When Power Speaks Loudest, Faith Must Listen Closest

 There are moments in history when something shifts in the atmosphere of a nation, and even people who cannot articulate it feel it in their bones. The conversations sound different. The tone changes. Fear begins to creep into ordinary moments. Words like “authority,” “order,” and “security” start carrying extra weight. People sense that something important is happening, but they do not always know how to name it without sounding political, reactive, or divisive. For people of faith, especially those who sincerely want to follow Jesus, these moments create a deep internal tension. The tension is not about parties or personalities. It is about conscience.

I am living in one of those moments right now, and I feel compelled to speak about it carefully, prayerfully, and honestly. Not as a commentator. Not as a political analyst. But as a follower of Christ who is trying to remain awake, grounded, and faithful when power becomes loud and restraint becomes quiet.

This reflection does not come from news cycles or social media outrage. It comes from something deeper and slower. It comes from watching how authority is being exercised in real time, how decisions are being made, how enforcement is being carried out, and how quickly due process and shared accountability can be treated as obstacles instead of safeguards. It comes from listening to my own conscience respond to what I am seeing, and from measuring that response against the life and teachings of Jesus.

I want to be very clear about something from the beginning. This is not an attempt to persuade anyone politically. It is not an argument meant to win people over. It is not a condemnation of those who see things differently. It is an examination of how faith functions when leadership feels forceful, when power feels centralized, and when fear starts to shape public life more than humility does. It is about how followers of Jesus are called to see, think, and respond when authority no longer feels restrained by process, patience, or compassion.

One of the most difficult challenges for believers in times like these is resisting the urge to collapse faith into loyalty. Loyalty to leaders. Loyalty to movements. Loyalty to promises of order or protection. History shows us that faith has often been tested not when power is weak, but when power is confident. Not when authority is questioned, but when it is celebrated. Not when leaders stumble, but when they begin to believe they are above restraint.

Jesus speaks directly into this tension, even though He lived under a very different political system. He lived under occupation. He lived under empire. He lived under rulers who believed order mattered more than justice and control mattered more than compassion. Yet He never spoke about power the way people expected Him to. He never rallied crowds around domination. He never promised safety through force. He never told His followers that winning justified whatever methods were necessary.

Instead, Jesus introduced a radically different way of understanding authority. He spoke about leadership as service. He spoke about power as something to be restrained, not flaunted. He warned His followers that the rulers of this world often “lord it over” others, but that this way of operating had no place among those who claimed to follow Him. That warning is not abstract. It is practical. It is meant to shape how believers respond whenever authority begins to feel heavy-handed, impatient, or dismissive of process.

What makes moments like the one we are living in so challenging is that force can look like strength. Speed can look like decisiveness. Control can look like competence. When fear is present, many people welcome authority that promises to act quickly and without hesitation. There is comfort in the idea that someone is “taking charge,” even if the cost of that control is transparency, accountability, or dignity.

I understand that impulse because I have felt it myself. There are times when chaos feels exhausting and uncertainty feels unbearable. There are moments when order seems more important than compassion and outcomes seem more important than process. In those moments, it is easy to convince ourselves that restraint is weakness and patience is inefficiency. It is easy to believe that decisive force will restore stability, even if it bypasses safeguards designed to protect the vulnerable.

But this is precisely where faith must slow us down.

Jesus does not ask His followers to react the way the world reacts. He does not invite them to surrender discernment in exchange for comfort. He does not teach them to hand their conscience over to anyone who promises safety. He teaches them to watch, to pray, and to pay attention to fruit. He teaches them to look not only at what is being done, but at how it is being done and what it produces in people’s lives.

That question of fruit is central to everything Jesus teaches about leadership and authority. Fruit is not measured by applause or approval. It is measured by whether people are becoming more fearful or more peaceful, more divided or more compassionate, more anxious or more secure in their dignity. Fruit reveals whether power is healing or harming, whether it is protecting or exploiting, whether it is serving or dominating.

When I look at what is happening in our country right now, I see power being exercised in ways that often feel rushed, force-forward, and dismissive of process. I see authority leaning heavily on commands and orders rather than on shared responsibility and deliberation. I see enforcement actions that feel intimidating rather than transparent, and I see patience for due process shrinking in the name of urgency. These observations are not partisan talking points. They are moral and spiritual concerns rooted in how authority is meant to function according to the teachings of Christ.

Jesus never models leadership that treats people as obstacles to be removed. He never speaks about human beings as problems to be managed. He never justifies bypassing justice in the name of efficiency. Even when He stands before unjust systems, He does not respond by becoming unjust Himself. He does not seize power. He does not intimidate His opponents. He does not rule by decree. He submits to process, even when that process is deeply flawed, because He understands that power restrained is more righteous than power unleashed.

