A classic scene from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”

A classic scene from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” Who’d have thought it’d be so relevant today?

And to thinik it is possible to learn from history.

https://youtube.com/shorts/RUAuLSYLxus?si=jPMhkHRlVAwEP0uE

She Said My Preaching Was Too Political

 

It happened after worship, in that familiar space where handshakes and polite smiles often serve as buffers for deeper conversations. She approached me with courage and kindness, but also with some consternation. "Your preaching is getting too political," she said.

I've heard this before. Many of us have who strive to preach the Gospel in its fullness. But this time, I paused, considering the weight of her words. Was it truly political, or was it something else? Was it that the message, rooted in the words of Jesus, had landed in a tender place, a place where wounds—unspoken and unacknowledged—began to surface?

Collective Moral Injury and the Gospel’s Unsettling Power

Moral injury is a term often used in military and psychological circles. It describes the internal conflict that arises when a person is confronted with the reality that they have either participated in, or remained complicit in, actions that contradict their deepest moral convictions. But moral injury isn’t confined to individuals. It is collective, societal, systemic. It festers in silence until something—a moment, a word, a sermon—exposes the wound.

When Jesus stands on the mount and proclaims, Blessed are the poor in spirit… blessed are the meek… blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness… blessed are the peacemakers…—he is not offering pleasantries. He is confronting the world as it is and declaring what it is meant to be. This is not politics. This is truth. And truth has a way of making us uncomfortable, especially when it disrupts the comforts of entitlement.

The Entitled Blood Cells Fighting Off the Infection

If moral injury is an unhealed wound, then messages like the Beatitudes act as a kind of spiritual antiseptic. They sting. They bring to the surface the ways in which we have failed to live up to the call of justice, mercy, and love. They reveal the infection beneath our illusions of righteousness.

And like an immune system resisting an invading force, there is a reflexive reaction—entitled blood cells rushing to neutralize the perceived threat. Defensiveness. Deflection. Accusations of being “too political.” Anything to avoid acknowledging that something within us is festering and in need of healing.

The Work of Healing, Not Comforting

If preaching were merely about comfort, it would stay in the realm of vague encouragements and personal piety. But the Gospel calls us beyond comfort to transformation. Jesus’ words demand something of us. They call us to look at the wounds in ourselves and in the world, to acknowledge them, and to seek healing—not just for ourselves, but for the whole body of humanity.

So when someone says my preaching is “too political,” I wonder if what they are really saying is: This message is making me uncomfortable. It is reminding me of something I would rather not see. It is pressing against a wound that I have not yet allowed to heal.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that discomfort is the beginning of something new—a breaking open rather than a shutting down. An invitation rather than a rejection. The first step toward healing rather than another act of resistance.

Because, in the end, the Gospel does not come to soothe our entitlements. It comes to save us from them.

A Pastoral and Prophetic Call

For those of us who preach, teach, and walk alongside communities of faith, this is where our work deepens. People facing moral injury often double down, resisting the very transformation that could bring them healing. They may lash out, dismiss, or retreat into hardened certainty. Our call is not simply to push harder but to remain both prophetic and pastoral.

A prophetic voice speaks the truth with clarity and conviction. It names what is festering, no matter how much resistance it meets. But a pastoral presence tends to the wounded, even when they refuse to acknowledge their wounds. It offers grace without abandoning truth, patience without enabling avoidance.

We must hold both. To lean too far into prophecy without pastoral care risks alienation. To lean too far into comfort without prophetic truth risks complacency. Instead, we stand in the tension—offering words that unsettle and a presence that assures.

The work is slow. The resistance is real. But transformation is possible. Healing is possible. And the Gospel remains what it has always been: good news, even when it stings before it saves.

So, Where Do We Go from Here?

What happens when the symptoms of doubling down aren’t just personal but systemic? When they are reflected in the way people vote, in the policies enacted, in leadership that acts out of its own unresolved moral injury? These are not abstract theological musings; they are urgent, real-world crises that shape the communities we serve.

