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The Imperative for Faith-Informed Response

The Imperative for Faith-Informed Response

Someone reading a sermon.

Pexels, Pavel Danilyuk

In the early days of this second Trump presidency, I'm reminded that religious leaders often speak of hope, but now we must do so with urgency and clarity. What we're witnessing isn't just political transition—it's moral regression dressed in the garments of restoration.

When a president speaks of a "golden age" on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, we must name the idolatry in such rhetoric. Golden ages, historically, have always been golden for some at the expense of many. Dr. King didn't dream of a return to any past era; he envisioned a future yet unrealized.


Recently, I've consulted with leaders across the religious spectrum. All voiced similar concerns about their respective constituencies' growing sense of unease. Lamenting their faithful who have begun concealing outward symbols of their faith, while others report feeling increasingly isolated from the broader community. These shared experiences of anxiety and disconnection point to deeper tensions within our democratic fabric.

Trump’s executive orders aren't mere policy shifts; they're moral earthquakes that shake the very foundation of our interfaith commitment to human dignity. When government policies separate families, marginalize minorities, and dismiss environmental stewardship as optional, they don't just challenge our political preferences—they assault our core religious convictions.

Faith leaders often misread their role in moments like these. We're not called to be chaplains to an empire, nor cheerleaders for any political party. We're called to be truth-tellers in the tradition of Amos, who understood that genuine faith always carries political implications. When Amos spoke of justice rolling down like waters, he wasn't suggesting gentle reform—he was demanding systemic transformation.

When policies target any religious community, they threaten the religious freedom of all communities. The Muslim ban of the first term wasn't just an assault on Islam; it was an assault on the First Amendment itself. Its threatened revival in this second term isn't just a migrant or political refugee issue—it's an American crisis. Our current moment demands more than dialogue; it requires collective action and "prophetic citizenship”.

What does prophetic citizenship look like in practice? First, it is transforming houses of worship from comfortable areas of convening into centers of moral action. Prayer and protest aren't opposing activities—they're different expressions of the same faithful witness.

Second, it requires reflection on what Dietrich Bonhoeffer called the “cost of grace,” which is the willingness to put something at risk for the sake of justice. When religious individuals speak of unity without addressing injustice, we offer cheap grace that heals wounds lightly, crying "peace, peace" where there is no peace.

Third, we must engage in "holy disruption"—strategic, principled opposition to policies that violate our shared moral values. This isn't about partisan politics; it's about moral consistency. The same religious convictions that lead us to feed the hungry must compel us to ask why hunger persists in the world's wealthiest nation.

To those in power who might dismiss this as mere religious rhetoric: Our resistance stems not from political calculation but from moral obligation. When you dismantle environmental protections, our sacred texts that command us to be stewards of creation require us to speak. When you demonize immigrants, our scriptures that repeatedly command us to "welcome the stranger," compel us to act.

To my fellow clerics who counsel patience: Patience in the face of injustice isn't a virtue—it's complicity. Every major religious tradition speaks of human dignity as divinely-given, not government-granted. When policies assault that dignity, our response must be immediate and unequivocal.

To those feeling overwhelmed by the scope of our challenge, take heart. Your faith is suited for long struggles. The same God who heard enslaved people's cries in Egypt hears the prayers of the marginalized today. The same Spirit that sustained the civil rights movement still moves among us. The same divine love that has carried countless generations through dark nights still lights our path.

We were created not to simply survive this moment but to transform it. Our civic responsibility isn't merely to resist what is wrong but to build what is right. In the words of Isaiah, we are to be "repairers of the breach, restorers of streets to dwell in." This isn't just poetic language—it's a practical mandate for concrete action. Our work continues, and our faith inspires us.

Rev. Dr. F. Willis Johnson is a spiritual entrepreneur, author, and scholar-practitioner whose leadership and strategies around social and racial justice issues are nationally recognized and applied.

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This Isn’t My Story. But It’s One I’ll Never Forget.

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This Isn’t My Story. But It’s One I’ll Never Forget.

My colleague, Meghan Monroe, a former teacher and trainer in the Dignity Index, went out to lunch with a friend on the 4th of July. Her friend was late and Meghan found herself waiting outside the restaurant where, to her surprise, a protest march approached. It wasn’t big and it wasn’t immediately clear what the protest was about. There were families and children marching—some flags, and some signs about America being free.

One group of children caught Meghan’s eye as they tugged at their mother while marching down the street. The mom paused and crouched down to speak to the children. Somehow, Meghan could read the situation and realized that the mom was explaining to the children about America—about what it is, about all the different people who make up America, about freedom, about dignity.

“I could just tell that the Mom wanted her children to understand something important, something big. I couldn’t tell anything about her politics. I could just tell that she wanted her children to understand what America can be. I could tell she wanted dignity for her children and for people in this country. It was beautiful.”

As Meghan told me this story, I realized something: that Mom at the protest is a role model for me. The 4th may be over now, but the need to explain to each other what we want for ourselves and our country isn’t.

My wife, Linda, and I celebrated America at the wedding of my godson, Alexander, and his new wife, Hannah. They want America to be a place of love. Dozens of my cousins, siblings, and children celebrated America on Cape Cod.

For them and our extended family, America is a place where families create an enduring link from one generation to the next despite loss and pain.

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I bet that’s one of the lessons that mom was explaining to her children. I imagine her saying, “America is a place where everyone matters equally. No one’s dignity matters more than anyone else’s. Sometimes we get it wrong. But in our country, we always keep trying and we never give up.”

For the next 12 months as we lead up to the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, we’re going to be hearing a lot about what we want America to be. But maybe the more important question is what we the people are willing to do to fulfill our vision of what we can be. The answer to that question is hiding in plain sight and is as old as the country itself: join with others and do your part, and no part is too small to matter.

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