This post will differ from my usual analytical perspective on broad social trends emerging events. Instead, it is a deeply personal reflection on the actions of those I care about most. While the content may be personal, I believe that, based on the many similar stories shared recently, this letter might provide a sense of understanding and solidarity to others facing challenges in their own personal relationships. It is an attempt to bridge the gap between silence and action, to reflect on the values we hold dear, and to examine how they shape the world we will all eventually leave behind.
Through some grand universal irony, despite all of my reading, studying, and introspection, Hollywood provided a neat encapsulation of the values I find myself aspiring to in this situation. Carved into the beam of a blacksmith’s roof in “Kingdom of Heaven” is the phrase, “What man is a man who does not make the world better?” This question, both humbling and aspirational, is one that drives much of my own reflection and action. It serves as a reminder that our lives are not just our own—they are part of a broader, interconnected fabric. This letter is written with that in mind, as an attempt to live up to that principle.
As is our habit, we’ll begin with a song.
To the family I care about deeply,
It’s been a while since I last spoke with most of you, and while I’ve never been the best at making the time to call, this time, it’s more intentional than incidental. You see, over the years, I’ve worked very hard to explore my own mind and values. I’ve examined the things that I believe, and the things that drive me to take the actions and make the choices that I make in day-to-day life; for better or worse, most of those values began with you.
Before any assumptions are made, let me be clear: some of these values are built on a foundation of the actions you chose that made the world, or at least our small part of it, a better place. Others are rooted in the pain I’ve felt or witnessed in others, suffering the consequences of certain choices.
I remember the times when family members were rejected and judged from the literal pulpit or pew of self-righteousness, solely because they chose to love someone you didn’t agree with. I recall moments when I was unfairly condemned for actions I didn’t commit, often without any apology once the truth came to light. More recently, I’ve struggled with the contradiction between the beliefs you taught me my entire life and the unjust actions and immoral conduct of the people you now support with unwavering loyalty.
For a long time, I avoided giving voice to these thoughts because, in silence, they seemed more fragile. Over time, however, I’ve come to realize that these aren’t cobwebs of discontent and disappointment, to be brushed away as misunderstandings. Our differences aren’t simply about politics; they are about how we should treat our fellow human beings and what virtues we should truly value.
As I’ve reflected, I’ve come to see, with some irony, that the parts of this that trouble me the most are rooted in the virtues I so often heard preached in church: compassion, humility, and integrity. While I’ve never fully embraced the church’s teachings, they left an indelible mark. In my teenage years, I read the Bible cover to cover—multiple versions, in fact—but my explorations didn’t end there. I sought wisdom in the Bhagavad Gita, viewed the world through the lens of the Quran and the Torah, traced Da Vinci’s genius through his biography, debated Kant’s categorical imperative, and grieved with Nietzsche over the loss of moral clarity in an increasingly cynical world.
I found lessons in Marcus Aurelius’ meditations on stoic discipline and the importance of enduring hardship with grace. Miyamoto Musashi taught the value of adaptability and focus in “The Book of Five Rings,” while Aristotle’s writings on ethics underscored the necessity of virtuous action to achieve eudaimonia—a flourishing life. Carl Sagan reminded me to approach the universe with a sense of awe and humility, and Sun Tzu’s insights in “The Art of War” emphasized the power of preparation and understanding. Surprisingly, despite their differences in era, culture, and perspective, these thinkers echoed a shared theme: the importance of empathy, integrity, and the pursuit of wisdom for the greater good.
Surprisingly, despite the wars – both material and ideological – that some of these texts have contributed to over the centuries, they agree on many things, most often the definition of goodness. Most of you are Christians, so for the sake of brevity and clarity, I’ll be addressing my concerns from this perspective.
“As Ends in Themselves”: The Christian Call to Treat Others with Love and Dignity
The Bible is explicit in its guidance on how we are to treat others. Time and again, it calls for love, kindness, and humility as central to our relationships with those around us. Consider these teachings:
- Matthew 22:39: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Yet how does this align with supporting rhetoric and policies that treat immigrants and marginalized communities as threats rather than as neighbors? The commandment clearly demands empathy and care, not exclusion or fear.
- Matthew 7:12: “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you.” Can we honestly say that the poor, the sick, or the oppressed would want to be treated the way they are under policies that cut aid and dehumanize them? The Golden Rule is not compatible with such indifference.
- Micah 6:8: “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Supporting leaders who champion injustice and cruelty towards immigrants, refugees, and the poor stands in direct contradiction to this call for justice, mercy, and humility.
- Proverbs 31:8-9: “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.” Instead of speaking up, the silence around harmful policies—or worse, the justification of them—betrays the vulnerable and violates this biblical directive.
Again, while I don’t claim the mantle of a Christian, these are guiding principles that serve to make the world a better, kinder place, and for that, I value these lessons deeply. You see, the heart of these teachings is a call to treat every person as an end in themselves—a reflection of God’s image, deserving of love and respect. Yet, it is not a lofty ideal meant only for sermons or philosophical debates; it is a directive meant to be lived out in the choices we make daily.