I don’t have the answers. But I do believe that the answers are within us. Within you. Within each of us as we seek to continue to become our best selves in the face of this challenge. The question we must ask ourselves is this: How do we lead in a way that is true to our values? How do we reflect the joy of the Gospel while standing firm in the conviction that we can do human better, that we must do human better?[i]

As leaders, our goal is not merely to name these wounds but to be in shared conversation and commitment with the congregations we serve. Our congregations, as individual parts of the broader body of Christ, must be a beacon—especially now—loving the world into its better self. Isn’t this God's desire for us? We cannot do this alone. It is too sacred. How do we embody the Gospel not only in word but in practice, in policies, in how we extend love and justice beyond the walls of our churches?

This is not simply a call to debate. It’s an invitation to a difficult and deeper conversation, to mutual discernment, to a shared journey of faith and transformation. It is essential. Let us have it—with each other, with our communities, and with all who are willing to step into the tension and wrestle with what it means to truly live the Gospel in today’s world.

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[i] “Do human better” is a tagline first shared with me by my ELCA Lutheran colleague, Rev. Nathan Swenson-Reinhold. He gets all the credit for that one!

An Essay by Michael Gerson

https://unsplash.com/@priscilladupreez

The following is a piece titled “The return of America’s cruelest passion” by Michael Gerson (President George W. Bush's chief speechwriter from 2001 until June 2006). It was originally published in The Washington Post on August 1, 2019. The piece addresses President Trump’s racially charged comments and reflects on the enduring legacy of white supremacy in the United States. Now, with his 2nd term in full swing, it is as if his reelection has vindicated his worst cruelties.

—————————————-

I had fully intended to ignore President Trump’s latest round of racially charged taunts against an African American elected official, and an African American activist, and an African American journalist and a whole city with a lot of African Americans in it. I had every intention of walking past Trump’s latest outrages and writing about the self-destructive squabbling of the Democratic presidential field, which has chosen to shame former vice president Joe Biden for the sin of being an electable, moderate liberal.

But I made the mistake of pulling James Cone’s 'The Cross and the Lynching Tree' off my shelf — a book designed to shatter convenient complacency. Cone recounts the case of a white mob in Valdosta, Ga., in 1918 that lynched an innocent man named Haynes Turner. Turner’s enraged wife, Mary, promised justice for the killers. The sheriff responded by arresting her and then turning her over to the mob, which included women and children. According to one source, Mary was 'stripped, hung upside down by the ankles, soaked with gasoline, and roasted to death. In the midst of this torment, a white man opened her swollen belly with a hunting knife and her infant fell to the ground and was stomped to death.'

God help us. It is hard to write the words. This evil — the evil of white supremacy, resulting in dehumanization, inhumanity and murder — is the worst stain, the greatest crime, of U.S. history. It is the thing that nearly broke the nation. It is the thing that proved generations of Christians to be vicious hypocrites. It is the thing that turned normal people into moral monsters, capable of burning a grieving widow to death and killing her child.

When the president of the United States plays with that fire or takes that beast out for a walk, it is not just another political event, not just a normal day in campaign 2020. It is a cause for shame. It is the violation of martyrs’ graves. It is obscene graffiti on the Lincoln Memorial. It is, in the eyes of history, the betrayal — the re-betrayal — of Haynes and Mary Turner and their child. And all of this is being done by an ignorant and arrogant narcissist reviving racist tropes for political gain, indifferent to the wreckage he is leaving, the wounds he is ripping open.

Like, I suspect, many others, I am finding it hard to look at resurgent racism as just one in a series of presidential offenses or another in a series of Republican errors. Racism is not just another wrong. The Antietam battlefield is not just another plot of ground. The Edmund Pettus Bridge is not just another bridge. The balcony outside Room 306 at the Lorraine Motel is not just another balcony. As U.S. history hallows some causes, it magnifies some crimes.

What does all this mean politically? It means that Trump’s divisiveness is getting worse, not better. He makes racist comments, appeals to racist sentiments and inflames racist passions. The rationalization that he is not, deep down in his heart, really a racist is meaningless. Trump’s continued offenses mean that a large portion of his political base is energized by racist tropes and the language of white grievance. And it means — whatever their intent — that those who play down, or excuse, or try to walk past these offenses are enablers.

