, and savings at risk. These changes are meaningful. But most financial wealth is still held by a small group. The market can hit record highs while millions struggle to pay rent. It can drop suddenly, and those with the least invested often suffer most through layoffs, higher borrowing costs, and cuts to important services.

The market tracks the price of assets, but it doesn’t measure the value or dignity of people’s lives.

The first Christian communities understood their economic life as part of their spiritual life. In the Book of Acts, we are told that they shared what they had so that “there was not a needy person among them.”

This didn’t mean everyone had the same things. It showed what the community would not accept. They would not call themselves the body of Christ if some members went hungry. In healthy spiritual communities, need is not treated as an individual failure. It is a shared responsibility.

That belief is found throughout Scripture. The prophets spoke out against those who gained wealth while workers were mistreated and poor people were ignored. Jesus often warned about the dangers of riches. He knew that money can separate us from others’ suffering until we no longer see it.

The question Scripture brings to an economy is rarely, “How much wealth did you produce?” It asks, “What happened to the people at the edges?”

That’s a tougher standard. It means looking past averages, since averages can rise even as whole communities are left behind. It means looking past growth, since growth can benefit those who already have the most while wearing out workers and the planet. It asks us to see who suffers when leaders choose to protect the system.

I wonder how things would change if we started thinking of our economy as a household again. In a household, we don’t celebrate a full pantry if one child isn’t allowed to eat. We don’t call the family successful if one person controls all the money. We don’t say the household is healthy if everyone is afraid of the person in charge.

A healthy household includes everyone. It pays attention to each person. It knows that each person’s well-being is connected to everyone else’s.

This idea applies to nations, neighborhoods, congregations, and families. It also applies to all people living together on Earth. No economy can stay healthy if it uses up the soil, water, forests, and air that make all wealth possible.

Maybe yesterday’s market drop won’t last. Markets go up and down, and predictions often change quickly. But the deeper theological question will still be there after the numbers shift: What is our economy for?

If the economy’s only goal is to create more wealth, then eventually everything and everyone will have a price tag. But if its goal is to support our shared life, we should judge its success by the lives it helps make possible.

Today, think about the economy that’s closest to you, your household, your congregation, your workplace, or your community.

Who is taking on more than their share? Who is scared but staying quiet? Whose work have you relied on without really noticing the person doing it?

Pick one way to help make your household stronger. Pay someone fairly. Share what you have. Support a business that treats its workers well. Ask a neighbor who is struggling what would truly help.

The markets will open again tomorrow. Before they do, let’s remember what the markets can’t measure.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

When you hear that the economy is “strong” or “solid,” how does that description compare with what you see around you?
Whose labor makes your life possible but often remains invisible to you?
What would change if you understood your money as something entrusted to you for the care of a larger household?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For The Household of Your Love

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God of abundance,

you made a world generous enough
to feed us, shelter us,
and astonish us with beauty.

Forgive us for building tables
where some feast
and others wait outside.

Forgive us when numbers become more real to us
than faces,
when profit matters more than dignity,
when another person’s exhaustion
becomes the hidden cost of our comfort.

Teach us the economy of your love.

Make us attentive to the hands
that grow our food,clean our rooms,
teach our children,
carry our packages,
and care for our bodies.

Trouble us when the household is unjust.
Free us from the fear that there will never be enough.
Give us the courage to share,
the wisdom to repair,
and the tenderness to notice who is missing.

May no one be discarded.
May no one be forgotten.
May there be enough.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Notice the Hidden Labor

Choose one ordinary part of your day: a meal, a delivery, a clean room, a school drop-off, or a visit to a store.

Pause and consider how many people made that moment possible. Think about the workers who grew, built, transported, cleaned, stocked, taught, or cared. Offer gratitude for them by name when you can.

Then take one concrete step. Leave a generous tip. Write a note of appreciation. Learn whether a business you frequent pays its workers fairly. Buy from someone whose practices reflect the kind of economy you want to support.

Let gratitude become more than a feeling. Let it change the way resources move through your hands.

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Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

I get to work with such amazing, creative people. This section is my way of celebrating them—no paid promotions, just joy in what they’re creating.

If you are a leader or member of a congregation looking for consulting support in visioning, planning, hiring or staffing, please consider Convergence.

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The Courage to Stay Awake

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 08:02:05 GMT

“Then he said to them, ‘I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and stay awake with me.’” —Matthew 26:38 (NRSVUE)

Photo by Klemen Vrankar on Unsplash

Yesterday, our online book club at The Commons began a new book. For the next six weeks, we’ll read Sarah Wilson’s latest, I Eat the Stars: How to Live Fully and Beautifully in a Collapsing World.1

Early in the book, Wilson shares the story of Admiral James Stockdale, the highest-ranking American naval officer captured during the Vietnam War. Stockdale spent nearly eight years as a prisoner of war, facing repeated torture and never knowing if he would survive or see his family again.

Years after Stockdale was released, author Jim Collins asked him which prisoners had not survived captivity.

“That’s easy,” Stockdale replied. “The optimists.”

Some prisoners told themselves they would be released by Christmas. When Christmas passed, they hoped for Easter, then Thanksgiving, and then another Christmas. In the end, Stockdale said, “they died of a broken heart.”2

Stockdale wasn’t saying hope is dangerous. He warned against optimism that ignores reality. He believed he would survive, but he never connected that faith to a specific rescue date. He accepted two hard truths at once: his life still had meaning, and his situation was harsh.

Most of us find it hard to hold both truths. We want to hear that everything will be okay. We want to believe the Strongman in the White House knows what he is doing, even when the evidence says otherwise. We trust our political institutions to protect democracy, even as we see their safeguards weaken.

We tell ourselves that our health care, education, agricultural, and economic systems are simply going through a difficult period. We hesitate to consider that some may be coming apart.

The truth about the environment is also harder to ignore. For generations, we have used more than the Earth can replace. We have acted as if forests, oceans, soil, animals, and the atmosphere would never run out. Now, weather is changing and ecosystems are being disrupted. Some results of our choices can’t be undone. Our children and grandchildren will have to live with them.3 That truth is heartbreaking.

Of course, we want to hope our way out. We want to believe an election, a new technology, or a brave leader will fix everything. Maybe our real fear is that if we face the truth, we’ll be overcome by despair.

Sarah Wilson asks if the opposite could be true. What if facing the truth could bring us back to life? What if we stopped waiting for rescue and started asking how we want to live together now?

Jesus faced a moment like this in Gethsemane. He knew the authorities were coming for him and understood what the Roman Empire would do. He didn’t pretend his faith would protect him from suffering.

“I am deeply grieved, even to death,” he told his disciples. Then he asked them to remain with him and stay awake.

Those words feel especially powerful to me now. Jesus didn’t ask his friends to solve the problem. He asked them to stay with him in the hard truth of that night.

But the disciples fell asleep.

Maybe sleep was the only way they could escape. I get that. Some days, I’d rather scroll, shop, work, plan, or get upset about something small than sit with the grief of what’s happening in our world.

Jesus keeps calling us back: Stay awake with me. Staying awake doesn’t mean living in fear all the time. We don’t have to take in every report of suffering or carry the whole world’s pain. That kind of watchfulness will wear us out.

Staying awake means not letting ourselves be comforted by lies. It means grieving what we’re losing and being honest about what our way of life has cost other people, other species, and the Earth.

Then, within that truth, we look again at the life still here. A friend’s face. A ripe tomato. Baby goats. Children making up a game with rules no adult can follow. The amazing fact that, in such a huge universe, we have this short chance to be alive together.

Wilson reminds us that we were never promised endless comfort, unlimited growth, or mastery over nature. We were given life. We were given the capacity to love, to wonder, and to find beauty in a wounded world.

This is where faith and optimism are different. Optimism depends on things getting better. Faith can exist even in situations we would never choose. Faith doesn’t say when rescue will come. It reminds us that God is already here in the midst of the mess.

God is with us in both our grief and our joy. God is with those who are scared, tired, and overwhelmed. God is alive in every act of courage that stands up to cruelty, every community learning to share, every artist making beauty, and every child discovering that the world still holds wonder.

We might not be able to bring back the world we once knew. But we can still choose how we live in the world that’s coming.

Today, think about one truth about our world you’ve been avoiding. You don’t have to take in everything at once. Sit with that one truth gently. Let yourself grieve without rushing to feel better.

Then go outside. Touch the bark of a tree. Listen for a bird. Notice something alive that you didn’t make and can’t control.

Ask what love asks of you now, here in this beautiful and broken world.

Stay awake.

Stay tender.

Seek Love.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Where are you relying on optimism because the truth feels too painful to face?
What helps you remain awake to suffering without becoming overwhelmed or numb?
Where do you still encounter beauty, wonder, or tenderness in this wounded world?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Keeping Us Tender

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God of this beautiful and breaking world,

keep us awake.

When the truth feels too heavy,
sit beside us in the weight of it.
When we reach for easy assurances,
give us the courage to see clearly.

When grief closes around our hearts,
keep a small opening for wonder.

Teach us to notice the life still here:
the bird calling from the trees,
the hand reaching for ours,
the laughter rising in an uncertain hour,
the stubborn green shoot breaking through hard ground.

Save us from the fear that makes us cruel.
Save us from the despair that tells us nothing matters.
Save us from the comfort of lies.

Make us tender enough to grieve,
brave enough to love,
and faithful enough to remain present.

Remind us that we are not abandoned.
You are here in the ache.
You are here in the beauty.
You are here among us,still creating life.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Stay Awake to What Is Alive

Set aside fifteen minutes today and go outside without your phone. Find one living thing—a tree, a bird, a patch of grass, an insect, a garden—and give it your full attention.

Notice its color, movement, texture, and relationship to the life around it. Resist the urge to name, photograph, or explain it. Simply remain present.

As you pay attention, hold one difficult truth about the world in your heart. Do not try to solve it or push it away. Let grief and beauty exist together.

Before you leave, ask: “What does love require of me now?”

Carry the question with you. If an answer begins to emerge, take one small step toward it.

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Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…

July 28 - September 1, 2026, 12:30-1:30pmET - Book Club in The Commons - FREE - We are reading our next book, “I Eat The Stars” by Sarah Wilson. We will meet each Tuesday for 6 weeks. It’s such great fun. I hope you will be a part. All are welcome! RSVP HERE.

I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

I get to work with such amazing, creative people. This section is my way of celebrating them—no paid promotions, just joy in what they’re creating.

If you are a leader or member of a congregation looking for consulting support in visioning, planning, hiring or staffing, please consider Convergence.

Subscribe now

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/808096/i-eat-the-stars-by-sarah-wilson/

https://www.jimcollins.com/media_topics/The-Stockdale-Paradox.html

https://overshoot.footprintnetwork.org/2026-calculation/

The Escalation Trap

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Tue, 28 Jul 2026 08:01:55 GMT

“Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all.… Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” —Romans 12:17, 21

I have long paid attention to Robert Pape, a political scientist at the University of Chicago who has spent years studying air power, terrorism, and modern warfare. In his latest comments on Iran (link below),1 he said the United States was caught in an “escalation trap.”

