Yesterday our oldest headed off to his junior year of college, and next week we will be dropping off our second for her freshman year. And today, as I try to hold back the dad tears, I am pondering the world they are entering—and will be living in. This post is written for them… yet, perhaps, it can apply to all of us.
Wendell Berry once sent me a letter. I still have it, tucked into one of my favorite books of his. If you ever go looking, you’ll find it marking the page of my favorite Berry poem, The Morning News. And there, in that poem, is a stanza that has guided me for many years:
I will purge my mind of the airy claims of church and state.
I will serve the earth
and not pretend my life could better serve.
I received his letter just over ten years ago, when our family of five first made the decision to change the trajectory of our lives. I know you remember our move across the country, and the many shifts in our thinking and daily practices since. But what you may not fully understand is why we did it. We were not chasing opportunity or avoiding hardship. We were intentionally stepping away from the influence of power—the kind that erodes the soul, turning people into statistics, communities into voting maps, neighbors into customers, and friendships into disposable transactions.
We began our move in 2015 with a sense of how the world was about to change—and has it ever. Our move was an attempt to give you space to grow in different soil, and the opportunity to see the world with eyes unclouded by the propaganda of headlines, the pulpit, or the pews—where well-meaning words sometimes landed like stones, leaving marks we didn’t want you to forever carry.
In many ways, our choice worked. You’ve had room to breathe, to expand your vision, to notice the powers at work. But in other ways, there is no escaping it. Those who live through power are present everywhere.
The kind of power I am referring to has a pattern. History has taught us—if we are paying attention—that both church and state, once they taste it, develop an appetite for more and more control. They rarely admit this outright. They seek loyalty over truth, allegiance over conscience. In ancient Egypt, Pharaoh demanded both labor and worship. In Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar built a golden statue and decreed that all must bow—or burn. In first-century Jerusalem, Rome allowed the temple to stand, but only under Caesar’s program and control. Herod executed John the Baptist to save face at a banquet. In every case, power fears what it can not own—and so it seeks to destroy it.
This pattern is not just ancient history. It shows up in every community: in the smirk of the social insiders, in the “because I said so” of those who cannot lead without threat or control. And you can see it in more public forms today when Christian language and imagery are wielded as political props, when pulpits become campaign platforms, when religious people cozy up to authoritarian politicians because proximity to power feels like a victory over those they are disgusted by. Politicians, in turn, are thrilled to have voters who will cover the evil of their actions with their religious justifications. And power always has a scapegoat—someone whose simple existence is labeled “the real problem.”
Children, what I fear most for you is not the hardships of life. Hardship is inevitable, and you are more than capable of enduring and overcoming. And I know you can clearly see the more public issues of your day. What I fear is the slow erosion of your conscience for the sake of “peace,” “unity,” “cool,” “patriotism,” or “orthodoxy.” That you might be sold the lie that your worth or belonging is measured by your usefulness to someone else’s plan for your life.
Authoritarianism creeps. And it creeps from the halls of power into the hearts of people. It rarely first arrives in jackboots (although they have arrived!). More often, it comes wrapped in proclaimed virtue. It hides in sly humor and behind memes. It cloaks itself in righteous language or a flag. It tells you it is protecting you while quietly deciding what books you can read, what to believe, what questions you can ask, and whom you should distrust. It thrives on fear, knowing that fearful people will often cling to the very hand that is holding them down. And it always promises: Give us just a little more loyalty, a little more silence, a little more time, a little more obedience… and then you will be safe. That promise is never kept.
Berry’s words about purging “the airy claims of church and state” are not a rejection of community or good order. They are a rejection of idolatry and abuse. They remind us that our ultimate loyalty is not to a flag, a party, an opinion, a family name, a denomination, or a leader—but to the flourishing of life itself: to Love, expressed in justice, mercy, and humility. For Love, after all, is the other side of power—the kind of power that does not dominate but serves; not a power that grasps, but a power that gives.
The easy path ahead for you is to become certain in your judgments, to pick a side, and let it tell you what to believe, and fight its battles. That path will reward you at first—it will promise belonging and purpose—but it will also make you smaller, angrier, resentful, and less free.
The harder path is to stay awake: awake to beauty when ugliness dominates the headlines; awake to suffering when turning away is easier; awake to truth even when it costs you friends or challenges those you admire most.
So, as you step into this big, beautiful world… remember: there will always be voices eager to tell you what to believe, how to speak, whom to love, and what to fear. They will offer you certainty in exchange for your complexity. Belonging in exchange for your autonomy. Security in exchange for your soul.
Resist them.
Keep your hands in the soil beneath your feet and your ears tuned to voices without microphones. Choose neighbors over social clubs. Be wary of anyone who wishes to be big. Stay small in ego, big only in compassion. Test every power by this one question: Does it bear the fruit of love, mercy, justice, and humility? If not, it is not worth your allegiance.
And do not grow cynical, but do grow discerning. You will need it to live freely and faithfully.
When the voices of church or state grow loud, promising the world if you will bow, remember Berry’s words. Remember that life is not served best by allegiance to power, but by allegiance to the earth, to one another, and to the God (Love!) who is neither mascot of any nation nor chaplain of any empire.
And most of all, remember to serve—not as the powerful define service, but as the earth does: with patience, with care, with resiliency, and with an eye toward the generations who will inherit what you leave behind. It’s service to the earth that will keep you grounded.
May you always know that your worth is not in what you produce or who you please, but in the unshakable reality that you are loved… simply because you are.
Shane Ash 