Some political choices are not just stupid or crude. They represent the return of our country’s cruelest, most dangerous passion. Such racism indicts Trump. Treating racism as a typical or minor matter indicts us."

— Michael Gerson

From Jim Crow to Anti-Trans Laws: When Fear Fuels Resistance, Can Truth Bring Healing? (A More Compassionate Draft)

1. Fear, not righteousness, drives the backlash against DEI and LGBTQ+ rights—what are they really afraid of?

2. History repeats itself: From Jim Crow to anti-trans laws, resistance to inclusion follows the same playbook.

3. Can we hold power accountable while also recognizing the fear and moral injury fueling this resistance?

The anti-diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) movement is not merely a rejection of progressive ideals—it is the manifestation of deep-seated fear and insecurity among those who have long benefited from an unspoken social contract that favored them. Many of these individuals, especially those in positions of historical power, feel a profound sense of loss, as though the ground beneath them is shifting. And in some ways, it is. The world they knew, one that promised them a head start simply for being who they were, is crumbling. Their resistance to change is not born from strength but from uncertainty, from the realization that they are being asked to confront both history and themselves in ways they never had to before.

It is easy to dismiss these reactionary forces as mere bullies grasping at their fading influence, and to some extent, that is true. But behind the bluster, many of them are experiencing what we might call a collective trauma—a form of cultural and generational PTSD, a reckoning with a reality that tells them their understanding of fairness, of merit, of success, was built on selective blindness. For generations, privilege was not something to be questioned; it was simply the air they breathed. Now, as society exhales, they feel suffocated.

This is not an excuse for their behavior. Those who lash out at DEI initiatives or fixate on policing gender identity are still doing real harm. But if we are to effectively counteract their resistance, we must understand it. Fear is a powerful motivator, and when left unchecked, it metastasizes into reactionary politics, bad-faith arguments, and policies designed to halt progress. These individuals are not merely defending tradition; they are defending a version of history that never fully accounted for the suffering, exclusion, and systemic oppression of others.

To understand how we arrived at this moment, we must recognize that the push for diversity, equity, and inclusion is a response to centuries of systemic exclusion. The United States was founded on principles that professed equality, but in practice, those rights were reserved for white, landowning men. The Civil War ended slavery, but Reconstruction was quickly undone by Jim Crow laws, keeping Black Americans in a state of subjugation. Women fought for suffrage, but full participation in society remained elusive for decades. The Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s dismantled legal segregation, yet economic and social disparities persisted.

In response to these injustices, affirmative action and DEI initiatives were designed not to provide unfair advantages but to correct historical imbalances. These policies sought to acknowledge that privilege is often inherited, that access to quality education, professional networks, and financial security is not distributed equally. DEI programs emerged as a way to create pathways for those who had been systematically excluded, ensuring that opportunity was not merely theoretical but real.

Yet, every effort toward equity has been met with backlash. After the Civil Rights Act, opponents of integration framed their resistance as a defense of "states' rights." When affirmative action policies sought to diversify universities and workplaces, detractors claimed that meritocracy was being undermined—conveniently ignoring that for centuries, race and gender had been criteria for exclusion rather than inclusion.

Today's anti-DEI movement is simply the latest iteration of this historical resistance. It cloaks itself in the rhetoric of fairness while working to reinforce barriers that have long advantaged one group over others. It weaponizes resentment, urging those who have historically held power to see themselves as victims when the playing field begins to level. This movement relies on a fundamental distortion: the idea that efforts to expand opportunity for marginalized groups must come at the expense of those who have benefited from privilege.

Nowhere is this desperate fear more apparent than in the attacks on the LGBTQIA+ community, particularly the anti-transgender movement. Many of these individuals, so accustomed to a rigid gender binary and a narrowly defined concept of identity, feel destabilized by the growing acceptance of trans and nonbinary people. Their reaction is not based on genuine moral conviction but on a primal discomfort with change. They see gender-affirming care, inclusive language, and policies protecting LGBTQIA+ individuals as threats—not to their well-being, but to the certainty of a world they thought was immovable.