Most of us already understand what this phrase means. The current war began on February 28, when the United States and Israel launched strikes across Iran. Iran responded by attacking Israel and U.S.-allied Gulf states. Since then, bombings and retaliation have spread across the region, hitting civilian areas and key infrastructure. Millions of people have been forced to leave their homes.

The Strait of Hormuz has now become one of the main areas of confrontation in the conflict. About one in every five parts of the world’s oil supply normally goes through that narrow strait. Traffic involving tankers has at times been brought to a halt. Merchant ships have been the target of attacks. Insurance rates and the prices of energy have gone up. Each disruption spreads out via higher prices for petrol, food, fertilizer, electricity and transport. The impact now reaches people who are a long way from the Persian Gulf, in particular those who are already in a vulnerable position. The Dallas Federal Reserve Bank calculated that a prolonged closure resulting in the removal of nearly 20 percent of global oil supplies could cause a sharp increase in oil prices and lead to a decrease in global economic growth. It seems we are nearly there.

The United States and Iran are at this time holding back some of their attacks as they once again attempt to reopen the Strait and avoid another phase of hostilities. This pause is important but is also fragile. Both governments still threaten to carry out renewed military operations. Each side thinks that increased pressure might eventually persuade the other to give in. Every act of coercion is then used as a reason for another.

A “forever war” starts like this.

It almost never starts with leaders declaring that they intend to fight forever; instead, it starts with guarantees that the aims will be limited, the targets exact, and the time frame short. After that, the first strategy fails to achieve the result it had promised. The act of retaliating brings about fresh threats. These new threats in turn call for new deployments. And with casualties come pressures to show that the losses had not been wasted. Leaders who earlier had promised to exercise restraint then fear that showing restraint would appear to be weak.

The original question—’What are we trying to accomplish?’—eventually disappears and is replaced by another: ‘After what they did to us, how can we possibly stop now?’

That is the situation which Pape outlines. That is the trap.

Tactical missions can succeed even if the overall strategy fails. Bombs hit their targets, ships are stopped, and military sites are destroyed. Still, each of these successes pulls the countries deeper into a conflict that neither can control. The war then creates its own goals, political motives, and reasons to keep going.

The theologian Walter Wink referred to these forces as “the Powers”.2 Although humans set up institutions and systems, over time these acquire their own spirit. They influence the moral imagination of the people within them by telling them which choices are realistic, which losses are acceptable and which futures are impossible.

Violence is one of these powers; we can choose to use it once, but if we continue to supply it with fuel, then violence will start to make choices on our behalf.

Philosopher René Girard also observed the same pattern in humans’ tendency to imitate and retaliate.3 Desire spreads through imitation just as aggression does. One side attacks because the other has done so first. Each of them considers itself to be in reply rather than the one who started it. Each views its own violence as necessary and the other’s as evidence of evil. The cycle can go on for many generations since every individual has a wound which seems to give them permission.

We can see this pattern at work in our own lives: when someone says a harsh thing, another harsh response follows. Once a betrayal has taken place, it gives others the right to betray us as well. If someone hurts us, we start to plan the future in light of that injury. Eventually, we cease to wonder what might heal the situation and instead ask what would be considered fair. The injury then becomes the focal point of the relationship.

The Apostle Paul realized how great this danger was. “Do not let evil overcome you,” he said, “but respond to evil with good.”4

He was addressing those who lived under an empire kept going by violence. His remarks were not a sentimental plea meant to win people over; rather, he was cautioning them that resistance to evil can take on the form of another kind of captivity if evil shapes the nature of our response.

This is the spiritual struggle we now face. Can we express our sorrow about what has occurred without giving up the future to resentment? Can we seek justice without letting vengeance determine it? Can political leaders, after having invested so much power and national pride in moving towards it, retreat from the edge? Can ordinary citizens resist the idea that to question escalation is to show weakness?

It takes courage to break off the current course of action. One person has to bear the political consequences of coming to a halt. One person has to picture a future that goes beyond the next military reply. One person has to recall that restraint is still an option, even if retaliation seems certain.

It is relevant for nations, for congregations and for families; it is relevant for every human heart which carries an old injury over into a new day.

Violence restricts the future until a retaliatory response seems certain.

Love expands the future so that another option becomes conceivable.

Each generation receives from earlier times unfinished tales of fear, revenge, and resentment. We are not given the injuries that we inherit, but we do decide whether or not those injuries will go on to write the next chapter.

It seems we have some discernment work to do.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Where has retaliation begun to feel inevitable in your life?
What wound or grievance has started organizing your imagination?
What would it mean to interrupt the momentum before it chooses for you?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Life Beyond Escalation

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God of mercy, we pray for the people of Iran, Israel, and every nation now living beneath the shadow of this war. Protect those in danger. Comfort those who grieve. Strengthen those caring for the wounded, the displaced, and the afraid.

Give courage to political leaders who can step back from escalation. Free them from pride, vengeance, and the fear of appearing weak. Restore their capacity to imagine a future beyond the next strike.

Show us where violence has entered our own hearts. Help us recognize the moment when pain becomes permission to cause more pain. Guard our moral imagination. Teach us the difficult courage of restraint, repair, and peace.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Today, notice one conflict in which you are rehearsing your next response. Before you send the message, make the accusation, or strengthen the grievance, pause.

Ask yourself: “Am I choosing this response freely, or has the injury begun choosing for me?”

Take one action that interrupts the momentum. You might wait before responding, tell the truth without accusation, acknowledge your own part, or pray for the humanity of the person you have made into an enemy.

Leave room for a future that yesterday’s wound could not imagine.

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I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

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Walter Wink, The Powers That Be: Theology for a New Millennium (New York: Doubleday, 1998)

René Girard, Battling to the End: Conversations with Benoît Chantre, trans. Mary Baker (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2009)

Romans 12:17, 21 (NRSVUE)

A Heart Burning for All Creation

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Fri, 24 Jul 2026 08:01:41 GMT

“May all beings be happy. May all beings be safe. May all beings be at ease.” — Karaniya Metta Sutta (Sutta Nipāta 1.8)

Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash

Most people today have not heard of St. Isaac the Syrian. He lived in the seventh century as part of the Syriac Christian tradition. After a short time as a bishop, he became known for his life of solitude and prayer.

Like other great mystics, Isaac did not want to limit our idea of God. He believed that as we draw closer to divine love, our own ability to love grows as well.

For Isaac, holiness was not measured by how much suffering a person could endure. It was measured by how much compassion a person could hold.

He wrote:

“What is a merciful heart? It is a heart burning for the sake of the whole of creation: for people, for birds, for animals, and for every created thing.”1

A heart that cares deeply for all of creation is a powerful image.

Isaac saw mercy as much more than just being kind to people like ourselves. A merciful heart does not only react to suffering. It starts to see the world in a new way, where the lines between our own lives and the lives around us become less clear.

The suffering of another creature is no longer someone else’s problem.

The beauty of another life is no longer something separate from our own.

The heart expands.

Today, many things push us to care less about others. We are often taught to focus on what is ours, to protect our own interests, and to only feel responsible for what affects us directly.

But mystics have always questioned this way of thinking. They remind us that love grows stronger and more whole as it reaches out to others.

Across Buddhist traditions the practice of karuṇā names a different but resonant path toward compassion to all living beings.2 The Buddhist path starts by recognizing that everyone suffers, and that true understanding comes when we see that we are not truly separate from each other.

Isaac and Buddhist teachers have different backgrounds and beliefs about the world. Still, both encourage us to grow spiritually by caring about more than just ourselves.

Who have we decided is outside the circle?

Which lives do we overlook because they are unfamiliar, inconvenient, or distant?

What changes when we see the world not as separate beings competing, but as a network of relationships that deserve our care?

Isaac’s vision is hard for us today because we have become very good at deciding what is important and what is not.

We often judge things by how useful they are. We split the world into resources and users. We choose which suffering to notice and which to ignore.

A merciful heart starts in a different place. It starts with wonder. It starts by seeing that every living thing is part of a greater mystery. It starts with being thankful for the amazing gift of existence.

Maybe this is what Isaac found in the desert. Being alone does not make the heart smaller. Real solitude can make the heart bigger because it takes away the walls that stop us from seeing how we are connected to everything.

The goal of spiritual life is not to escape the world.

It is to learn how to love the world more fully.

A merciful heart is not a heart that seeks suffering.

It is a heart that can no longer ignore the suffering and beauty of the world.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Where have you noticed your circle of compassion expanding?
What lives—human or more-than-human—are easiest for you to overlook?
What practices help you cultivate a heart that is more open to the suffering, beauty, and mystery of creation?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Wisdom Beyond Our Power

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Merciful One,

Expand our hearts.

Where we have made the world smaller,
teach us to see more deeply.

Where we have grown numb,
awaken our tenderness.

Where we have forgotten our kinship
with the living world,
restore our sense of belonging.

Give us a heart that notices.
A heart that grieves without despair.
A heart that rejoices in the beauty around us.

May we learn the mercy that Isaac knew—
a love wide enough to embrace
people and creatures,
the familiar and the unknown,
the fragile and the flourishing.

May our compassion become a blessing
to the world you have entrusted to us.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Widen the Circle

Today, choose one living thing you usually pass by without noticing.

It might be a tree, a bird, an animal, a stranger, or a place in your neighborhood.

Pause long enough to pay attention.

Offer a simple acknowledgment: “You are part of this world with me.”

Notice what changes when you practice seeing rather than passing by.

A merciful heart begins with attention. Love begins when we learn to notice what we once ignored.

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I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

I get to work with such amazing, creative people. This section is my way of celebrating them—no paid promotions, just joy in what they’re creating.

July 23, 2026, 2-3:00pm ET, Join Rev. Lisa Bryant for a six-session community of practice called “Imagining God with Julian of Norwich” inspired by Julian of Norwich’s The Showings, in Mirabai Starr’s vivid and accessible translation. Together, we will encounter Julian’s remarkable vision of divine love and explore what her wisdom might awaken in our own lives, spiritual practices, and understanding of God. You can learn more and sign up here.

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Isaac the Syrian, The Ascetical Homilies of Saint Isaac the Syrian, Homily 81, trans. Dana Miller (Boston: Holy Transfiguration Monastery, 1984), pp. 371–372.

The Karaniya Metta Sutta (Sutta Nipāta 1.8), in The Sutta Nipāta: An Ancient Collection of the Buddha’s Discourses Together with Its Commentaries, trans. Bhikkhu Bodhi (Somerville, MA: Wisdom Publications, 2017).