This aspect of Jesus’ life is uncomfortable for many believers, especially in times of tension. We like His compassion. We like His mercy. We like His promises of hope. But His restraint challenges us. His refusal to dominate challenges us. His unwillingness to act like a king challenges us, because it forces us to ask hard questions about what kind of leadership we actually trust and why.

I find myself asking those questions now more than ever. I am asking them not to accuse anyone, but to examine my own understanding of strength. For a long time, I thought strength meant cracking down. I thought decisive leadership meant acting quickly without hesitation. I thought order mattered more than compassion, especially when things felt unstable. Those assumptions are easy to hold when fear is present, and fear is a powerful motivator.

But Jesus does not define strength that way. He shows us that real strength knows when to stop. Real leadership knows when to listen. Real authority understands its limits. It understands that power without restraint eventually turns on the very people it claims to protect. History confirms this truth over and over again, and Scripture echoes it with quiet consistency.

One of the most dangerous shifts that can happen in any society is when authority begins to see itself as above accountability. When leaders begin to believe that urgency justifies bypassing process. When enforcement is celebrated without transparency. When people are told that questioning power is the same as opposing good. These are not signs of strength. They are warning signs, and followers of Jesus are called to notice them.

Jesus tells His followers that they do not always recognize the spirit they are operating in. That statement is not condemnation. It is invitation. It is an invitation to pause, to reflect, and to ask whether our instincts are being shaped by fear or by faith. It is an invitation to examine whether our support for authority is rooted in trust in God or in anxiety about losing control.

I am taking that invitation seriously right now. I am slowing down. I am paying attention. I am watching not just what is being done, but how it is being done and what it produces in the lives of ordinary people. I am measuring what I see not by slogans or party loyalty, but by the teachings and example of Jesus. That is not an easy standard to hold, but it is the only one that makes sense for someone who claims to follow Him.

This reflection does not leave me angry. It leaves me humbled. It reminds me that faith is not about being right the first time. It is about remaining responsive as truth becomes clearer. It is about refusing to harden my heart in defense of positions that no longer align with the character of Christ. It is about choosing conscience over comfort, even when that choice feels lonely.

In times like these, it is tempting to retreat into silence or to retreat into certainty. Silence feels safer. Certainty feels stronger. But Jesus calls His followers to something different. He calls them to stay awake. He calls them to remain prayerful. He calls them to keep their hearts anchored to Him rather than to the shifting currents of power.

That calling matters now. It matters when authority feels loud and restraint feels rare. It matters when fear tries to rush decisions and urgency tries to drown out wisdom. It matters when people feel pressured to choose sides instead of choosing faithfulness. Jesus does not tell His followers to panic in moments like this. He tells them to watch and to pray.

As I continue this reflection, I want to explore more deeply what it means to stay anchored in Christ when power is exercised forcefully, how believers can resist the temptation to confuse control with leadership, and how faith can remain clear-eyed without becoming cynical or reactive. This is not a journey of condemnation. It is a journey of discernment, humility, and hope.

And it is one I am still walking.

I remain convinced that one of the greatest tests of faith in any generation is not whether people believe in God, but whether they trust God more than they trust power. That test becomes especially sharp when authority promises safety, order, or protection at the cost of restraint. In those moments, believers are quietly asked to decide whether they will anchor their hope in Christ or in the systems and leaders that claim to act on their behalf.

What makes this decision difficult is that power rarely announces itself as dangerous. It presents itself as necessary. It speaks in the language of urgency. It frames restraint as weakness and patience as delay. It insists that extraordinary times require extraordinary measures. These arguments are not new. They appear again and again throughout history, and they always sound reasonable in the moment. That is why Jesus does not tell His followers to ignore authority, but He does tell them to examine it carefully.

Jesus understands how fear can shape perception. He understands how easily people can be convinced that force is the only answer to instability. He understands how quickly compassion can be labeled as softness and how quickly restraint can be dismissed as naïveté. But He also understands where that path leads. He understands that unchecked authority always begins by targeting those with the least power, the least protection, and the least voice.

This is why Jesus speaks so often about the least among us. He centers children, the poor, the sick, the foreigner, and the marginalized in His teachings about the kingdom of God. He does not do this to romanticize vulnerability, but to reveal the true measure of leadership. Authority that protects dignity is righteous. Authority that erodes dignity is not. That distinction matters, especially when enforcement becomes more visible and fear becomes more normalized.