This reactionary fear manifests in policies banning trans athletes from competition, prohibiting gender-affirming care, and censoring discussions of LGBTQIA+ identities in classrooms. They claim to be protecting children, but their policies make life less safe, less welcoming, and more dangerous for young people navigating their identities. They justify their hostility under the guise of tradition, but what they are truly defending is an identity crisis of their own—one they refuse to confront.

So, how do we speak truth to power while recognizing the wounds—self-inflicted and historical—that fuel their resistance? First, we must continue to hold them accountable. Fear does not absolve harm. But second, we must also recognize that if we are to create a better world, we must engage with those who are afraid, not simply with contempt but with an insistence that there is another way forward.

This does not mean pandering to bigotry or excusing discrimination. It means articulating a vision of justice that does not rely solely on punitive measures but also on education, exposure, and transformation. It means finding ways to challenge their assumptions while demonstrating that the world they fear—a world where diversity is embraced, where equity is pursued, where inclusion is the norm—is not a world where they will be erased, but one where they too can be free from the constraints of outdated hierarchies.

Diversity, equity, and inclusion are not threats. They are aspirations for a society that values all its members, not just the ones who have historically wielded power. The backlash against DEI and LGBTQIA+ rights isn’t about protecting freedom or fostering unity—it’s about fear. Fear that the world is becoming more just. Fear that opportunities are no longer reserved for the privileged few. Fear that their advantage is slipping away, and with it, the illusion that their success was purely a product of their own hard work.

The question we must ask is this: Do we want to be a society that protects entitlement at the expense of fairness? Or do we have the courage to build a future where opportunity is not hoarded but shared? The choice is clear. The only ones who should be afraid are those who refuse to evolve. But perhaps, if we show them that evolution is not extinction, they might finally begin to listen.

From Jim Crow to Anti-Trans Laws: The Same Old Playbook of the Frightened Few

The anti-diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) movement is not about fairness, meritocracy, or protecting American values—it’s the desperate flailing of frightened little men who fear losing their inherited entitlement. Wrapped in the language of tradition and free speech, their crusade is not about preserving excellence but about safeguarding privilege. They see a world that is changing, one that no longer bends to their unearned advantages, and instead of adapting, they lash out, demonizing efforts to level the playing field as dangerous and divisive.

The irony is striking: those who decry DEI as a form of “reverse discrimination” have no trouble embracing systems that have long excluded women, people of color, LGBTQ+ individuals, and others from full participation in society. They cry foul at the prospect of being evaluated on a more even footing, fearing that without systemic head starts, they may not be able to compete. Their reactionary response isn’t about ensuring fairness—it’s about maintaining a status quo that has always worked in their favor.

To understand how we arrived at this moment, we must recognize that the push for diversity, equity, and inclusion is a response to centuries of systemic exclusion. The United States was founded on principles that professed equality, but in practice, those rights were reserved for white, landowning men. The Civil War ended slavery, but Reconstruction was quickly undone by Jim Crow laws, keeping Black Americans in a state of subjugation. Women fought for suffrage, but full participation in society remained elusive for decades. The Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s dismantled legal segregation, yet economic and social disparities persisted.

In response to these injustices, affirmative action and DEI initiatives were designed not to provide unfair advantages but to correct historical imbalances. These policies sought to acknowledge that privilege is often inherited, that access to quality education, professional networks, and financial security is not distributed equally. DEI programs emerged as a way to create pathways for those who had been systematically excluded, ensuring that opportunity was not merely theoretical but real.

Yet, every effort toward equity has been met with backlash. After the Civil Rights Act, opponents of integration framed their resistance as a defense of “states’ rights.” When affirmative action policies sought to diversify universities and workplaces, detractors claimed that meritocracy was being undermined—conveniently ignoring that for centuries, race and gender had been criteria for exclusion rather than inclusion.

