A Conversation at Gate B27

A Meditation by Rev. Cameron Trimble

“You can’t heal what you won’t hold.” — Resmaa Menakem

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Last week, I sat in the Denver airport, watching people rush past with their roller bags and earbuds. I had just returned from a profound wilderness retreat in Wyoming. My spirit was full, soft, and wide open. I felt like someone reentering the world after being underwater for a long time—quiet, clear, and a little disoriented.

That’s when a man in a MAGA hat and camouflage pants sat down next to me.

I nodded a polite hello, not expecting conversation. But as a story about immigration raids aired on the overhead TV, he turned toward me, clearly ready to share.

“I’m glad we finally have a President who’s getting this country under control,” he began. “Back when I was growing up, men had authority. People knew their place. There wasn’t all this ‘gender identity’ crap, and women weren’t trying to compete with men. Families had values. Kids could play in the streets. It was a good time. Now? The world’s gone to hell.”

I was stunned by his candor. But something in me stayed soft.

So I said, “You remind me of a story. When a forest is too tidy—when everything unruly has been trimmed back—it looks neat for a while. But over time, it starts to die. Without fallen limbs, messy undergrowth, and layers of decay, nothing new can take root. It’s the wildness that gives it life.”

He looked at me sideways, curious but unconvinced.

“What I hear in your voice,” I continued, “is grief. Not hate. A longing for something that felt safe. But when you say, ‘people knew their place,’ I have to ask—who decided those places? And who got left out so others could feel in control?”

He didn’t flinch. “That’s just what a liberal would say,” he shot back. “I’ve hated liberals my whole life. They’re the reason we’re in this mess. The Bible says there’s a natural order—God, Christ, husband, wife, children. Some people are born to lead. Without that, we get chaos. Crime. Weakness. Our young men don’t even know how to be men anymore.”

I took a deep breath.

“You know,” I replied, “you’re reminding me of what happens when we dam a river. At first, it seems strong—forceful, even noble. But downstream, the water disappears. The fish die. The trees wither. The life that depended on its flow is cut off.”

I kept going: “I understand your longing for order. I’ve felt that, too. But I also know what it costs to keep things locked in place. Eventually, the pressure builds. Something breaks.”

Then I met him in the language he chose: “You mentioned the Bible. The Jesus I’ve come to know? He flipped tables. He sat with women. He healed on the Sabbath. He welcomed children and strangers. He said the first would be last and the last would be first. That wasn’t submission to order—it was a disruption rooted in love.”

He crossed his arms but didn’t turn away.

He said, “If my grandson came to me and said, ‘I don’t want to dominate anyone. I want to tend the world with care. I want to cry, hold hands, and love whoever I love,’ I’d tell him to man up and grow a pair. If he’s not prepared to defend what’s his, he’ll get walked on. That’s how I feel about immigrants. They’re taking what’s mine. I’m glad Trump’s deporting them.”

And there it was: the holy friction point.

I leaned in gently.

“You’ve spoken of domination as strength. Of violence as the cost of manhood. Of tenderness as a threat. That’s not just an opinion—that’s a whole cosmology. A worldview designed to protect power, no matter the harm it causes. It’s the roots of genocide.

“But what if the world doesn’t need more protection? What if it needs more presence?

“You say they’re taking what’s yours. But who told you it was ever yours alone? Was the land not already taken before it was given to you? Were the systems ever fair?

“What you call order… I hear as silence. Silencing those who didn’t fit, didn’t agree, didn’t belong. That’s not peace. That’s fear made into law.”

He looked at me. Long and hard.

Then he said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree. But I appreciate your perspective.”

“That’s all I can ask,” I said. And I meant it.

I’ve thought about that conversation every day since. About what allowed it to happen. About what I chose to carry and what I chose to let drop.

And here’s what I’m learning:

• Beneath rigidity is usually grief. If we listen carefully, we can hear the mourning that authority masks.

• Metaphor helps us breathe. When logic fails, images can open the soul.

• Naming harm isn’t the same as causing harm. You can stay rooted in truth without becoming the sword.

• Not every bridge needs to be crossed. But every relational field deserves to be tended.

• We can’t heal what we won’t hold. But we can hold the pain without letting it harden us.

This world doesn’t need more domination.

It needs more people willing to sit beside one another and tell the truth—softly, clearly, with trembling hands and open hearts. I’m only beginning to learn how to do so.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

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• When you’ve encountered someone with an opposing worldview, what helped you stay grounded in your own values?

• What belief or “order” from your past might be masking unresolved grief?

• Where in your life are you being invited to exchange certainty for honest presence?

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A Prayer for the Day

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When the Old Stories No Longer Hold

God of fierce mercy,
We confess:
We were taught to equate control with safety.
To silence discomfort with order.
To protect what was never only ours.

And yet,
You whisper through unruly places.
You rise up in the broken pattern.
You meet us where our defenses crumble.

Let us not seek to dominate,
But to discern.
Let us not harden in our fear,
But soften in your love.

May we speak what is true.
Hold what is hard.
And stand with those the world would rather disappear.

Amen.

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Spiritual Practice

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Sit Beside the Fire

Find a moment to sit beside a source of warmth—a candle, a fire pit, or the sun through a window.

Bring to mind a belief or habit that once gave you comfort but now feels constricting. Imagine placing it beside the fire—not to burn it away in rage, but to offer it up gently. Let the warmth loosen its hold.

Ask yourself:

• Who gave me this story?

• What was it trying to protect me from?

• What new story is trying to emerge?

Let the fire do what fire does: not destroy, but transform; not erase, but reveal.

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Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…

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September 4, 4:30pm ET - I will be collaborating with the Anderson Forum for Progressive Theology to host a conversation with Thomas Jay Oord on Open and Relational theology. It’s a FREE event. Register here.

October 15-18, 2025 - Converging 2025: Sing Truth Conference (all musicians invited!) at Northwest Christian Church in Columbus, OH. Register here!

October 23, 30, November 6, 13, 2025, 7pm ET - In Search of a New Story: Reimagining What Comes Next, A 4-Part Online Series with Matthew Fox, Cameron Trimble, and Special Guests. We are living through the unraveling of many old stories—about who we are, why we’re here, and how we are meant to live together on this Earth. As these inherited narratives collapse under the weight of climate crisis, social fragmentation, and spiritual disconnection, the question becomes clear: What story will guide us now? REGISTRATION OPENING SOON!

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