The Wisdom Gap

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Thu, 23 Jul 2026 08:01:26 GMT

“The rush and pressure of modern life are a form, perhaps the most common form, of its innate violence.” —Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about artificial intelligence. Like many of you, I feel both excitement and concern. I’m amazed by what AI can do. It could help us find new medicines, tackle climate issues, make education more accessible, and solve problems that once seemed impossible.

At the same time, I’m troubled by how we’re already using this technology.

A recent New York Times article looked at how quickly AI is being used in modern warfare.1 The same technology that could help us heal is also being developed to make killing more efficient.

It raises a question for me: Why does our imagination for destruction so often outrun our imagination for healing?

This isn’t a new pattern for us. Whenever we invent powerful technologies, we quickly think about how they can help us control others. Chemistry brought us both medicines and chemical weapons. Physics gave us energy and nuclear bombs. The internet connected people but also became a tool for manipulation and division. Now, we’re at the start of the AI era.

The real question isn’t whether AI is good or bad. It’s about what kind of people will shape it.

But we don’t shape technology just through our personal choices. We also shape it through the institutions and systems we build, which decide what gets funded, what matters most, and what actually comes into the world.

Weapons always have buyers. Governments have budgets, militaries have systems to buy things, and industries are set up to turn ideas into reality fast. Healing is different. You can’t sign a contract for a restored ecosystem. There’s no lobby for a generation safe from hunger. Building a society focused on human well-being takes patience, imagination, and long-term commitment. These are much harder to fund, measure, or defend.

Destruction follows a simple pattern: find, target, eliminate.

Healing is much more complex: listen, tend, nurture, restore.

Maybe that’s why we imagine destruction first. It’s easier to picture. A missile has a clear target. A drone can be programmed. But healing a watershed needs vision. Building a caring society takes effort and time.

But there’s an even bigger challenge. Destruction often comes disguised as healing. Wars are fought in the name of peace. Weapons are made for security. Surveillance is called protection. The real issue isn’t just whether we make things that can hurt us. It’s whether we get so used to talking about protection that we stop asking if our actions are really creating more life.

Thomas Merton, a Christian monk and writer, warned that modern life’s violence isn’t just in acts of destruction.2 It’s also in the speed, pressure, and systems that stop us from being fully awake. Maybe that’s the challenge with AI. It’s not just about what machines can do, but about what we value as humans.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, a Christian mystic and thinker, believed humanity is moving toward greater awareness of our shared future and connection.3 He saw human creativity as part of creation’s unfolding, but only when it’s guided by love.

Maybe AI is another step in that process.

But just being connected isn’t enough. The world can be more connected and still become more cruel. Information isn’t the same as wisdom. Intelligence isn’t compassion. Power isn’t maturity.

The real question is whether our wisdom can keep up with our growing power.

AI won’t decide our future.

We will.

The tools we create will reveal what we love.

May we have the courage to create a future where our imagination for healing finally becomes as powerful as our imagination for destruction.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

What emotions arise in you when you think about artificial intelligence—hope, fear, curiosity, resistance, or something else?
Where do you see human creativity being used to heal rather than dominate?
What wisdom, practices, and communities do we need in order to guide the technologies we create?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Wisdom Beyond Our Power

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Holy One,

We stand at the edge of something we do not fully understand.

We hold in our hands tools of extraordinary promise,
capable of bringing healing, discovery, and connection.

We also know the shadows that follow human power.

We have too often built before we have listened,
created before we have discerned,
and reached for mastery before we have learned humility.

Give us wisdom equal to our inventions.

When our imagination runs toward control,
turn our hearts toward compassion.

When we seek faster answers,
teach us the patience of forests,
the persistence of rivers,
the quiet work of restoration.

Remind us that intelligence without love is incomplete,
and power without wisdom cannot sustain life.

May the things we create become blessings rather than burdens.
May our knowledge be guided by humility.
May our innovation be guided by care.
May our future be shaped by love.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Ask a Different Question

Today, when you encounter a new technology or a new possibility, pause before asking, “What can this do?”

Ask a deeper question: “What is this for?”

How might this serve healing? How might it deepen human connection? How might it contribute to the flourishing of life?

The future will not be shaped only by the technologies we create.

It will be shaped by the wisdom we bring to them.

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I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

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Hennigan, W.J. “The New Age of War: How AI Is Changing the Battlefield.” The New York Times, July 20, 2026. https://www.nytimes.com/2026/07/20/opinion/ai-drones-modern-warfare.html?unlocked_article_code=1.zVA.XaHN.yv07zCXpU3cE&smid=url-share

Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander (New York: Doubleday, 1966), p. 71.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, The Phenomenon of Man (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1959).

We Breathe the Same Air

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Wed, 22 Jul 2026 08:01:43 GMT

“We have made you into peoples and tribes so that you may know one another.” —Qur’an 49:13

Over the past couple of weeks, smoke from wildfires in Canada spread across the United States. The skies are orange and gray, and millions of people find it hard to breathe.

The political reaction has been striking. Instead of recognizing the smoke as a sign of climate change that impacts everyone, the US administration blamed the Canadian government. We accused Canada of letting smoke “invade” the United States, and as punishment, we declared 50% tariffs on our northern neighbor. Madness.

Smoke does not care about borders. It does not know where one country ends and another begins. It does not have a passport or stop at lines on a map. The atmosphere has never worked like that.

Maybe this is the real lesson of climate change. It keeps showing us that one of our oldest beliefs, that we are separate from each other, is not true.

Throughout history, people have organized themselves by boundaries: nations, borders, property lines, and political identities. These things can be useful, but they do not define who we truly are.

The air we breathe belongs to all of us. The water that falls as rain has traveled across continents. The carbon released in one place changes life somewhere else. The choices made by one generation shape the world inherited by another. We are connected whether we acknowledge it or not.

Our wisdom traditions have been reminding us of this for centuries.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, God breathes life into humanity. The breath that animates us is not something we create. It is something we receive.

The Qur’an says that people were made into different groups and tribes “so that you may know one another.” Our differences were never meant to be reasons for division or control.

Buddhist teachers speak of interbeing, the recognition that nothing exists by itself. A tree contains the rain, the soil, the sunlight, and the countless relationships that made its life possible.

Many Indigenous traditions have long understood the earth not as a collection of resources to manage, but as a living community of relationships to which we belong.

Science tells us the same thing: we are all part of one living system.

The smoke is not the enemy. The smoke is a reminder. It reminds us that we cannot separate ourselves from one another, no matter how many walls we build or borders we draw.

The great spiritual challenge of our time is learning to live according to the truth that creation already knows: we belong to one another.

The real question is whether we will finally start living that way.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Where do you notice the illusion of separateness shaping the way people respond to the challenges of our time?
What relationships, communities, or places remind you that you are part of something larger than yourself?
How might your choices change if you began each day remembering: we breathe the same air?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Shared Breath

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Holy One,

You are the breath within every living thing.

You move through forests and fields, oceans and cities, creatures great and small.
Forgive us for the ways we have forgotten our belonging.

Forgive us when we imagine that another person’s suffering is separate from our own, that another place’s wounds cannot reach us, that we can protect ourselves by turning away.

Open our hearts to the truth that has always been around us:
We share one earth.
We share one atmosphere.
We share the gift of life.

Teach us to live with greater humility, greater compassion, and greater care.

May we become good ancestors, faithful neighbors, and wise stewards of the world we share.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Three Breaths of Belonging

Today, pause for three intentional breaths.

With the first breath, give thanks for the gift of life you have received.

With the second breath, remember that this same air is moving through millions of other lives around the world.

With the third breath, offer gratitude for the countless relationships—human and more-than-human—that make your life possible.

Let those breaths remind you:

You are not alone.

You were never separate.

You belong.

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The Circle Around the Wounded

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Mon, 20 Jul 2026 08:02:20 GMT

"If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it." —1 Corinthians 12:26

A circle of protection gathering around the injured Barred Rock hen as a hawk flies over on the Common Good Farm.

Life on the Common Good Farm is often marked by small, wondrous gifts. Every morning twenty-four hens greet us with their cheerful commentary and throughout the day leave behind beautiful brown, blue, and cream-colored eggs. They feed our family and many others. Their routines have become part of our own.

Last week, those rhythms were interrupted. When I went to close the coop that evening, I found one of our Barred Rock hens hanging from the nesting box. Her leg had slipped between the wooden slats, leaving her stuck at an odd angle. I didn’t know how long she had been there. Her foot was losing circulation, and her hip was clearly out of place.

I lifted her gently and held her until her heart began to steady. I tried to ease her hip back into place and then settled her into our separate “hospital’ coop where she could rest in a protected, comfortable space.

The next morning, she still couldn’t put weight on her leg. I carried her outside and set her in the grass near the rest of the flock. I hoped she would at least enjoy the sunshine and the company while she healed.

With my morning coffee, I pulled up a chair nearby.

Then pure grace happened.

The oldest hen on the farm walked over and sat beside the injured bird. There was no pecking or competition. She just stayed close, their bodies pressed together in what looked clearly like comfort.

Twenty minutes later, a hawk called out overhead. Usually, the flock would scatter, each bird running for safety. But not this time.

Instead, they ran toward the injured hen. One by one, they gathered around her, forming a living circle between their vulnerable sister and the danger above.

No one taught them to do this. There was no meeting, no plan, and no debate about whether she deserved their help. They just knew they needed to keep her safe. I was stunned and honored to bear witness.

Charles Darwin once observed that communities “which included the greatest number of the most sympathetic members would flourish best.”1 Maybe compassion is older than we think. Long before people built civilizations, wrote laws, or created sacred texts, life had already learned that survival depends not just on strength, but also on care.

The Apostle Paul says, “If one member suffers, all suffer together with it.”2 Watching those hens, I saw that Paul wasn’t coming up with something new. He was describing one of the oldest instincts in creation.

We humans often praise ourselves for being smart. Still, we often build our lives around competition, exclusion, and suspicion. We value self-sufficiency. We tell people to lift themselves up by their own bootstraps. We separate those we think are worthy from those we think are not.

Meanwhile, a wise flock of chickens taught me that real community starts with different values:

You don’t leave anyone behind when they’re hurt.

You come closer.

You become their shelter.

Maybe this is what the Kin-dom of God has always looked like.

It’s not everyone rushing to protect themselves.

It’s a circle forming around the one who can’t stand alone.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Who in your life is quietly carrying an injury that others may not see?
When have you experienced people forming a protective circle around you?
What would it look like for you to move toward someone vulnerable this week instead of assuming someone else will?
What might the “more-than-human” world teach you about care?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For the Circle

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Holy One,

You have woven care into the fabric of creation.

Long before we learned to speak of compassion,
the creatures were already teaching it—
drawing near to the wounded,
keeping watch through the night,
forming a circle when danger came.