Today’s anti-DEI movement is simply the latest iteration of this historical resistance. It cloaks itself in the rhetoric of fairness while working to reinforce barriers that have long advantaged one group over others. It weaponizes resentment, urging those who have historically held power to see themselves as victims when the playing field begins to level. This movement relies on a fundamental distortion: the idea that efforts to expand opportunity for marginalized groups must come at the expense of those who have benefited from privilege.

Nowhere is this desperate fear more apparent than in the attacks on the LGBTQIA+ community, particularly the anti-transgender movement. The same fragile egos that rail against diversity in workplaces and schools also fixate on policing gender identity and sexual orientation. Their anxiety manifests in reactionary policies banning trans athletes from competition, prohibiting gender-affirming care, and censoring discussions of LGBTQIA+ identities in classrooms. They cling to rigid definitions of gender and family, not out of genuine moral conviction, but because acknowledging the existence of trans and nonbinary people shatters their fragile, simplistic worldview.

These same frightened little men who decry affirmative action as unfair are the ones obsessed with controlling what bathrooms people use and what pronouns they claim. Their efforts to erase LGBTQIA+ people mirror the same strategies of exclusion used against women and people of color throughout history. They claim to be protecting children, but their policies make life less safe, less welcoming, and more dangerous for young people navigating their identities.

The anti-trans movement is not about fairness or safety—it is about fear. Fear of change. Fear that the rigid societal structures that have historically benefited them are crumbling. Fear that they must finally reckon with the fact that their identity, their beliefs, and their dominance in society are not the universal default, but just one among many lived experiences. And that terrifies them.

But let’s be clear: diversity, equity, and inclusion are not threats. They are aspirations for a society that values all its members, not just the ones who have historically wielded power. The backlash against DEI and LGBTQIA+ rights isn’t about protecting freedom or fostering unity—it’s about fear. Fear that the world is becoming more just. Fear that opportunities are no longer reserved for the privileged few. Fear that their advantage is slipping away, and with it, the illusion that their success was purely a product of their own hard work.

The question we must ask is this: Do we want to be a society that protects entitlement at the expense of fairness? Or do we have the courage to build a future where opportunity is not hoarded but shared? The choice is clear. The only ones who should be afraid are those who refuse to evolve.

Are We Beginning a Slide Towards Competitive Authoritarianism?

 One can easily argue (and many have already begun to argue) that the United States, under the influence of Donald Trump’s administration, is on the cusp of sliding into Competitive Authoritarianism.

Competitive Authoritarianism is a political system that is formally democratic but functionally authoritarian. The term was coined by Steven Levitsky and Lucan A. Way in their 2002 academic article "The Rise of Competitive Authoritarianism," published in the Journal of Democracy. They later expanded on the concept in their 2010 book, Competitive Authoritarianism: Hybrid Regimes After the Cold War. Levitsky and Way used the term to describe regimes that are neither fully democratic nor fully authoritarian, but rather a hybrid of the two. 

In these regimes, elections occur, opposition parties exist, and democratic institutions are in place, but the playing field is significantly tilted in favor of the ruling party or leader. While competitive authoritarian regimes do not fully suppress opposition as outright dictatorships do, they systematically undermine democratic norms through subtle (or not-so-subtle) means.

Key Characteristics of Competitive Authoritarianism:

1. Elections Exist but Are Not Fully Free or Fair: Elections take place, but they are often manipulated through voter suppression, gerrymandering, media control, or intimidation. The opposition may still have a chance to win, but the ruling party has a structural advantage.

2. Weakening of Democratic Institutions: Institutions like the judiciary, the legislature, and election oversight bodies may formally exist but are co-opted or pressured to serve the interests of the ruling party rather than functioning independently.

3. Media Control and Suppression of Dissent: The government may dominate major media outlets, harass independent journalists, or spread disinformation to maintain control over public perception.

4. Use of State Resources for Political Gain: Incumbents often use the power of the state—such as law enforcement, regulatory agencies, and public funds—to benefit themselves or to disadvantage opponents.

5. Harassment of Opposition: While opposition parties and activists are not outright banned, they may be subjected to legal harassment, politically motivated prosecutions, or intimidation.

