Why Do We Sacrifice Our Children?

A Meditation by Rev. Cameron Trimble

“Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted, for they are no more.” —Jeremiah 31:15

Eva Claire Hambach/AFP via Getty Images

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Yesterday, two children were killed and seventeen others injured in yet another mass shooting in the United States. They were gathered in a chapel for school Mass. Some were preparing for their first week back to school—backpacks not yet scuffed, pencils still sharp.

Now, they are gone.

We live in a nation where one of the leading causes of death for children is bullets. We should pause—truly pause—and let that settle in.

As we have so many times before, we will grieve. We will offer “thoughts and prayers.” We will light candles, post statements, demand policy change. But if the past is any guide, we will not act—not in the way the moment requires.

So we must ask: Why? Why are we, as a nation, willing to sacrifice our children to this madness?

I don’t offer a single answer. But I do know this: the deepest crisis of our time is not a lack of information. It’s that we don’t know how to metabolize what we know. We don’t know how to feel it, hold it, and let it transform us.

We are suffering from what some have called a disease of separability—a conditioned numbness that teaches us to absorb atrocity without reckoning with it. Instead of breaking our hearts open, grief now breaks us down. Instead of deepening our courage, it drives us into despair.

We reach for comfort—rituals we mistake for healing: “thoughts and prayers,” political platitudes, hashtags of outrage. But none of it restores the sacredness of our shared life. None of it protects the next child.

Some will say our system is broken. But what if it isn’t? What if the system is doing exactly what it was designed to do—protect power, preserve profit, and prioritize individualism, even at the cost of our children?

Gun violence is not just a policy issue. It is, like so many issues we face today, a spiritual crisis. At the root of that crisis is a broken story—a story we have been telling ourselves for far too long.

We’ve been shaped by the hallucination of autonomy:

 “I alone can defend myself.”

The illusion of entitlement:

 “I have the right to lethal force, even if it endangers others.”

The myth of supremacy:

 “My safety matters more than our collective safety.”

The false promise of domination:

 “If I am more armed, I am more secure.”

These aren’t just opinions. They are addictive identity structures. They live deep in our collective psyche. To disarm—truly disarm—means more than relinquishing weapons. It means confronting the stories that have armored our hearts.

It means acknowledging that:

• The myth of self-protection has left us more exposed and afraid than ever.

• Safety built on the threat of violence is not safety—it’s coercion.

• What we call “freedom” often depends on someone else’s vulnerability.

• We have mistaken control for peace, and dominance for dignity.

• We have been willing to sacrifice our children—our own and others’—to preserve our illusions.

To disarm is to surrender the fantasy that violence will save us. It is to choose belonging over isolation. It is to turn grief into a gateway—toward healing, toward each other, toward life.

We are not powerless. But we are heart-sick. Before any policy will take root, we must name this rupture. We must honor the grief. We must stop pretending this is normal.

We must not look away.

We are in this together,

Cameron

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Reflection Questions

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• How do you personally respond to the repetition of mass shootings? Do you numb out, break down, shut off?

• What story have you inherited or absorbed about what safety means? How is it shaping your worldview?

• What does it look like for your grief—not your outrage—to be your teacher?

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A Prayer for the Day

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A Prayer for the Brokenhearted

God of fierce tenderness,
Hold our hearts that are too heavy to hold alone.
We grieve for the children lost, for the families torn, for the futures stolen.
We grieve the culture that has normalized the killing.
We grieve the numbness that protects us from the pain but leaves us unchanged.

Break us open—not down.
Break us open to one another.
Break us open to wisdom.
Break us open to action rooted in love.
Let our grief not end in paralysis, but in the birth of something truer.

Amen.

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Spiritual Practice

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Grief as Holy Ground

Today, make time to sit with your grief, not to analyze it or solve it—but to feel it. Set a timer for 10 minutes. Turn off your phone. Light a candle if you wish.

Let your heart tell the truth:

• What have I lost?

• What have we all lost?

• What would it mean to refuse to look away?

You may feel tears. You may feel numb. It’s okay. The point is not to perform grief, but to notice it. To let it soften you, even just a little.

You are not alone in this. Maybe that’s the beginning of a different kind of safety.

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Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…

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September 4, 5:30pm 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 23, 30, November 13, 20 2025, 7pm ET - In Search of a New Story: Reimagining What Comes Next, A 4-Part Online Series with Dr. Matthew Fox, Cameron Trimble, Ilia Delio, Diana Butler Bass, Caroline Myss and other 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 NOW OPEN!

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.