May we remember
what our bodies have always known:
that we were never meant to survive alone.
When we are the ones who are hurting,
quiet our instinct to hide.

Give us the courage
to receive the kindness that finds us.

When another stumbles,
soften our hearts before we harden our judgments.
Turn our feet toward them.

Teach us to sit close,
to stay present,
to become a shelter without needing to fix what is broken.
And when fear cries out above us,
gather us together.

Not as strangers protecting ourselves,
but as companions protecting one another.

May our lives become
small circles of refuge
in a weary world—
places where healing has room to begin,
where tenderness is honored,
and where no one is left alone.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Become Part of the Circle

Today, notice someone whose life has become smaller because of illness, grief, exhaustion, or loneliness. Instead of asking, “How can I fix this?” ask, “How can I stay near?”

Make the phone call.
Sit on the porch.
Deliver the meal.
Write the note.
Offer your quiet presence.

Sometimes healing begins long before the wound closes. Sometimes it begins the moment someone realizes they are no longer alone.

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Charles Darwin, The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex, 1st ed. (London: John Murray, 1871), Vol. 1, Chapter 5, p. 163.

1 Corinthians 12:26 (NRSVUE)

Don't Let Them Steal Your Trust

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Fri, 17 Jul 2026 08:01:18 GMT

“Do not believe that truth and love are destined to lose against lies and hatred.” — Václav Havel

Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

Last night, the US President spoke to the nation. Something unusual happened: several major news organizations decided not to air the speech live. They expected claims about our elections that needed careful fact-checking before being broadcast.

It was a remarkable moment. Journalists have often disagreed with presidents, and disagreement is part of any democracy. But last night stood out because it showed that one of our oldest public institutions no longer assumes others can be trusted with the truth.

We often take trust for granted until it starts to fade. We trust a bridge will hold us, that our tap water is safe, that drivers stop at red lights, that doctors follow evidence, and that judges follow the law. In every healthy democracy, constitutional monarchy, or republic, we trust that elections belong to the people, not just those in power for a time.

This kind of trust is not naïve. It is one of the greatest achievements of civilization.

Today, we see that trust being tested in serious ways. Even before voting begins, we hear claims that the next election cannot be trusted. There are proposals that could make voting harder for many eligible people. Institutions meant to protect election integrity are being weakened, and loyalty is starting to matter more than skill. Each of these changes alone may not decide our future, but together they make us question what kind of society we are becoming.

The Jewish tradition speaks of brit, or covenant. A covenant is not the same as a contract. A contract protects my own interests, but a covenant asks me to care for something bigger than myself. It reminds us that our lives are connected.

Maybe democracy is best seen not just as a political system, but as a civic covenant. It is a shared promise that every voice matters, that no leader owns the future, and that power must answer to the people who give it.

Howard Thurman once wrote, “There is something in every one of you that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in yourself.”

I wonder if societies also have something like that.

Maybe beneath all the noise and distraction, there is still something real in us that recognizes fairness. We know that excluding others does not create belonging, and that fear is not a good guide for the future.

Recent surveys show that more people are starting to listen to these deeper instincts. It is not about political parties, but about realizing that cruelty eventually harms any society that allows it. There is a wisdom, older than any ideology, that still lives in everyday people.

Our hope is not for one side to finally defeat the other.

Our hope is that enough people remember the covenant.

The future of free societies will not be decided just in courtrooms or at campaign rallies. It will be shaped by millions of everyday acts of honesty. Each time we refuse to repeat something false, check facts before sharing, protect someone’s dignity instead of using their fear, and remember that our neighbor is not our enemy, we help shape that future.

This is how we repair a covenant.

And maybe that has always been sacred work.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Where do you see trust being strengthened in your own community? Where do you see it being quietly eroded?
What practices help you distinguish truth from fear, especially when public voices compete for your attention?
How are you being called to become someone others can trust—with your words, your actions, and your presence?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For the Things That Hold Us Together

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Holy One,

You have always woven life through relationship.

You teach rivers to trust the pull of the sea,
trees to trust the turning of the seasons,
and birds to trust the unseen currents of the wind.

Teach us again to trust what gives life.

When fear tempts us to retreat into suspicion,
make us courageous.

When lies promise easy certainty,
make us truthful.

When power seeks to divide neighbor from neighbor,
remind us that our lives are bound together
more deeply than politics,
more deeply than ideology,
more deeply than fear.

May we become people
whose words can be trusted,
whose promises can be believed,
whose lives make room
for justice,
for mercy,
and for one another.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Become Someone Others Can Trust

The health of a society is built long before Election Day. Today, choose one simple way to become more trustworthy.

If you discover you’ve shared something inaccurate, correct it.
If you’ve made a promise you’ve neglected, keep it.
If someone confides in you, honor their trust.
If you disagree with someone, refuse to caricature their position.

Practice the quiet disciplines that make community possible.

Then, before you go to bed tonight, ask yourself one question: “Did my presence make trust more possible today?”

Democracies are repaired the same way friendships are repaired.

One honest conversation.
One kept promise.
One courageous act of truth.
One neighbor at a time.

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The Strongman and the Towel

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 08:00:25 GMT

“He poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet.” —John 13:5

Photo by Thays Orrico on Unsplash

Yesterday, the Secretary of Defense spoke to the military to announce a new initiative. The military will start testing male service members for testosterone deficiency. The program is being called the “High-T Department of War.”1 Honestly, I thought I was hallucinating when I read about this.

We are at war with Iran. American service members are risking their lives, while Iranian families are mourning their dead. Every day brings the risk of the conflict growing. Yet, at this moment, the leader of the world’s most powerful military has chosen to talk about testosterone.

At first I wanted to dismiss this announcement as absurd (which it absolutely is), but doing so would overlook what is really happening.

During his time in office, DoD Secretary Pete Hegseth has pushed a specific idea of strength. He has taken women and Black officers off promotion lists, argued that women should not serve in combat, enforced male physical standards, and often talked about lethality. Now, testosterone has become part of the Pentagon’s public image.

This is not just a set of policies by an unqualified and unserious man. It is an entire ideology being forced upon the US military. This view sees the ideal warrior as male, tough, aggressive, physically dominant, and usually white. It treats empathy as weakness, sees differences as flaws, and thinks restraint is a sign of weakness. Leadership becomes about who is the strongest man in the room.

Every empire eventually creates stories to justify its violence. Rome praised conquest. European colonial powers claimed racial superiority. Fascist movements promoted images of strong men, obedient bodies, and pure nations. The strongman always claims that more force will save the world.

The thing is…Jesus offered another image.

On the night before his execution, he took off his outer robe, tied a towel around his waist and knelt before his friends. He washed their feet.

This was not giving in to tyranny. Jesus had stood up to religious leaders, challenged imperial power, and knowingly faced the violence ahead. He was brave, but his courage was never about dominating others. He did not need anyone beneath him in order to know who he was.

This might be the clearest difference between real strength and machismo. Strength is able to serve, while machismo needs to rule. Strength protects those who are vulnerable, but machismo looks down on vulnerability. Strength is confident enough to share power, while machismo pushes out anyone who might challenge the order.

The towel Jesus wore shows how false the strongman’s image really is.

Jesus understood that real power is measured by how much it can protect, repair, and restore. He knew that true leadership takes courage to tell the truth, accept responsibility, and resist the pull of violence. He saw that tenderness and courage go hand in hand.

Countries around the world need this kind of leadership now more than ever. We need leaders who know that war is not a stage for performing masculinity. Every order affects real families. Every missile brings grief. Every careless escalation puts people in danger who will never stand behind a podium.

The real issue is bigger than whether testing for testosterone is medically helpful. The real question is what kind of people we become when our government treats masculinity as a weapon and sees domination as a virtue.

The Christian tradition makes a bold claim: the clearest sign of divine power is a man kneeling with a towel, washing the feet of those who will soon leave him.

Maybe this is the kind of strength we need to find again.

…The strength to serve without looking for praise.
…The strength to protect without trying to control.
…The strength to grieve without feeling ashamed.
…The strength to admit fear without letting it take over.
…The strength to reject the strongman’s lie.

The world does not need more men who are desperate to prove their power.

It needs people who are strong enough to kneel.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Where have you absorbed the lie that strength must look like domination?
Who has shown you another way, a strength rooted in compassion, humility, or service?
What would it look like for you to carry a towel into the places where others are reaching for power?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For True StrengthGod of quiet courage,

When the world glorifies domination, teach us the strength of compassion.

When fear tells us to harden our hearts, make them more tender instead.

Save us from confusing power with violence, certainty with wisdom, and control with love.

Give us the courage to tell the truth, to protect the vulnerable, and to serve without needing applause.

May our lives resemble the Christ who knelt with a towel more than the rulers who stood with a sword.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

God of quiet courage,

When the world glorifies domination, 
teach us the strength of compassion.

When fear tells us to harden our hearts, 
make them more tender instead.

Save us from confusing power with violence,
 certainty with wisdom, 
and control with love.

Give us the courage to tell the truth, 
to protect the vulnerable, 
and to serve without needing applause.

May our lives resemble the Christ 
who knelt with a towel 
more than the rulers who stood with a sword.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Carry the Towel

Today, choose one hidden act of service that no one will notice.

Do laundry without mentioning it. Write a note of encouragement. Make a phone call to someone who is lonely. Pick up litter in your neighborhood. Let someone else receive the credit.

As you do, remember that Jesus did not reveal God’s power from a throne. He revealed it with a basin, a towel, and hands willing to serve.

Go and do likewise.

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I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

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https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2026/jul/15/us-military-testosterone-screening-hegseth

Washing the Dishes

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Wed, 15 Jul 2026 08:01:55 GMT

“So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” — John 13:14 (NRSVUE)

Photograph from Bob Fitch Photography Archive / Department of Special Collections / Stanford University Libraries

Someone once thanked Dorothy Day for all she had done. She started the Catholic Worker Movement during the Great Depression. She spoke out against both capitalism and communism. She marched with workers, went to jail for peace, wrote books, edited a newspaper, and inspired generations of Christians to see Christ in the poor.

Dorothy listened politely. Then she said something like, “I’ve spent most of my life washing dishes.”

I’m not sure if she meant it literally, but I think she did. The houses of hospitality she started fed thousands of people. Meals were made every day. Pots needed scrubbing. Tables were wiped. Floors were swept. The work never stopped. Neither did the dishes.

The world doesn’t stay together because of big, extraordinary moments. It stays together because of ordinary acts done again and again. Someone washes the dishes. Someone folds the laundry. Someone weeds the garden. Someone makes another meal. Someone answers a late-night call. Someone sits by a hospital bed. Someone welcomes a stranger at the door. Most of this work never makes the news. But without it, civilization falls apart.

When Jesus wanted to show his disciples what God’s love looked like, he didn’t organize a rally or give a speech about leadership. He put a towel around his waist, filled a basin with water, and knelt on the floor. The miracle was that he believed love could be revealed through something so ordinary.