6. Erosion of Checks and Balances: Mechanisms meant to hold leaders accountable—such as an independent judiciary, free press, or a robust civil society—are systematically weakened.

Why the Term Is Relevant to the U.S. Today:

Certain trends in U.S. politics—such as efforts to undermine electoral integrity, attacks on the media, politicization of the judiciary, and increasing executive power—show warning signs of a shift toward competitive authoritarianism. The concern is that while the U.S. retains democratic institutions, they may be eroding in ways that favor one party or leader, potentially making elections and governance less genuinely democratic over time.

I suspect the vast majority of us do not want this to happen in the United States. It is therefore very likely to be better to step up and articulate our concern sooner rather than later. How?

Gene Sharp, a political scientist known for his work on nonviolent resistance, categorizes nonviolent action into three broad types:

1. Protest and Persuasion: These are symbolic acts meant to raise awareness, express opposition, or demonstrate support for a cause. Examples include marches, vigils, petitions, public speeches, and symbolic gestures like wearing specific colors or displaying signs.

2. Noncooperation – This involves withdrawing support from an oppressive system or authority, often by refusing to comply with laws, policies, or social norms. Examples include boycotts, strikes, civil disobedience, and refusing to pay taxes.

3. Nonviolent Intervention – This is a more direct and often disruptive form of action aimed at actively interfering with oppressive systems or policies. Examples include sit-ins, blockades, creating parallel institutions, and occupations.

Start with two things: 1) Keep up with the news. Start small. You don’t have to digest it all at once, and 2) know and contact your elected representatives. Do this locally, at the county and state level, and, of course federally. You can find your elected representatives online through the following official sources:

1. USA.gov – https://www.usa.gov/elected-officials

• This site provides links to federal, state, and local representatives, including members of Congress, governors, and state legislators.

2. U.S. House of Representatives – https://www.house.gov/representatives/find-your-representative

• Enter your ZIP code to find your Congressional representative.

3. U.S. Senate – https://www.senate.gov/senators/senators-contact.htm

• A directory of U.S. Senators by state.

4. State Legislature Websites – https://www.ncsl.org/about-state-legislatures/state-legislative-websites-directory

• Find your state legislators and their contact information.

5. Common Cause – https://www.commoncause.org/find-your-representative/

• This tool helps identify federal and state representatives by entering your address.

These resources provide direct links to your representatives' official websites, where you can find contact details, district maps, and policy stances.

The Minnesota Vikings' Superbowl Drought: Some Emotional Systems Leadership Musings

It has been way too long since I have posted anything on this blog site. I apparently started it in 2012. I honestly can't remember why. I probably had some delusionally grandiose aspirations of literary success due to my amazingly unique and insightful musings, insights, blatherings and other stuff. I revisited it in 2017 thinking I could resurrect it in anticipation of my three month sabbatical. Alas, that's a whole story unto itself. Maybe the third time is the charm.

Full disclosure: On this third attempt I have no shame. I am using ChatGPT to help. I get these rambling ideas that are difficult to put into coherent prose in an efficient and timely manner. I have been leaning on AI to help.

What follows in my inaugural endeavor. It is pretty far afield from my role as an ordained pastor. It might tangentially connect with my coaching practice. It is perhaps a quite accurate example of a musing. It might even be an amusing musing.

I asked ChatGPT the following: "When was the last time the MN Vikings were in the Super Bowl? Was it before their stadiums were inside? While this is likely correlative and not causative, it seems like there may be some type of systemic, emotional systems and leadership-related hypotheses that could explain this drought. Thoughts?"

I took the answer it gave me and polished it up for my first re-resurrected blog installment. I hope it might engage you. Here goes nuthin'!

The Minnesota Vikings' last Super Bowl appearance was on January 9, 1977 (Super Bowl XI). This was their fourth appearance in the Super Bowl and it was also their fourth loss, losing to the Oakland Raiders 32-14.

The push for a domed stadium had already begun in the early 1970s as a result of a mix of economic necessity, competitive ambition, and political maneuvering. It really took off after their 1977 Super Bowl loss. 

