Since answering the call to preach, I’ve carried a deep passion for speaking and writing about issues that shape both the church and the culture. That impulse has always felt inseparable from my calling. I love learning, reflecting, and trying—however imperfectly—to bring biblical and theological clarity to the questions of our day.
That said, this passion has felt heavier in my current role than it ever did when I served solely as a local pastor.
As a pastor, engaging cultural issues from the pulpit or through writing felt natural and necessary. As a denominational leader, that same impulse often feels weighty—sometimes even risky. Nevertheless, when the Lord places something on my heart—whether a sermon, a blog post, a podcast—I’ve learned that ignoring that prompting would not be faithful to my calling.
Speaking With Humility, Not Malice
I’ll be the first to admit that I haven’t always gotten everything right. None of us see with full clarity. We all see, as Paul says, “through a glass dimly.” Still, I can say with integrity that I’ve always tried to speak from a posture of charity rather than malice. I’m not interested in attacking individuals or turning fellow believers into adversaries.
At the same time, in today’s climate, no matter how hard one tries to speak to difficult issues peaceably, it seems inevitable that offense will be taken. I believe that reality says something about the spiritual posture of our broader culture. Too often, the spirit of the elder brother in the parable of the Prodigal Son shapes our responses—quick to judge, slow to listen, and resistant to self-examination.
Why Cultural Moments Matter to the Soul
My deepest interests lie not in cultural skirmishes but in spiritual formation. Writers who emphasize interior transformation, humility, and life with God have shaped me far more than political commentators ever could. My desire is always to guide people toward the heart of the Father.
So why engage cultural issues at all?
Because cultural moments form the human soul. They shape our fears, our loves, and our reflexes. And if we hope to lead people toward spiritual maturity, we sometimes have to name the lies we’ve absorbed along the way.
One of the most troubling patterns I’ve observed in recent years is the growing fusion of politics and faith. Too often, Christians on both the right and the left have married their political ideologies to their theology. That is a dangerous place for the church to live.
Kingdom values do not shift with political winds. And neither should Christ-followers.
What I Mean by “Selective Outrage”
This conviction led me to write about selective outrage and performative compassion in a previous post. Those phrases resonated with some and unsettled others, so for the sake of clarity, I want to offer this follow-up reflection.
My concern has never been that Christians should not grieve, lament, speak, or advocate when harm is done. Nor have I suggested that compassion is only legitimate if it is exhaustive. No one can carry every grief or address every injustice.
What I am naming—intentionally and carefully—is a recurring pattern in public Christian discourse: compassion that is expressed loudly in some moments and conspicuously absent in others, often in ways that align more closely with political loyalties than with theological consistency.
Naming that pattern is not whataboutism. It is moral discernment.
Calling attention to selective outrage is not a demand that someone speak on every injustice. It is a question of integrity. When similar suffering is minimized, justified, or ignored depending on who is harmed or which narrative is preferred, that inconsistency deserves examination—especially among Christian leaders.
Jesus, the Prophets, and Our Political Categories
Some of Jesus’ teachings sound “liberal” to modern ears, while others sound unmistakably “conservative.” That says less about Jesus and more about us. It reveals how easily our political allegiances shape what we hear—and what we ignore.
Yes, Jesus confronts injustice and exclusion. He also demands repentance, moral responsibility, and costly obedience. The prophets cry out against oppression in the world and hypocrisy within the people of God. Any faith that only hears the parts of Scripture that align with its ideology—and filters out the rest—has already begun to drift from the way of Christ.
Jesus repeatedly exposed uneven mercy and moral blind spots, especially among religious leaders. He rebuked those who practiced religious duties meticulously while neglecting justice, mercy, and faithfulness. Their concern was precise—but selective.
Yet Jesus was equally direct when tragedy became an occasion for moral posturing. When asked about a brutal political atrocity, He refused to assign blame or leverage outrage (Luke 13:1-5). He did not rank the victims morally or speculate about guilt. Instead, He turned the question inward: “Unless you repent, you too will all perish.”
Jesus also warned against cheap grace and low-cost discipleship. He insisted that not everyone who uses religious language belongs to the Kingdom. He turned away followers unwilling to count the cost. He confronted permissiveness just as firmly as cruelty. He did not speculate about motives; He exposed fruit.
The prophets were no less relentless. They thundered against injustice in the world, but they were just as fierce in confronting selective morality among God’s people. They condemned worship that coexisted with immorality. They rejected religious festivals that masked injustice. They refused to let God’s people condemn injustice “out there” while excusing disobedience “in here.”
We are called to do the same.
Uneven Compassion in Our Time
This dynamic is not confined to Scripture; we see it in our own moment.
The death of George Floyd rightly provoked widespread grief and outrage. An unarmed man pinned beneath the knee of a police officer is a horrific image that demanded moral reflection. I remember receiving pushback from conservatives for speaking openly about that tragedy.
On the other side of the spectrum, the assassination of Charlie Kirk generated intense grief and outrage in some quarters, while others were hesitant to mourn publicly because of his political identity. I received pushback from progressives when I spoke out about this tragedy.
And what about the murders of Kayla Hamilton and Rachel Morin—both victims of violent crimes that complicated preferred narratives—which received far less sustained attention in many Christian circles?
Similarly, the tragic death of Renee Good during an encounter with immigration enforcement raised urgent questions about the use of force and human dignity. At the same time, the deaths of migrants who suffocated in a tractor-trailer while crossing the border, or families harmed by criminal violence, have sometimes been met with relative silence from the same voices.
None of these tragedies are identical. None are morally acceptable. And none should be filtered through partisan loyalty.
When compassion is calibrated by ideology rather than by the image of God in every human being, something has gone wrong.
Self-Examination and Community Without Compromise
To be clear, lament is action. Naming suffering matters. Public grief can awaken our conscience and prompt change. But lament that resists self-examination can still become performative—like torn garments without a torn heart.
Prophetic speech is never merely expressive; it is self-implicating. The prophets did not only name the sins of the nations—they confronted selective morality among God’s own people, especially when faith became a shield for comfort and control.
Likewise, the church needs many voices and many callings. But community doesn’t require suspending discernment. A healthy body doesn’t merely amplify compassion; it tests it—asking whether our loves are rightly ordered, whether our outrage is consistent, and whether we are willing to grieve suffering even when it costs us social capital or challenges our preferred narratives.
If those questions make us uncomfortable, that discomfort may itself be instructive.
A Necessary Clarification
Neither my previous blog post nor this reflection grew out of social media debates. Both emerged from a private conversation with a friend and from long-standing pastoral concern. While I do post regularly—mostly family moments, church gatherings, and brief reflections—I don’t spend much time scrolling social media. That approach is intentional.
This reflection is simply an extension of those earlier thoughts, prompted by reports that some of my words may have been misunderstood. I never want to leave anyone guessing about my motives.
I do not write to target individuals or to position fellow believers as adversaries. I know how easily people can be framed as the enemy, and it’s not something I ever want to do to anyone else. My aim is formational, not personal. When questions or disagreements arise, I welcome conversation. In my experience, we understand one another far better when we speak directly and honestly than when we interpret one another from a distance.
A Final Word
My hope in speaking and writing is to call the church—especially pastors and leaders—to a witness that reflects the full, demanding, and often inconvenient mercy of Christ.
I don’t write to provoke. I write to invite reflection. And when questions arise, my conviction remains simple: conversation is better than caricature. We understand one another best when we are willing to talk.
Brian L Powell 