Clarity in the Chaos

Most mornings lately, I don’t wake up to quiet.

I wake up to a screen already lit up—headlines, notifications, opinions, warnings, outrage… all of it arriving before I’ve even had a sip of coffee. And if I’m not careful, my heart is already racing while I’m still standing in my kitchen.

Maybe you know that feeling too.

It’s not just that life is busy. It’s that the whole country feels tense. Like we’re living with the volume turned up and the patience turned down. People are tired. People are quick. Families are divided. Neighbors are suspicious. And a lot of us are carrying a kind of background anxiety we didn’t used to carry—like something could snap at any moment.

And in a moment like this, here’s what I’ve noticed: fear is a powerful tool.

When people are afraid, they’re easier to steer. When people are angry, they’re easier to use. When everyone is reactive, the loudest voices—whether they’re in government, media, business, or just our own social circles—can move a crowd simply by raising the temperature.

Which is why Matthew 16 feels so timely to me right now.

Jesus takes the disciples to Caesarea Philippi and asks them a question:

“Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” (Matthew 16:13)

That’s not just a Bible question. That’s a modern question. Who do people say Jesus is—today, in our world? A good teacher? A symbol? A mascot for whichever side we’re on? A spiritual accessory that we pull out when we want comfort, but put away when he might actually challenge us? Then Jesus does what Jesus always does—he turns the question from “out there” to “in here.”

“But who do you say that I am?” (16:15)

Not, “What have you heard?” Not, “What do your friends think?” Not, “What’s the safest answer in public?” You. Who do you say that I am? Peter answers with the kind of sentence that doesn’t just fill a blank—it sets a direction:

“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” (16:16)

And I don’t want us to miss how bold that is. “Messiah” isn’t a vague religious compliment. It’s a claim about reality. It’s Peter saying, “You’re the One. You’re God’s answer. You’re the true King. You’re the One we’ve been waiting for.”  Which means: if Jesus is the Messiah, then Jesus is not one voice among many. If Jesus is Messiah, then he gets to be the center—the voice that shapes all the other voices. And that matters right now, because so many voices are trying to disciple us.

Some of them disciple us into fear: Protect yourself. Assume the worst. Close ranks. Don’t trust anyone. Some disciple us into contempt: Mock the other side. Reduce people to stereotypes. Write them off. Some disciple us into numbness: Tune it all out. Don’t care too much. Just survive. And some disciple us into a kind of hard-hearted “realism” that makes peace with cruelty: That’s just how it is. That’s the cost. That’s what we have to do. And that’s where the Gospel starts to feel less like comfort and more like confrontation. Because if Jesus is Lord, then we cannot be shaped by fear.

We cannot confess Jesus as the Son of the living God and then treat truth like it doesn’t matter. We cannot worship the Crucified One and then shrug at the suffering of the vulnerable. We cannot follow the One who welcomed strangers, touched the unclean, lifted the poor, and broke bread with outsiders… and then make our peace with dehumanizing language about whole groups of people. That’s not “being political.” That’s Christianity.

When we say “speak truth to power,” I don’t mean partisan talking points. I mean the kind of truth Scripture has always spoken to power—the truth that rulers and systems are accountable to God. The truth that might makes right is a lie. The truth that every human being bears the image of God, and therefore no one is disposable. The truth that God hears the cry of the oppressed, and God does not ask the Church to keep quiet for the sake of comfort.

And notice where Jesus asks this question: Caesarea Philippi. This isn’t neutral ground. This is a place soaked in empire. A place where people knew who held power and what happened when you crossed it. A place where it would have been easy to keep your head down and say something safe. Jesus asks for clarity there on purpose. Because confession isn’t just a private religious moment. It’s allegiance. It’s the quiet, steady refusal to give ultimate loyalty to anything that isn’t God.

Then Jesus responds to Peter:

“On this rock I will build my church… and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.” (16:18)

I hear that promise differently when the country feels shaky. Jesus doesn’t say, “On this rock I’ll build a Church that always wins arguments.” He doesn’t say, “On this rock I’ll build a Church that is always comfortable.” He doesn’t say, “On this rock I’ll build a Church that never suffers.” He says he’ll build a Church that can’t be taken down by the powers of death.

And that’s what we’re up against in every generation: not just bad policies or bad leaders or bad ideas, but the deeper machinery of death—fear, lies, scapegoating, cruelty, despair, violence, the slow erosion of compassion. The thing that makes people stop seeing each other as human beings. Jesus looks at all of that and says, It will not have the final word. Then he says something that has been misunderstood—and misused—over the centuries:

“I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven… whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” (16:19)

Let me say it plainly: the keys are not given so the Church can act like a bouncer. Keys are for opening. The Church is meant to open doors: to mercy, to repentance, to truth-telling, to restoration, to dignity, to justice. The Church is meant to loosen what’s been tied too tight around the human heart—shame, fear, hatred, addiction, despair, the lies people have believed about themselves and about God.

So here’s the question I’m sitting with in this moment:

Are we using our faith like a weapon… or like a key? Because right now, our country does not need more Christians who are easily provoked and easily manipulated—Christians who confuse outrage with holiness, or cruelty with strength, or certainty with faith. We need Christians who are steady. Christians who can tell the truth without becoming vicious. Christians who can resist injustice without losing their humanity. Christians who can love their neighbors without needing to agree with them. Christians who refuse to let fear make their decisions.

And that kind of steadiness doesn’t come from having the perfect opinion. It comes from returning—again and again—to the center. Jesus still asks the question, right in the middle of a tense and noisy nation: “But who do you say that I am?” And if we can answer that—not with slogans, not with performance, but with our lives—then we become what this moment desperately needs: not loud, not smug, not cynical… but clear.