Not In Our Name
A Guest Column I wrote and was published by the Bend Bulletin
During the Vietnam War, a man stood outside the White House every night with a candle — in rain and cold, alone. A reporter finally asked him:
“Do you really think you’re going to change them?”
The man said:
“I’m not here to change them. I’m here so they don’t change me.”
How do we change what is happening while staying who we are? How do we remain people of compassion in a climate that rewards callousness? How do we keep our hearts open without being consumed?
On Easter Sunday morning, the President posted a profanity-laced message warning of attacks on power plants and bridges — attacks he acknowledged would constitute war crimes — ending with a mockery of Muslims. More than anger, I felt profound grief. Threatening to annihilate an entire civilization is not a negotiating tactic. It is a crime against humanity, and it must be named as such. What is being threatened in our name demands that we speak — clearly and without apology.
Ronald Reagan called America a shining city on a hill. That light has dimmed, if not been extinguished, in the eyes of much of the world. We cannot be naive about what that costs us — in trust, in moral authority, in the leadership a fractured world desperately needs.
Rhetoric that lacks moral grounding shapes the tone of public life. It destabilizes relationships between nations, introduces volatility into systems that depend on steadiness, and causes leaders of other nations to calculate differently. Trust has been eroded, risk expanded, and we are less secure.
This is what happens when power is detached from wisdom — and when someone is given power that far exceeds their capacity to carry it.
There is real danger in a leader who believes they cannot be held accountable, who no longer recognizes limits, who confuses impulse with authority.
We are witnessing what happens when those entrusted with power have not done the interior work to remain human and humane under pressure.
A leader who has not learned to govern themselves cannot be trusted to govern others.
Unexamined power does not stay contained. It spreads. And innocent people pay the price.
Which means we must name what is happening and refuse to pretend this is normal. We cannot control the interior life of those who hold high office. But we can refuse to mirror instability with instability. If the city on the hill has gone dark, ordinary people must keep their own lights lit.
Outrage is not the enemy. Outrage means your soul is still awake — awake to how profoundly life has fallen out of sync with what is true and just and good. The danger is what happens when outrage has nowhere to go.
It curdles into hate. And hate eats away at your soul, and at the soul of our life together.
That is what the man with the candle understood. He was refusing to let the darkness make him into someone he was never meant to be.
Show up with your candle.
Not in our name will darkness win. Not on our watch will we stop believing the world can be better than this.
If the light on the hill has dimmed, the world needs yours.
Pause and Breathe
Place your hand on your heart. Take a slow, deep breath. Notice that breath — the most elemental, democratic act there is. You share it with every human being who has ever lived.
What is the next right action available to you today? Not the next six months. The next six hours.
Who in your life needs to know they are not standing in the dark alone? What does it look like to show up with your candle?
For the Candle Carriers
May you find the courage to stand in the dark without becoming the dark.
May your candle be enough — not to end the war, but to keep you who you are.
May whatever in you has gone quiet with fear find its way back to life.
May you walk with open hands in a world that lives like a fist.
And may you discover, again and again, that the light you carry was never only yours — it belongs to everyone still willing to stay.
Yes
Amen!