In the past, I’ve started posts, stopped, rewritten, and even retracted them because I did not want my words to inflame when they should invite reflection. I’ve struggled with this — not because I lack conviction, but because I understand how easily good intention can be misunderstood when poured into a landscape divided by bias, strong presuppositions, and fragmented realities.
Hard to believe it has been a decade regarding Baltimore/Ferguson. Here was the mood back then:
In Screens We Trust (Baltimore)
Yet here I am again — not because I think I have all the answers, but because we cannot simply turn away from these moments. When we refuse to speak honestly, we leave only the loudest voices to fill the void. When we retreat out of fear of offending, we surrender the space to those who thrive on division rather than dialogue.
My hope is not to score points or to settle partisan scores. I write because I believe we must seek truth together, even when it lives in the gray between outrage and resignation — and especially when that truth is uncomfortable.
Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; [20] for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God. [21] Therefore put away all filthiness and rampant wickedness and receive with meekness the implanted word, which is able to save your souls. [22] But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves. (James 1:19–22 ESV)
We are all disturbed by the tragedy that has taken place in Minnesota. Lives have been lost, communities are hurting, and the tension surrounding it feels raw and unresolved. It is the kind of moment that demands careful thought, yet feels almost impossible to discuss honestly. Grief is close to the surface, emotions are high, and words are easily misheard or weaponized.
Perhaps that is why our conversations so quickly fracture. Many of us now live inside echo chambers—formed by algorithms, social media, and selective news consumption—that reinforce what we already believe rather than challenge us. Bias has always existed, but today it is paired with something more corrosive: disinformation and half-truths repeated until certainty replaces understanding. In that environment, deliberation gives way to reaction, and discourse gives way to division.
I do not pretend to know exactly where the balance lies right now—where the pendulum between order and liberty currently rests. What I do know is that societies rarely drift into authoritarianism from only one direction. Excessive force and unchecked power can push a nation there. But prolonged unrest, fear, and the breakdown of shared norms can also create the conditions in which people begin to demand a strong hand. History offers few examples where sustained disorder ends in freedom.
This is the paradox we struggle to name. What is decried as authoritarianism on one side can become the very outcome produced by chaos on the other. That reality does not excuse abuses of authority. Power must always be restrained, accountable, and legitimate. Brute force cannot substitute for trust. Yet protest without limits—harassment, intimidation, vandalism, doxing, or deliberate provocation—does not strengthen justice either. It accelerates escalation and makes restraint more difficult for everyone involved.
Perhaps the deeper issue is not only what we are arguing about now, but what we failed to build long before this moment.
In a relatively benign way- I came to understand this slowly during my years as a Dean of Students—after some good decisions and more than a few mistakes. Discipline was never something I mastered quickly, nor was it ever clean. Over time, I learned that rules could not be applied mechanically if they were going to be just. Authority had to be exercised with discernment, shaped by the individual in front of me, not merely the infraction on paper.
I could not let my love for law override my love for people. But I also learned that the opposite failure carried its own cost. Refusing to confront wrongdoing did not make me compassionate; it often meant that victims’ needs were ignored, that harm went unaddressed, and that boundaries quietly eroded. Justice required navigating between those extremes—a space that was almost entirely gray.
Often, what appeared to be a minor issue was no longer about the rule itself. A dress code violation, for example, ceased to be about clothing and became about whether authority would be acknowledged at all. That always raised the same difficult question: Is this worth it? Not enforcing boundaries invited disorder. Enforcing them too rigidly risked disproportionate harm. The goal was never punishment for its own sake, but formation—teaching self-discipline early, in a place where mistakes could still be corrected without permanently altering the course of a life.
I could not do that work alone. It required partnership with parents, colleagues, and a willingness to admit when I was wrong. Divided authority—especially when adults were not on the same page—made discipline nearly impossible. Inconsistent expectations taught students to exploit the gaps, not because they were malicious, but because systems always teach behavior. Restraint depended on legitimacy, consistency, and trust.
By the time authority is encountered only through law enforcement or the full weight of the state, the opportunity for that kind of formative correction has often already passed. The consequences are sharper, the margins for grace narrower, and the outcomes far more permanent. Schools and homes are meant to be the last places where correction is personal and survivable. When those foundations weaken, we ask police and governments to do work they were never meant to do: moral formation.
None of this fits neatly into partisan narratives. It requires holding two truths at once—that unchecked power is dangerous, and that unchecked disorder invites it. That restraint is essential, and that restraint itself must be learned. A society that abandons early formation should not be surprised when force becomes the only remaining tool.
I do not know where we are on the pendulum. I do know that shouting across divides will not steady it. What is needed now is not less conversation, but better conversation—one grounded in humility rather than certainty, in responsibility rather than outrage, and in a shared commitment to rebuild the foundations that make freedom sustainable.
If we cannot speak to one another honestly—if we cannot agree on legitimacy, boundaries, and restraint—then the question before us is no longer who is right.
The question is whether the foundation we need is still intact…or whether we will only recognize its absence once everything built upon it begins to fall.
I do know this for a fact (and probably true of me as well)- I can read almost every social media post from anyone on my feed and I can guess with a high view of accuracy where you get your news......
We need to simmer down and listen- we need to be compassionate and pray- we need to stop accusing in hyperbole- we need to find common ground.....
Never forget the lesson of the Templar's- I tried to capture it in a song:
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