How Then Shall We Live?

I grew up in a small Southern Baptist church in Iowa – yes Iowa, that north-ish place in the US. But the legacy of my parents’ training years in Tennessee included my middle name (Sue) and an ongoing connection to evangelical southern-style religious communities.

My memories of childhood Easters were anchored with waving palms and singing joyfully one Sunday, doing the regular weekly things in the middle, then showing up Easter morning with a flowerdy dress and white shoes to celebrate Christ’s resurrection.

We didn’t talk much about the getting-killed-brutally-part, or close-friends-betraying-you, or the deep despair settled in the hearts of those early Christ followers. By the time I was in college, there were shades of Holy week in some Evangelical traditions, but I recall a Good Friday services that just couldn’t end in the darkness. The candles were blown out and lights were flipped on with a see-you-Sunday invitation to remind us of the happy ending.

For more than 30 years, I’ve participated in a more liturgical church tradition. The church calendar creates a rhythm for me – waiting during Advent; celebrating AND mourning on All Saints Day; revering Christ the King; reflecting throughout Lent; and sinking into grief and loss in the middle part of Holy week.

It’s 2026. And I live in Minnesota. In January, Immigration agents arrested more than 3000 Minnesotans – many of these US citizens, more than 90% with no criminal record. All to rid our state of danger and corruption – while the white saviors brutally killed multiple Minnesotans documenting their actions.

The darkness of Holy week is real. The getting-killed-brutally-part, or close-friends-betraying-you, and the deep despair and loss.

How then shall we live?

When our supreme leader descends on golden stairs

Granting indulgences to those who kowtow

Those willing to label right as wrong; wet as dry; empty as crowded

When living with integrity is no longer a requirement to command.

How then shall we live…

When there are children to raise

And dogs to train

And milk to buy

Yet the enormity of each millstone makes tomorrow feel impossible to face

How then shall we live…

When the sightline of a weather front

to move the storms or change the tides

Feels impossibly far away

Or maybe

Doesn’t. Even. Exist.

How then shall we live…

When 10-year-olds have never seen a different way.

And our journeys are linked to those

In our families…in our communities

Whose worldview is informed by the upside down

How then shall we live…

When our work is satisfying

And meaning still matters

And laughter quiets worry

And theatre stirs our hearts

How then shall we live…

When the tangled pile from the great undoing

Of structures, initiatives, policies

Public servants’ work unraveled

Is overtaken by unbridled expansion and profit

How then shall we live…

When we’ve been sold a story

Fables of wealth and prosperity, streets made of gold

Being able to do what you love

And live where you want

And pay for childcare or lifesaving surgery

Without Go Fund Me and spaghetti dinners

How then shall we live…

When slight of hand exaggerates

Misuse of funds. For childcare. In loon land.

And denies veracity of election results.

Yet fucking adolescent girls (and I DON’T use this word lightly)

Is entertainment that ole’ boys need

To blow off steam

When powerful names are blacked out

While the vulnerable remain in the spotlight

How then shall we live…

When living justly

Feels like carrying a penlight in the darkest Kristallnacht

This wallpaper of chaos is like walking through a hurricane

Where the burden of

One. More. Step. Forward.

Feels impossible.

How then shall we live…

As the heroes who more than self their country loved?

Towards a place where selfish gain no longer stains the banner of the free

Where is the promise of America the Beautiful?

To the huddled masses

Who can’t breathe

The wretched refuse kicked to the teeming shore

How then shall we live…

In this dark Holy week

Or year or decade…

When dogma justifies violation

And piety serves the powerful

Where is my flowerdy dress?

Where are my white shoes?

Janet Tilstra