Maybe we have the wrong idea about how to change the world. We’re taught that history changes because of speeches, elections, inventions, and revolutions. Sometimes that’s true. Dorothy was certainly a revolutionary in her own right.

But more often, things change because someone keeps showing up. The teacher who prepares one more lesson. The hospice volunteer who sits quietly by another bed. The farmer who cares for the soil through another season. The parent who packs another lunch. The neighbor who checks on the widower across the street. The volunteer who makes coffee before anyone else arrives. The person who stays after the meeting to wash the dishes.

As I get older, I care less about the idea of heroes. Heroes can inspire us, but they rarely us going.

Communities last because people learn to value repetition. That might be one of the deepest spiritual practices. It means believing that today’s ordinary act of care matters, even if no one sees it.

Dorothy Day understood that movements aren’t built just by extraordinary people doing big things. They’re also built by ordinary people who keep on loving. One meal. One guest. One conversation. One sink full of dishes at a time.

Tomorrow morning, the dishes will be there again. Love, it turns out, is rarely finished. It simply waits patiently for us to begin again.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

What are the “dishes” in your own life, the ordinary acts of care that no one applauds, yet others depend upon?
When have you been tempted to believe that only the big, visible work matters?
Who quietly sustains your community through faithfulness that often goes unnoticed? Have you ever thanked them?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For The Ordinary Work

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

God of basins and towels,

You entered the world
not seeking a throne,
but kneeling beside ordinary people.

Thank you
for those whose faithfulness
rarely makes headlines.

For those who prepare the meals.
Answer the phones.
Fold the laundry.
Visit the sick.
Welcome the stranger.
Wash the dishes.

When we grow weary
of work that must be done again tomorrow,
remind us that love
is rarely finished.

It simply returns.

May our ordinary acts of care
become quiet signs
of your presence
in a world hungry
for kindness.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Leave One Dish

After your next meal, leave one dish in the sink. Don’t wash it immediately. Pause for a moment and simply look at it.

Then ask yourself: Who has been quietly “washing the dishes” in my life?

Maybe it is someone in your family. A colleague. A volunteer. A caregiver. A friend who always checks in.

Before the day ends, thank them for returning, day after day, to the ordinary work that makes everyone else’s life possible.

Then go back and wash the dish, with gratitude.

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The Little Pink Backpack

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 08:00:56 GMT

“A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted, because they are no more.” — Matthew 2:18 (quoting Jeremiah 31:15)

Blood is seen on the pavement near the scene of a shooting involving U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Monday, July 13, 2026, in Biddeford, Maine. (AP Photo/Robert F. Bukaty)

“I watched a wife fall to her knees looking at her husband’s dead body on the ground,” Mary Hayes told the Associated Press reporter as she held a piece of cardboard with “No ICE Stop ICE” written on it. “I watched a little girl crying with a little pink backpack on because she’s never going to see her father again.”1

I keep thinking about the little girl with the pink backpack.

This morning, that backpack is probably sitting by a door or hanging from a hook, waiting for a school day that will never start the way it did before. Her father is gone. Her mother is now a widow. This daughter faces a grief she never asked for.

This is where I want to start. Debating immigration policy does not seem to help. So let’s focus on this child.

The Bible pays close attention to children who are caught up in the workings of powerful systems.

When Matthew tells the story of Herod’s violence, he refers back to the prophet Jeremiah from six hundred years earlier and imagines Rachel, the mother of Israel, standing by the road and weeping.

“A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted, because they are no more.”

She refused to be comforted.

That sentence has always made me pause. We spend much of our lives trying to comfort grief, explain it, organize it, justify it, or move past it. Rachel refuses. Sometimes, refusing comfort is the only honest response.

Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, once wrote, “When you understand, you cannot help but love.” I have wondered if the opposite is true as well. When we choose not to understand, it becomes easier to hurt each other.

Empires depend on distance. Distance turns fathers into suspects, children into collateral damage, and families into case numbers. When that happens, almost anything can follow.

The gospel moves in the opposite direction. Jesus did not just see crowds. He met a widow, a blind man, a tax collector, a frightened child, and a grieving mother. He kept helping people break free from the labels that trapped them.

The little girl in Maine does not care about our arguments. She wants her father. She will feel his absence on every birthday, every first day of school, every graduation, and every ordinary Tuesday that should have included him.

Sometimes, a nation must ask not only if something is legal, but also if it has forgotten how to see.

Rachel still stands by the road, still weeping. Maybe the most faithful thing we can do today is to not rush past her, not explain away her tears, and not look away from the little pink backpack.

And, we must abolish ICE.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Which image from today’s meditation has stayed with you? Why do you think it has such power over your imagination?
Rachel “refused to be comforted.” Are there losses in our common life that we have tried to explain away instead of grieving honestly?
How do we resist the temptation to let people become categories? What practices help you remember the humanity of those whose lives seem far removed from your own?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Rachel’s Grief

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God of every grieving parent,

Today we pray
for the little girl with the pink backpack.

We do not know her name,
but you do.

We pray for her mother,
whose world has been shattered.

We pray for neighbors
who witnessed what no one should ever witness.

Receive their grief.

Hold their anger.

Protect them from despair.

We pray, too, for ourselves.

Keep our hearts tender.

Do not let us become so accustomed
to violence
that another family’s sorrow
becomes another day’s headline.

Teach us to love our neighbors
not as ideas,
but as people.

Not as categories,
but as children
beloved by you.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

The Empty Chair

Tonight, before you eat dinner, leave one chair at the table empty for a few moments. Let it remind you of every family whose table is missing someone tonight.

Offer this prayer: “May every family know safety, dignity, and peace.”

Then begin your meal with gratitude for those who are present.

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Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…

July 14, 11:00 - 12:30pm ET - Community Conversation on The Commons - Margaret Wheatley will be joining me for a conversation on how we build “islands of sanity” in a world that feels increasingly fragile. She has identified five pillars in the architecture of resilient community. For those of us wishing to form and be in healthy community with others in this time, you don’t want to miss this conversation. REGISTER HERE.

I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

I get to work with such amazing, creative people. This section is my way of celebrating them—no paid promotions, just joy in what they’re creating.

June 29, 2026, 12pm ET - ONLINE WRITING GROUP - My dear friend, Meryl Marshall-Daniels, is leading a writing group open to all. This is a simple and spacious writing circle for people who want time to listen inwardly and put words on the page without overthinking, performing, or polishing. Meryl offers a prompt designed to invite reflection, imagination, and attunement to what is already alive within you. The practice honors writing as a way of listening, of letting images, memories, questions, and insights surface in their own time. Learn more here.

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The Second Fire

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Mon, 13 Jul 2026 08:01:28 GMT

“When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?’” — John 21:15 (NRSVUE)

Photo by Benjamin DeYoung on Unsplash

Senator Lindsey Graham’s death this weekend has led many people to reflect on his life and legacy. Some remember his sense of humor, his friendships with people from both parties, and his dedication to South Carolina. Others find it hard to match the Lindsey Graham they once admired with the public figure he became in recent years.1 Like all of us, his story is more complex than simple praise or criticism can capture.

When someone passes away, I find it helpful to ask myself: What can I learn from their life about my own?

While reading the tributes and criticisms this weekend, I started thinking about another person whose life was shaped by being close to power.

On the night Jesus was arrested, Peter stood in the high priest’s courtyard, warming his hands by a charcoal fire. He had followed Jesus farther than most of the other disciples and had not run away. He stayed close enough to see what would happen, close enough to those in power, and maybe close enough to think he could still make a difference.

It was by that fire that Peter denied knowing Jesus.

I wonder if the denial started before he spoke, maybe at the moment when staying close to power mattered more to him than staying close to the truth.

That temptation didn’t end with Peter. It shows up wherever there is power, in governments, churches, universities, businesses, and even families.

Power pulls us in. The closer we get, the easier it is to justify compromises. We might call it strategy or prudence. We tell ourselves we stay close so we can still help, and that making one small concession now will let us do more good later.

Sometimes that’s true. Other times, it’s just a story we tell ourselves as we slowly lose touch with what we believe.

I don’t know exactly when that line gets crossed, and I doubt Peter did either. What stands out in John’s Gospel is that the story doesn’t end at the first fire.

After the resurrection, Peter goes back to fishing. At dawn, he sees a stranger on the shore. When they come ashore, John notices another charcoal fire waiting for them, with bread and fish ready.

Only John mentions that it’s a charcoal fire. He wants us to notice the connection. The first fire was where Peter lost himself; the second is where he finds himself again.

Jesus never asks Peter why he denied him or demands an explanation. He doesn’t ask Peter to defend his choices or explain his compromises. Instead, he asks just one question: “Do you love me?” He asks it three times, once for each denial.

This question goes beyond Peter’s public failure and reaches something deeper. Before Peter was a disciple, a leader, or someone who made promises he couldn’t keep, he was just a man who loved Jesus. Everything else got complicated, but that love remained. Maybe that’s why Jesus starts there.

As I thought about Senator Graham’s life this weekend, I realized this reflection isn’t really about him. It’s about all of us.

All of us spend our lives moving toward one fire or another. We know what it’s like to want influence, acceptance, success, belonging, or security. We feel the pull to stay close to whatever seems to control the future. And at some point, each of us has said or done things our younger selves might not even recognize. This could certainly be said of Senator Graham’s leadership.

The gospel doesn’t pretend these things won’t happen. It simply says that failure is never the end of the story.

There is always another fire, another invitation, another morning when Christ meets us, not with accusation, but with breakfast. He doesn’t ask if we won, stayed influential, or were always right. He only asks: “Do you love me?”

I believe this may be one of the deepest questions in spiritual life.

It doesn’t erase our failures, but it remains the surest way back to who we are.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Where in your own life do you feel the pull to remain close to influence, approval, or power, even when it asks something of your integrity?
Can you remember a moment when you realized you had become someone your younger self would scarcely recognize? What helped you find your way back?
Jesus never asks Peter to explain his failure. He asks only, “Do you love me?” Why do you think that question comes first?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For The Second Fire

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Faithful God,

You know the places
where we have compromised ourselves.

You know the bargains
we have made,
the words we wish
we had not spoken,
and the silences
that still trouble us.

Yet you do not meet us
with shame.

You prepare breakfast.

You light a fire.

You call us again
by the oldest language
our souls remember:

Love.

When we lose ourselves
in the pursuit of power,
status,
approval,
or security,
lead us gently home.

And when we have forgotten
who we are,
ask us once more
the question
that matters most.
Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Find Your Fire

If you are able, light a candle. Sit quietly before the flame for five minutes.

As you watch it burn, reflect on two questions:

Where am I tempted to stay close to power?
Where is Love inviting me to return to it?