While going inside solved immediate problems, it may have altered the Vikings’ long-term identity in ways still debated today. So much so, that a lone pastor is bringing it up on a cold February night in 2025 out among the rolling hills of Pepin County Wisconsin.

While the connection between a domed venue and the Vikings' performance may be more correlative than causative, it opens up an interesting lens to explore leadership and organizational culture in the context of their long championship drought. I offer a reflective breakdown:

Teams with long gaps between championships can develop a culture of "almost, but not quite." This identity becomes entrenched, with players, staff, and even fans subconsciously carrying the weight of past failures. Emotional systems within organizations can perpetuate a cycle of heightened expectations followed by disappointment, creating a culture of cautious optimism rather than bold confidence. Leaders can find themselves struggling to instill a fresh mindset that divorces their present team from the legacy of missed opportunities, especially when a passionate fanbase amplifies the historical narratives.

Did the shift from outdoor to indoor stadiums subtly influence the team’s identity? Outdoor games in Minnesota’s harsh winters symbolized toughness, resilience, and grit — attributes that could psychologically bolster both players and fans. The move indoors, while practical, may have unintentionally shifted the team's emotional foundation, making it harder to sustain the same identity. A lack of adaptation to the new environmental conditions could reflect leadership challenges in maintaining a cohesive identity across eras.

Since the Vikings’ inception, the organization has seen significant turnover in leadership, from ownership to coaching staff. Without consistent leadership, it can be challenging to establish a unified vision or sustain long-term strategies. Emotional systems thrive on clarity, consistency, and trust — qualities that may falter with frequent changes. High turnover can lead to fragmented emotional systems and a lack of long-term strategic alignment, making it harder to build and sustain championship-level teams.

Organizations under pressure to win often fall into cycles of reactive decision-making — constantly looking for "the next piece" rather than fostering patient, long-term development. Could this be seen in the Vikings’ history of bold, high-stakes moves (e.g., signing Brett Favre, trading for Herschel Walker), which sometimes backfired? Leaders may prioritize short-term solutions at the expense of systemic growth, reinforcing patterns of inconsistency.

Minnesota fans are known for our passionate, sometimes hypercritical nature, and the media surrounding the team can easily and inadvertently emphasize past heartbreaks. This external emotional system can amplify internal pressures, creating an environment of heightened scrutiny that may undermine player and coach confidence. As a result, leaders might struggle to shield players and staff from external emotional systems, leading to stress and decision paralysis.

What might it look like for the team to practice some identity reclamation? Could the Vikings embrace their historical identity while redefining it for the modern era? For instance, what would it look like for the Vikings to revive the "gritty, outdoor warrior" narrative in a way that aligns with their current US Bank Stadium indoor setting? Could they invest in leadership pipelines within the organization to ensure consistency, resilience, and vision alignment, particularly at key moments like playoff runs? What would that look like? Does it make sense to bring in experts in organizational psychology and culture to help shift the emotional systems of the franchise from one rooted in past heartbreak to one oriented toward opportunity and resilience? What about collaborating with fans to rewrite the team’s narrative, focusing on pride, hope, and unity rather than historical failures?

It may be that the Vikings’ Super Bowl drought is a symptom of deeper systemic challenges related to leadership, culture, and emotional systems. But maybe not. While the shift to indoor stadiums is very likely correlative and not causative, it does sort of highlight how external and environmental factors can influence a team’s identity. Who knows? Maybe they have already addressed some of these systemic issues through intentional leadership and cultural strategies.

I don't claim to be an expert. I'm simply a Monday morning armchair quarterback with more than my fair share of leadership and emotional systems training over the years messing with ChatGPT to see what the wisdom of the ethereal realm might offer. I don't really even watch all that much football anymore.

As a kid, I was all about Fran Tarkington, Chuck Foreman and the Purple People Eaters. I watched those Super Bowls and was crushed every time they lost. That kid is kind of still there, buried underneath my aging frame and extended waistline. And that kid still believes the Vikings can indeed break free from their historical patterns and find sustained success. Maybe next season.