Many of you, reading this, can likely truthfully claim that you haven’t directly harmed anyone, excluded them, or disregarded them. But in times where the power of government is being weaponized against specific groups of people, history teaches us that silence is not neutrality—it is often complicity.
Martin Niemöller, a German pastor who initially supported the Nazi regime but later resisted, famously said: “First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Socialist. Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”
The quote remains a timeless reminder of how the inaction of good people often provides the fertile ground necessary for harmful ideologies and actions to flourish. It is not always the overt cruelty of oppressors but the silent complicity of bystanders that enables systemic harm to take root and grow unchecked. Sometimes, it only takes enough “good men” to do nothing for injustice to gain a foothold and spread. When we turn away, claiming it is “not our fight” or “not our place,” we abdicate the responsibility to uphold the very principles we profess to value.
Our version today may begin differently: “First they came for the immigrants, and I did not speak out, because I was a citizen.” But it doesn’t stop there. The creeping dread comes from knowing that the next groups could easily be the unions, whose efforts to organize and fight for fair wages and better working conditions are being systematically blocked by major corporations. It could be the poor, who are too often depicted as lazy leeches on the system, their struggles ignored or dismissed as personal failures.
The moral judgment (“Let the one without sin cast the first stone,” “Judge not lest ye be judged”) of homosexuals, the exclusionary grouping of “our people” against the ephemeral “they,” and the support of people who have knowingly, constantly, and with your full support and rationalization, harmed others—all of this lays the groundwork for a society where cruelty becomes normalized. I’m terrified—both for the world you’ll help to create for my nephew’s generation and for how you’ll be remembered and judged.
I don’t understand how you reconcile these teachings, these values you profess such dedication to, with support for actions or policies that perpetuate harm, inequality, or suffering. The disconnect is not just troubling—it is profoundly disheartening, given the moral clarity these scriptures provide and the strength of faith that almost all of you have professed throughout my recollections.
“The Honesty of Our Values”: A Call to Fairness and Justice
At the core of a functioning society is the shared belief in fairness, justice, and morality. These values are not merely aspirational; they are the foundation upon which we build trust, ensure equity, and work toward a world that better serves all its people. These principles were not just taught in Sunday school—they were emphasized as the bedrock of our collective identity. Yet, how do we square those lessons with the realities of the policies and leaders so often championed?
Consider the importance of fairness: the idea that everyone, regardless of background, should be afforded equal opportunity and dignity. This principle falters when support is given to those who oppose diversity, equity, and inclusion programs, who favor less qualified candidates simply because they align with “tradition”—a euphemism that often means maintaining systemic inequities that benefit white men over women and people of color.
Justice, too, is compromised when the plight of the poor is dismissed as laziness, or when legislation consistently prioritizes corporate interests over the welfare of children and families. What does it mean for justice when leaders side with gun lobbies over implementing common-sense laws to protect the most vulnerable among us—our children?
Morality is invoked as a rallying cry, yet it is applied selectively. How is it moral to constantly signal the values of truth and transparency, while supporting a candidate with a record a tens of thousands of provable lies? How is it moral to demonize immigrants, reducing them to dehumanizing stereotypes like the grotesque accusation that Haitian migrants were “eating pets”? Such rhetoric serves only to alienate and vilify those who are already suffering, fleeing hardship in search of a better life. The same selective morality marginalizes LGBTQ individuals, whose rights and dignity are stripped away under the guise of protecting “traditional values.”
Honesty—another pillar of our shared values—requires the courage to confront these contradictions. To claim to stand for fairness, justice, morality, and truth, while supporting policies and leaders who undermine these very principles, is not just a betrayal of others—it is a betrayal of ourselves. If we allow convenience, comfort, or party loyalty to take precedence over doing what is right, then we have failed to live up to the values we claim to hold dear.
Conclusion: A Bridge Once Burned
As I write this, I still don’t know if I’ll share it directly. Despite the harm I see being done, this letter represents a bridge that, once burned, I doubt could ever be rebuilt. I care deeply for most of you, and it’s because of that care that I can’t stand by in silent support while bearing witness to the outcomes of your actions. I’ve tried so many ways to reach you—writing, arguing, discussing the points and the impacts, even asking you to examine the personal effects these policies might have on your own lives—all to no avail.
In some ways, I anticipate this may become a “FAFO” situation for many of you, as programs you rely on for medical aid, financial support, and social benefits are inevitably impacted. But I don’t have the sort of soul that could revel in the justice of those consequences. Instead, I will stand witness, observing the fallout from afar, with the hope that some of you might yet see the way things are going and choose a different path.
This is not written out of anger but out of profound sadness and a desperate hope for change. The world doesn’t have to continue down this path, and neither do you. The bridge remains, for now, unburned—but it is fragile. My hope is that it will not need to fall to ash for any of us to finally see the truth.
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