Do not try to solve either question. Simply let the flame remind you that every fire can become a place of revelation.

Some reveal where we have lost ourselves. Others illuminate the way home.

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https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/2026/07/lindsey-graham/687893/

Thank you, Wally

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Fri, 10 Jul 2026 08:01:35 GMT

“These all died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.” — Hebrews 11:13

Wally Funk, Texas Aviation Hall of Fame Photo, 2024

Yesterday, world-class aviator Wally Funk died at the age of 86.

Most people remember her as the oldest woman to travel into space. In 2021, at eighty-two, she finally crossed the Kármán line on Blue Origin after waiting almost sixty years for a chance she had earned long before. The headlines called it a moment of justice. At last, one of America’s forgotten pioneers reached the stars. But before Wally Funk ever left the Earth, she had already changed it.

In 1961, she was one of thirteen women chosen for the Mercury 13 program. They went through the same tough medical and psychological tests as the men training to be NASA astronauts. Wally did especially well. In many tests, she outperformed the men. She spent over ten hours in a sensory deprivation tank, longer than John Glenn. By every important measure, she proved she belonged.

It wasn’t enough.

NASA did not allow women to become astronauts. The program ended not because the women lacked ability, but because they could not get something they had no control over in that era: permission.

Many people might have given up. Wally did not. She kept flying.

She became the first female inspector for the Federal Aviation Administration and the first female air safety investigator for the National Transportation Safety Board. She taught thousands of people to fly. Every hour she spent in the cockpit made it easier for women who followed. I was one of them.

As a young female pilot, Wally Funk was one of my heroes. Before I ever flew a plane, she was showing that women belonged in the cockpit. I could follow this path because she never gave up on hers.

In the Christian tradition, the writer of Hebrews talks about people who “died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.” They lived for a future they might never see. Their faithfulness became someone else’s inheritance.

I think about this every time I taxi down a runway. Most people notice the airplane, but few notice the runway. No plane takes off without it. Every runway is there because many people worked to clear the land, pour the concrete, paint the lines, check the lights, and make it ready for someone else to fly. The runway rarely gets applause. It just carries the weight of someone else’s dream.

Wally Funk became like one of those runways, not just because she went to space at eighty-two, but because for sixty years she refused to let disappointment turn into bitterness. She kept doing the work she loved. She kept opening doors others said should stay closed. She showed that our calling does not depend on whether the world notices it.

That might be one of the hardest lessons in spiritual life. We live in a culture that focuses on results. We measure success by promotions, awards, followers, elections, headlines, and wins. But God seems to care more about faithfulness than outcomes.

The saints rarely finish the work they start. Moses never entered the Promised Land. The prophets dreamed of justice they never saw. John the Baptist prepared the way for someone else. Again and again, Scripture reminds us that the most important calling is not reaching the end, but preparing the way.

I wonder how many people today are carrying dreams they may never fully realize. A teacher shaping a child’s imagination. A scientist searching for a cure. A parent sacrificing for the next generation. An activist planting seeds whose fruit they may never taste. A clergy person guiding a congregation through hard times.

None of them may get the recognition they deserve. But maybe recognition was never the point.

Maybe the invitation is just to keep building the runway, because somewhere, someone you will never meet is waiting to take flight.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Who prepared the runway for your own life? Who made your vocation possible long before you ever arrived?
Where are you being called to remain faithful, even if you may never see the full fruit of your labor?
What dream or opportunity might become possible for someone else because of the work you are doing today?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Those Who Prepare the Way

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Faithful God,

You are always at work
through ordinary people
whose names are often forgotten.

Thank you for the teachers,
mentors,
parents,
scientists,
artists,
pilots,
pastors,
and pioneers
who prepared the way
for those who followed.

When our efforts seem unnoticed,
strengthen our resolve.

When disappointment tempts us
to abandon our calling,
renew our courage.

Teach us to measure our lives
not by recognition,
but by faithfulness.

And may the work of our hands
become a blessing
for generations
we may never meet.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Write a Thank You

Today, reach out to someone who prepared the runway for your life. Perhaps it was a teacher who believed in you. A mentor who opened a door. A parent who sacrificed. A colleague who encouraged you. Or someone whose example quietly expanded your imagination.

Write them a note.

Tell them one specific way your life is different because they were faithful to their calling.

If they have died, write the letter anyway. Read it aloud.

Then ask yourself: Whose runway am I building now?

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No Enemies

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Thu, 09 Jul 2026 08:01:15 GMT

“I see no stranger, I see no enemy.” — Attributed to Bhai Kanhaiya, Sikh tradition

Photo by Gregory Fullard on Unsplash

In the last day, the United States started military strikes against Iran again after new attacks in the Strait of Hormuz. Iran has struck back. Civilians are once more trapped by choices they never made. Homes will be lost. Children will mourn. Rivers and coastlines will show the marks of fire, oil, and war. Once violence begins, it rarely stays limited to military targets.

When I see news like this, I wonder what wisdom the world’s spiritual traditions can give us that politics cannot.

There is a story from the Sikh tradition…

Over three hundred years ago, during a fierce battle, a Sikh disciple named Bhai Kanhaiya walked onto the battlefield with a goatskin full of water. The wounded called to him, and he knelt by their side, giving them water to drink.
News spread quickly through the Sikh camp, and the soldiers became angry.
“He is giving water to the enemy,” they complained. “He is strengthening the very people who are trying to kill us.”
They brought Bhai Kanhaiya before Guru Gobind Singh, expecting him to be punished.
The Guru asked him if the accusations were true.
“Yes,” Kanhaiya replied.
“And why would you do such a thing?”
His answer has been remembered for centuries.
“My Lord, I saw no enemy. I saw only human faces. In each face I saw your light.”
The Guru did not rebuke him.
Instead, he handed Bhai Kanhaiya medicine and bandages.
“If you see only the Divine in every person,” he said, “then you must also treat their wounds.”

This story asks a lot of us, maybe the best of us. War depends on our ability to stop seeing each other…just enough. Enough to make another child someone else’s child. Enough to make another neighborhood someone else’s neighborhood. Enough to make another country’s suffering seem distant from our own.

Every bomb first explodes in the imagination, where another human being becomes less fully human.

The Sikh tradition rejects that first step. It teaches that under every uniform, passport, language, belief, and fear, there is first a face. Within that face is the presence of the Holy.

That conviction does not solve geopolitical conflicts. It doesn’t erase the difficult work of diplomacy or the painful realities of violence. But it does establish a boundary that must never be crossed. No political goal is worth making us forget someone else’s humanity.

In times of war, it is tempting to ask, “Whose side are you on?” But the Sikh tradition asks: Can you still see the face in front of you?

I do not know how this latest conflict between the United States and Iran will end. But I do know that long after the generals stop talking, someone will need to carry water. Someone will need to bandage wounds. Someone will need to rebuild homes. Someone will need to teach children that the future does not have to repeat the past.

Maybe that has always been the holiest work. It’s not winning the battle itself, but refusing to lose our ability to care for others while the battle goes on.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Where have you been tempted to let fear, politics, or grief make another person less fully human?
Who are the people your community has been taught to see as enemies?
What would it mean to carry water in this moment, even if you cannot stop the war?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Those Who Carry Water

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

God of every wounded body,

When bombs fall
and fear takes hold,
keep our hearts from closing.

When leaders speak
of enemies and targets,
teach us to see faces.

When violence makes compassion
feel foolish,
give us the courage
to carry water anyway.

Bless the healers,
the witnesses,
the rescuers,
the peacemakers,
and all who bind wounds
while the world burns.

May we never forget
that no one is beyond
the reach of your light.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Read the Headlines Differently

Read today’s headlines.

Each time you encounter a word like enemy, migrant, soldier, civilian, or terrorist, pause.

Replace the label with the words: “A human being.”

Notice how the story changes.

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I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

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Shouldn't the Shepherd Feed the Sheep?

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Wed, 08 Jul 2026 08:01:25 GMT

“Ah, you shepherds of Israel who have been feeding yourselves! Should not shepherds feed the sheep?” — Ezekiel 34:2

Photo by Andrea Lightfoot on Unsplash

President Trump’s latest financial disclosures are…telling. They show he earned billions of dollars from cryptocurrency ventures, licensing deals, and businesses that grew while he was in office. Economist Paul Krugman says some of these crypto ventures look like a classic “pump and dump” scheme: political influence drives up value, investors jump in, and those at the center end up with huge profits.1 In this case, over one million Trump supporters lost over $3.8 billion dollars.2 The coin was trading at $1.76 as of Friday, down 97 percent from its peak price of $75.35.

The numbers are shocking and shameful. But what really sticks with me is a question the prophet Ezekiel asked nearly 2,600 years ago: “Should not shepherds feed the sheep?” In other words, shouldn’t a leader serve his people instead of fleece them?

Ezekiel wrote during one of Israel’s darkest times. Jerusalem had fallen and the nation had collapsed. Many blamed foreign armies, but Ezekiel looked elsewhere. He focused on the leaders.

“The weak you have not strengthened,” he wrote. “The sick you have not healed. The injured you have not bound up. The strayed you have not brought back… but with force and harshness you have ruled them.”

Then comes a line that has echoed through history: “You eat the fat, you clothe yourselves with the wool… Should not shepherds feed the sheep?” (Ezekiel 34:2–3)

The worst kind of corruption isn’t bribery (which is bad). It’s when a leader forgets their true purpose. A shepherd is there for the flock. A judge is there for justice. A teacher is there for students. A pastor is there for the congregation. A president is there for the people.

When a role meant for the common good turns into a way for someone to get rich, it’s more than just corruption. The institution itself is turned upside down. It starts serving the leader instead of the people.

That’s why this moment is notable. It’s not just about one politician’s wealth. It’s about what society starts to see as normal. Every democracy depends on a fragile agreement: public power should serve the public. If that agreement is broken too often, people start to expect leaders to look out for themselves. Cynicism becomes normal, and serving others starts to seem naïve.

Ezekiel rejected that kind of cynicism. He said leadership isn’t about owning, but about caring for others. A leader shouldn’t be judged by how much wealth they gain in office, but by whether the people they serve become healthier, freer, safer, and better able to thrive. This question goes far beyond politics.

Each of us is responsible for something. A family. A congregation. A classroom. A business. A neighborhood. A friendship. Sooner or later, everyone in a position of care faces the same temptation. Will this relationship exist to benefit me, or will I give of myself so others can thrive?

Jesus knew Ezekiel’s words well when he said, “I am the good shepherd.” He wasn’t being sentimental. He was directly rejecting leaders who had forgotten the true purpose of leadership.

Maybe that’s the question we should take with us this week. It’s not just about whether our leaders are serving us well, but whether we remember what it means to serve.

Every institution ends up reflecting the people in it.

