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.
[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!
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