As I watch what is unfolding right now, I find myself thinking often about how easily human beings can be reduced to categories when power feels pressured. People become statistics. They become problems to be solved. They become obstacles to be removed. Language hardens. Compassion thins. Process is framed as an inconvenience. These shifts rarely happen all at once. They happen gradually, through small decisions that seem justified in isolation but dangerous in accumulation.

Jesus resists this way of seeing people at every turn. He does not flatten individuals into labels. He does not dismiss their stories. He does not justify harm by appealing to efficiency. When He encounters those society fears or despises, He does not escalate force. He slows down. He listens. He restores dignity before He restores order. That pattern is not incidental. It is intentional. It is a blueprint for how authority should function when it is aligned with God’s character.

For believers, the challenge is not simply to admire Jesus’ example, but to allow it to disrupt our instincts. It is one thing to say we believe in compassion. It is another thing to resist fear when fear demands control. It is one thing to affirm justice. It is another thing to defend process when process feels inconvenient. It is one thing to speak about humility. It is another thing to question leaders who appear strong but operate without restraint.

I am learning that faithfulness in times like these often looks quieter than people expect. It looks like paying attention when others rush. It looks like asking questions when others demand certainty. It looks like refusing to dehumanize even when fear makes dehumanization feel justified. These choices do not earn applause. They rarely trend. But they align with the slow, steady way Jesus shapes His people.

This does not mean withdrawing from public life or ignoring real problems. Jesus never does that. He engages deeply with the world around Him. He confronts injustice. He speaks truth to power. But He does so without surrendering to fear or becoming what He opposes. He does not mirror the tactics of those who misuse authority. He remains rooted in love, even when love costs Him everything.

I am reminded that Jesus’ refusal to act like a king is not weakness. It is clarity. He understands that power gained without restraint must be maintained with increasing force. He understands that authority divorced from humility cannot sustain justice. He understands that leadership rooted in fear eventually consumes itself. These truths are not theoretical. They are lived realities that repeat across cultures and centuries.

For those of us trying to follow Jesus now, the call is not to panic or withdraw. The call is to remain anchored. Anchored in truth. Anchored in compassion. Anchored in the quiet conviction that God does not need us to surrender our conscience in order to accomplish His purposes. God is not threatened by process. He is not impatient with restraint. He is not impressed by force.

I continue to return to the simple questions that Jesus places before us. What kind of fruit is being produced? Are people becoming more humane or more hardened? More compassionate or more suspicious? More secure in their dignity or more fearful of authority? These questions do not require advanced education or theological training. They require honesty. They require attentiveness. They require the courage to trust that God is present even when we resist the pull toward control.

This reflection does not leave me hopeless. On the contrary, it strengthens my resolve to live faithfully in the present moment. It reminds me that the kingdom of God does not rise or fall with any administration or leader. It does not depend on executive orders or enforcement strategies. It advances quietly through acts of love, justice, mercy, and humility. It takes root wherever people choose conscience over convenience and faith over fear.

I believe deeply that this is a moment when believers are being invited to mature. Not to become cynical. Not to become reactionary. But to become discerning. Discernment does not mean suspicion. It means clarity. It means the ability to recognize when something feels spiritually misaligned even if it is legally permitted or politically popular. It means trusting the teachings of Jesus enough to let them challenge our assumptions about strength and success.

As I walk through this season, I am choosing to stay engaged without becoming enraged, attentive without becoming anxious, and thoughtful without becoming paralyzed. I am choosing to pray not only for outcomes, but for wisdom. Not only for safety, but for compassion. Not only for order, but for justice that honors human dignity.

I am also choosing to remain humble about my own understanding. Faithfulness does not require certainty about every issue. It requires openness to correction. It requires the willingness to say, “I am still learning.” Jesus never demands that His followers arrive fully formed. He invites them to walk with Him, step by step, even when the path is uncomfortable.

As I bring this reflection to a close, I want to return to where it began. This is not about sides. It is not about personalities. It is not about proving anyone wrong. It is about staying awake in a moment when fear tempts people to trade conscience for control. It is about remembering that Jesus does not ask us to give our hearts away to anything that does not look like Him.

My hope is not in leaders. My hope is not in systems. My hope is not in force or control. My hope remains in Christ. As long as I keep my eyes on His restraint, His humility, and His love, I can remain steady even when the world feels unsettled. That steadiness is not passive. It is active faith. It is the quiet strength of choosing trust over fear and conscience over comfort.

This is how I am choosing to live right now. This is how I am choosing to see. This is how I am choosing to follow. Not in anger. Not in panic. But in faith that believes God is still at work, even when power speaks loudly and restraint seems rare.

And I believe that kind of faith still matters. Now more than ever.

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Your friend,
Douglas Vandergraph

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