Every small act of faithful care is a way of refusing to let the shepherd take advantage of the sheep.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

Ezekiel asks a simple but searching question: Who is feeding whom? Where do you see institutions that have forgotten the purpose for which they were created?
What people, responsibilities, or communities have been entrusted to your care? How might you shepherd them with greater integrity and generosity?
Jesus called himself the “Good Shepherd.” What qualities of his leadership stand in contrast to the leadership models our culture often celebrates?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For Faithful Shepherds

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God of justice,

You entrust us with lives
that do not belong to us.

Teach us to lead
without possessing.

To serve
without seeking reward.

To hold power
without clinging to it.

When ambition tempts us,
restore our humility.

When fear hardens our hearts,
restore our compassion.

And when we forget
why we were entrusted
with the care of others,
call us back
to the ancient work
of feeding the sheep.

May our lives become
places of refuge,
strength,
and generosity
for all who pass through them.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Tend What Has Been Entrusted

Sometime today, make a list of the people, communities, and responsibilities that have been entrusted to your care. Perhaps it is your family. Your congregation. Your colleagues. Your neighborhood. A friendship. A classroom. Even a garden.

Beside each one, write two brief answers:

What does this relationship need in order to flourish?
What would it look like for me to feed rather than be fed by this responsibility?

Do not judge your answers. Simply notice where your attention goes. Then choose one small act of generosity that strengthens someone else’s life without advancing your own interests.

The prophets remind us that societies are not renewed by grand gestures alone. They are renewed each time a shepherd remembers why they were called.

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Paul Krugman

Pump and Dump and Trump

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a month ago · 1943 likes · 380 comments · Paul Krugman

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/07/04/us/politics/trump-coin-crypto-investors-loss.html?eafs_enabled=false

The World We Could Become

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Tue, 07 Jul 2026 08:02:01 GMT

“After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne…” — Revelation 7:9

Photo by Jannik on Unsplash

Last night, the United States lost to Belgium and ended its World Cup run. Like many Americans, I hoped for a different result. Still, as I turned off the TV, I realized the tournament had already given me something more lasting than just a win or loss.

Over the past few weeks, I started noticing countries I rarely think about. I cheered for Norway’s surprising run in the tournament and found myself rooting for Morocco. I learned about Cape Verde, a group of islands off West Africa I knew little about before this summer. I watched fans from Colombia, Japan, Senegal, and Mexico fill stadiums with songs I didn’t understand, but I could still feel their joy.

For one month every four years, something special happens. The world feels interesting again, not threatening or split into friends and enemies. Curiosity takes the place of suspicion.

For a few weeks, millions of us care about places we’ve never been and people we’ve never met. We celebrate great moments no matter which team is playing. We feel sad for countries that barely crossed our minds before. Somehow, another nation’s happiness becomes our own.

Modern life often teaches us to limit our sympathies. Politics divides us into groups. Algorithms show us stories that match what we already think. Fear makes us wary of people who are different. Soon, the world feels smaller. We stop seeing neighbors and start seeing only labels.

The World Cup changes that, at least for a while. It invites us to enjoy each other’s company.

This made me think about the story of Pentecost. It’s one of the most misunderstood stories in the New Testament. Many people think the miracle was everyone speaking the same language. But Luke actually says the miracle was that people from many nations each heard the good news in their own language.

Differences were not erased. They were honored. Understanding didn’t require everyone to be the same. It just required openness.

Maybe that’s why the story has lasted for two thousand years. It gives us a vision of community that doesn’t depend on everyone being the same. It shows a world where our differences aren’t barriers, but the starting point for real connection.

The Jesuit priest and paleontologist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin understood this long before globalization. “The age of nations is past,” he wrote. “The task before us now, if we would not perish, is to build the earth.”

He wasn’t asking us to give up our countries. He wanted us to remember that every nation is part of something bigger. The future won’t be safe if some people thrive while others suffer. We have to learn to share this small blue planet, or we’ll all lose together.

Maybe that’s why this tournament captures our imagination every four years. We already know how to enjoy cultures that aren’t our own. We know how to admire excellence wherever we see it. We know how to let someone else’s celebration become our own. We know how to come together around something beautiful without insisting everyone be just like us.

For a few weeks, the world remembers who it is.

The tournament will end. The flags will be put away. The headlines will change. Politics will demand our anger again, and old divisions will try to get our attention.

But maybe we don’t have to forget so soon. Maybe the World Cup is more than just a sporting event. Maybe it’s a reminder. It reminds us that beneath all our borders and arguments, there’s another possibility, one we sometimes glimpse and instantly recognize because, deep down, we’ve always known it was possible.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

During these past few weeks, which country or people did you find yourself unexpectedly cheering for? What awakened your curiosity or affection?
Where in your own life have fear or habit caused your world to become smaller than it needs to be?
What would it look like to carry the openness and delight you experienced during the World Cup into your relationships with neighbors, strangers, and those whose stories are different from your own?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For the World We Could Become

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God of every nation,

You have never loved
one people
at the expense of another.

You have woven humanity
from countless languages,
cultures,
histories,
and songs.

Forgive us
when fear teaches us
to make our world small.

Expand our hearts.

Teach us to delight
in gifts that are not our own,
to celebrate beauty
wherever it appears,
and to recognize your image
in every face we meet.

May we become
the kind of people
who build bridges
before walls,
friendship
before suspicion,
and hope
before fear.

Remind us that your love
has always been larger
than our borders.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Learn Someone Else’s Song

This week, choose one country that captured your imagination during the World Cup. Spend fifteen or twenty minutes learning something about it. Read a poem by one of its writers. Listen to its music. Prepare one of its traditional meals. Learn a few words of its language. Read a bit of its history. Or simply ask someone from that part of the world to tell you about home.

Approach the experience with genuine curiosity, not as a tourist collecting facts but as a neighbor learning another neighbor’s story.

At the end of the day, ask yourself: How has this small act of attention enlarged my world?

The future will not be built only through treaties and technologies.

It will also be built through millions of ordinary acts of curiosity, hospitality, and delight.

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Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…

July 7, 2026, 12:30-1:30pmET - Book Club in The Commons - FREE - We are reading our next book, The Glorians by Terry Tempest Williams. We will meet each Tuesday for 6 weeks. It’s such great fun. I hope you will be a part. All are welcome! RSVP HERE.

I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

I get to work with such amazing, creative people. This section is my way of celebrating them—no paid promotions, just joy in what they’re creating.

If you are a leader or member of a congregation looking for consulting support in visioning, planning, hiring or staffing, please consider Convergence.

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We The People

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Fri, 03 Jul 2026 08:01:27 GMT

“Notwithstanding the dark picture I have this day presented of the state of the nation, I do not despair of this country. There are forces in operation which must inevitably work the downfall of slavery. ‘The arm of the Lord is not shortened,’ and the doom of slavery is certain. I, therefore, leave off where I began, with hope.” — Frederick Douglass, What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July? (July 5, 1852)

Photo by AussieActive on Unsplash

This weekend, the United States marks its 250th year. For many Americans, this anniversary arrives with mixed emotions. We know too much of our history to celebrate uncritically. We know that the promises proclaimed in 1776 were denied to Indigenous peoples, enslaved Africans, women, immigrants, and countless others whose labor and sacrifice built this country while excluding them from its freedoms.

Many of us carry another fear: that the democratic experiment itself, the fragile and unlikely idea that ordinary people can govern themselves, may be giving way to something darker: authoritarianism driven by greed, resentment, and the concentration of power.

So what exactly are we celebrating?

I keep coming back to the opening words of the Constitution: We the People. Not the president. Not the courts. Not the wealthy. Not the military. The people. Those three words hold both America’s greatest promise and its greatest burden.

On July 5, 1852, standing before an audience gathered to celebrate Independence Day, Frederick Douglass delivered what remains one of the greatest speeches in American history. He exposed the profound hypocrisy of a nation proclaiming liberty while millions remained enslaved.

“What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim.”

The speech is still powerful and painful to read. But Douglass did not end in despair. At the end of his address, after clearly naming slavery’s violence and the nation’s moral failure, he wrote:

“Notwithstanding the dark picture I have this day presented of the state of the nation, I do not despair of this country… I, therefore, leave off where I began, with hope.”

Hope. America had yet to fulfill its promise, but he believed that human beings remained capable of doing so.

Abraham Lincoln understood this too. Standing at Gettysburg during the aftermath of civil war, he described America not as something finished, but as a proposition:

“A new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

A proposition. A claim that must be tested. A promise each generation has to decide whether to honor.

Nearly a century later, Langston Hughes returned to the same question. He refused both sentimentality and cynicism. In Let America Be America Again, he wrote:

“America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be.”

I have been carrying these voices with me as our nation marks its 250th year.

Douglass.

Lincoln.

Hughes.

Each of them knew the American experiment was never about being perfect. It has always been about what is possible.

Maybe that is what we can celebrate this Independence Day. Not our innocence. Not our virtue. Not the myth that we have always lived up to our ideals. We can celebrate the persistent human ability to imagine a fairer society and to work, often at great cost, to make it real.

The Hebrew prophets understood this long before America existed. They knew nations survive not because they are powerful, but because they can still seek truth, repentance, justice, and mercy. They saw that a covenant is not inherited, but practiced.

So maybe the real question this July Fourth is not whether America deserves celebration. Maybe it is whether we, the people, are still able to become the kind of people democracy needs.

Constitutions cannot show compassion. Markets cannot be brave. Governments cannot love their neighbors. Only people can.

After 250 years of striving, failing, repairing, and trying again, I still believe that America’s deepest promise has never been found in our institutions.

It has always lived in us.

We the people.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

What aspects of the American experiment do you believe remain unfinished?
Where have you witnessed ordinary people embodying the courage, compassion, and mutual responsibility upon which democracy depends?
If democracy is not merely a political system but a moral and spiritual practice, what is yours to contribute in this moment?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For the People

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God of freedom and responsibility,

We give thanks for all those
who loved this country enough
to tell it the truth.

For prophets and poets,
for organizers and teachers,
for neighbors and strangers,
for all who have labored
to bend our common life
toward justice,
we give thanks.

When we are tempted by despair,
grant us courage.

When we are tempted by nostalgia,
grant us honesty.

When we are tempted to believe
that democracy belongs to institutions alone,
remind us that it has always depended
upon the character of ordinary people.

Teach us to practice
the difficult arts
of compassion,
truth-telling,
shared sacrifice,
and hope.

And help us become
the kind of people
upon whom a beloved community
might yet be built.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Reading the Covenant

Today, read the opening words of the United States Constitution slowly:

“We the People of the United States…”

Pause after the third word. Consider what those words have meant across 250 years. Who was included? Who was excluded? Who struggled to expand their meaning?

Then spend ten minutes writing your own continuation of the sentence:

“We the people…”

Do not write what America has been. Write what you believe America could still become. Keep what you write.

Democracy survives because ordinary people continue to imagine futures worthy of their labor.

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Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…

I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

I get to work with such amazing, creative people. This section is my way of celebrating them—no paid promotions, just joy in what they’re creating.

If you are a leader or member of a congregation looking for consulting support in visioning, planning, hiring or staffing, please consider Convergence.

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The Forgotten Path

Rev. Cameron Trimble — Wed, 01 Jul 2026 08:00:27 GMT

“Stand at the crossroads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls.” — Jeremiah 6:16

Photo by Lukasz Szmigiel on Unsplash

This week, I’m on Star Island with scientists, theologians, artists, and futurists for the annual Institute on Religion in an Age of Science. The theme this year is Co-Creating a Thriving Future: An Alchemy of Belief and Choice.

It’s a big question: What does a thriving future look like? Is it still possible?

Many of us here aren’t optimistic. We are “collapse-aware.” We know climate change is accelerating. Our ecosystems are under real stress. Human greed still shapes our economic and political systems, making inequality and exploitation worse instead of better. We don’t assume that thriving futures are guaranteed.

We’re probing something deeper: What can we offer now, and in any future, that is rooted in kindness, creativity, and generosity? How do we live with integrity, even if the future is uncertain or less hopeful?

We often try to answer these questions by looking ahead. We study trends, predict possible futures, imagine new technologies, and search for innovations to solve problems that keep getting more complicated.

But yesterday, I heard a Buddhist teaching that made me wonder if we’re looking at the question the wrong way.

The Buddha tells of a traveler walking through a forest. The traveler sees a narrow opening in the underbrush, just a faint path nearly lost to time. Curious, he moves the branches aside and starts to follow it.
The path leads him deeper into the forest.
Eventually, he comes upon something amazing.
He finds an ancient city standing before him.
The city’s streets were once carefully planned, its buildings beautifully built, and its public spaces made for people to thrive. It wasn’t destroyed by war or disaster. It was simply left behind. Over time, the forest covered it, and the path to it faded from memory.
The traveler goes back to tell the king.
“There is an ancient city waiting to be restored.”

The Buddha explains that enlightenment is like this. He didn’t invent wisdom; he found a path people had forgotten how to follow.

We often talk about the future as if it depends on new inventions. We say we need new technologies, new institutions, new economic systems, and new ways to govern. Maybe that’s true.

But I wonder if our biggest problems aren’t about lacking innovation. Maybe they’re about forgetting ancient paths.

The cultural historian Thomas Berry said modern societies made a huge mistake when we started seeing the world as “a collection of objects” instead of “a communion of subjects.”1 We forgot that rivers, forests, animals, ecosystems, and even future generations are connected to us, not just here for us.

What else have we forgotten? It seems we’ve forgotten that people thrive in communities, not just markets. That having enough can feel abundant. That wisdom grows over generations, not in news cycles. That democracy relies on trust as well as fair policy. Maybe we’ve forgotten that the Earth is not just a storehouse of resources, but a living community we belong to, that we are OF the earth, not just ON the earth.

The more I think about the Buddha’s story, the more empowered I feel. The ancient city wasn’t destroyed. The path wasn’t erased. It was just forgotten.

I wonder if our real task now is not just to dream up futures that have never existed, but to remember the futures that once guided us and learn how to move toward them again.

Maybe faith is a kind of remembering, a way of knowing that another way of being human in relationship with the world has always been possible.

Maybe the path beneath us is older, wiser, and more lasting than we thought.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

What wisdom, practice, or way of being do you suspect our culture has forgotten?
When you imagine a thriving future, what assumptions are you making about what is new and what might need to be remembered?
What “abandoned path” in your own life is waiting to be rediscovered?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For the Forgotten Path

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God of the ancient path,

When we become lost
in our own inventions,
help us remember.

When we mistake novelty for wisdom,
help us remember.

When fear tells us
that there is no way forward,
help us remember.

Teach us to listen again
to the earth,
to one another,
to the wisdom of our ancestors,
and to the quiet truth
that still lives beneath our forgetting.

Give us courage
not only to imagine new futures,
but to recover
the goodness,
the beauty,
and the belonging
we have always needed.

May we become
faithful travelers,
willing to follow
the faint traces of hope
through the forest.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Walk the Forgotten Path

Today, take a walk. It may be through a forest, a neighborhood, a city park, or simply around your block.

As you walk, ask yourself: What have I forgotten that I once knew?

Allow memories, experiences, relationships, teachings, or intuitions to emerge. Perhaps you have forgotten how to rest. Perhaps you have forgotten how to trust others. Perhaps you have forgotten the joy of creating something with your hands. Perhaps you have forgotten that enough can be abundance. Perhaps you have forgotten that you belong to a community larger than yourself.

Carry a notebook. Write down whatever path reveals itself.

At the end of the day, choose one small act that honors what you have remembered.

The future may not depend entirely on discovering something new. It may also depend on recovering what we have always needed.

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I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

I get to work with such amazing, creative people. This section is my way of celebrating them—no paid promotions, just joy in what they’re creating.

If you are a leader or member of a congregation looking for consulting support in visioning, planning, hiring or staffing, please consider Convergence.

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Thomas Berry, The Dream of the Earth (San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1988), p. 16.

A Theology of Surveillance

Tue, 30 Jun 2026 08:01:25 GMT

“Then the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, ‘Where are you?’”— Genesis 3:9

Photo by Jefferson Santos on Unsplash

This week, The Guardian reported that several U.S. government websites, such as those for passports, voting information, prescription drug pricing, and children’s savings programs, have been redesigned to send visitor data through White House-controlled systems.1 These sites now use commercial tracking technologies, which privacy experts find deeply concerning.

It strikes me: surveillance always begins with a theological claim. It is rooted in a particular understanding of what it means to be human.

Michel Foucault, a political philosopher, spent much of his career exploring how power shapes human behavior. In his well-known book Discipline and Punish, he describes the eighteenth-century ‘panopticon,’ a prison designed by Jeremy Bentham.2 Its design was clever: prisoners never knew when they were being watched because the guard tower was opaque. This uncertainty became a tool for control.

The genius of the panopticon was that guards no longer needed to watch every prisoner. Instead, prisoners started to watch themselves.

Foucault believed that modern societies took this idea far beyond prisons. Schools, hospitals, factories, bureaucracies, and governments began to focus on observation, measurement, and surveillance. The aim was not just to punish those who broke the rules. It was to shape people who would accept the expectations of those in power and learn to control themselves.

Reading about government tracking technologies made me reflect on this idea. Surveillance is based on a deep theological belief: that people cannot be trusted unless they are watched, monitored, and possibly corrected.

The biblical tradition starts with a very different view of human life.

Think about the Garden of Eden. God does not create a panopticon or set up a monitoring system. Instead, God creates a world filled with freedom and vulnerability. People are given agency, responsibility, and the ability to make choices that truly matter.

Then comes one of the most striking moments in Scripture. After Adam and Eve hide, God enters the garden and asks, “Where are you?” It seems like a strange question, since God would already know their location.

God does not ask for information. Instead, the question is an invitation to relationship, to self-understanding, and to honesty.

The God of Genesis does not begin with surveillance. The God of Genesis begins with covenant.

Surveillance and covenant show two very different ways of seeing people. Surveillance is based on suspicion, while covenant is based on relationship. Surveillance depends on control, but covenant depends on trust. Surveillance asks, “How do we stop wrongdoing?” Covenant asks, “How do we encourage faithfulness?”

This does not mean that societies can work without laws, institutions, or accountability. The biblical tradition recognizes the need for all three. Still, there is a big difference between accountability based on shared responsibility and surveillance based on suspicion.

Philosopher and theologian Ivan Illich once warned that modern institutions can become harmful when they try to replace real human relationships with systems of management and control.3 We may start out seeking security, but we often end up feeling isolated.

I wonder if this is one of the deepest spiritual challenges of our time. We are increasingly asked to live as though we are always being observed…because we are. Our purchases are tracked. Our movements are tracked. Our searches are tracked. Our conversations are tracked. Our attention is tracked.

Over time, we start to watch ourselves. We become more careful, less trusting, less free, and less like our true selves.

This leads to important questions: What kind of people are we becoming if we live as though we are always being watched? And what kind of God do we imagine if we think that watching is the best way to care?

Maybe our spiritual challenge now is to find a new way of seeing things.

A vision where people are not problems to be managed, but individuals to be met and known.

A vision where trust is not seen as naive, but as something essential.

A vision where freedom and responsibility develop side by side.

In other words, a vision not based on surveillance, but on covenant.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

In what areas of your life do you feel watched, measured, evaluated, or managed rather than known?
How has the experience of living in a culture of surveillance shaped your willingness to trust others, speak honestly, or take risks?
What would it mean for you to live more deeply from covenant than from suspicion?

A Prayer for the Day

A Prayer For the Courage to Be Seen

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

God of the garden,

You do not watch us
as a warden watches prisoners.

You seek us
as a friend seeks a friend,
as a parent seeks a child,
as love seeks the beloved.

When fear teaches us
to hide ourselves,
call us forth.

When suspicion hardens our hearts,
teach us trust.

When we begin to believe
that control is stronger than relationship,
remind us that every covenant
begins with vulnerability.

Help us become people
who create spaces
where others can be known
without fear,
held without judgment,
and loved without condition.

And when you ask,
“Where are you?”
give us the courage
to answer honestly.

Amen.

Spiritual Practice

Notice the Gaze

Today, notice the times when you realize that someone is watching, judging, or assessing you. Maybe it happens during an online conversation. Maybe it comes up at work, when you feel expected to act a certain way. Maybe it’s when you post something on social media. Or maybe it’s that inner voice wondering how others see you.

Whenever you notice this happening, take a moment to pause and ask yourself: Who am I becoming under this gaze?

Then, consider a second question: What might I do differently if I believed I was cared for and trusted, instead of being watched?

At the end of your day, take ten minutes to be with someone you trust. Share something true with them. It doesn’t have to be impressive.

Remember, people don’t thrive just because someone is watching them.

We grow when we feel truly known.

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Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…

June 30, 2026, 12:30-1:30pmET - Book Club in The Commons - FREE - We are reading our next book, The Glorians by Terry Tempest Williams. We will meet each Tuesday for 6 weeks. It’s such great fun. I hope you will be a part. All are welcome! RSVP HERE.

I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.

Fun Things My Friends Are Up To…

I get to work with such amazing, creative people. This section is my way of celebrating them—no paid promotions, just joy in what they’re creating.

If you are a leader or member of a congregation looking for consulting support in visioning, planning, hiring or staffing, please consider Convergence.

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https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2026/jun/28/government-website-visitor-tracking-surveillance-fears

Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage Books, 1977), Part Three, Chapter 3, “Panopticism,” pp. 195–228.

Ivan Illich, Tools for Conviviality (New York: Harper & Row, 1973).