Yesterday, September 10, 2025, we once again witnessed horrendous acts of violence in our country. There was a school shooting in Colorado. There was also what appears to be a politically motivated assassination. Earlier this year, our country saw a representative from Minnesota assassinated, apparently for political reasons. There was also the assassination of a CEO of a large health insurance company. In all three cases, people from across the political spectrum condemned the violence. Yet there were also voices, from both sides, arguing in the most appalling ways that those assassinated “got what they deserved.”

I wish any of this were surprising or shocking. None of it is.

As the father of a daughter who was involved in a major campus shooting in March of 2023, I witnessed firsthand the lack of empathy, care, and concern. I also witnessed an outpouring of love that was transformational.

Many are asking: “How did we get here?”

If I told you I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, I would be lying. But after taking about twenty-four hours to think, pray, and meditate, I have some thoughts. I believe they are probably right, but there’s a good chance I could be very wrong.

When I was a college student in the late 1990s at Central Michigan University, I chose to minor in religion. It was fascinating to be a Christian studying religion at a secular university. My professors represented a wide range of beliefs—some non-religious, some Christian, and others practicing various Eastern traditions. Most classes were small, which fostered robust discussions and debates across the spectrum. I was outspoken and held my own in those conversations. Interestingly, the classmates with whom I sparred most intensely were often the ones I came to admire most. Not once can I remember us attacking each other’s personhood. We debated ideas and rationales. While our beliefs were deeply personal, we all understood that our conversations were part of a shared pursuit of truth.

But in the early 2000s, I noticed a marked change on college campuses where I served as a campus minister. Almost overnight, it seemed, the kinds of discussions I experienced in college were no longer possible. Beliefs and perspectives became fused with identity. Challenging an idea was now seen as challenging the person themselves.

By the late 2010s, another shift had taken hold. It became common to “other” people with whom one disagreed. This process of othering led to seeing the other as less than human. Disagreement came to mean evil. The person became the enemy. And once someone was an enemy, friendship across divides—political, religious, or moral—was no longer possible.

“Right wing nut jobs.”
“DemoRats.”
“Baby killers.”
“Homophobes.”

This language of dehumanization spread everywhere: news broadcasts, social media, and nearly every public square.

As a culture, we appear to have lost the ability to see people with different ideas and perspectives as human beings. Instead, they become enemies threatening our very existence—enemies who must be eliminated. The language of warfare now permeates our political, religious, and moral debates. Anyone who disagrees with us is framed as “a threat to our very existence and way of life.”

I often return to a quote from C.S. Lewis’s The Weight of Glory (1941):

“Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses.”

We have lost this sense of the humanity and holiness of our neighbor.

Jesus said:

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” (Matthew 5:43–48, NIV)

We have become a culture that only loves those who love us.

John also writes:

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.” (1 John 4:18, NIV)

The loss of love has produced fear. Fear breeds hate. And people who are afraid lash out—not only in words, but also in deeds.

So, how did we get here?

We got here because we no longer value loving those who do not love us. We fear them. So we hate them. We hate them, so we dehumanize them. We dehumanize them, so we kill them.

Are there a thousand other layers and nuances to all of this? Absolutely. If you want to dig deeper, I recommend Jonathan Haidt’s The Righteous Mind.

A friend asked me yesterday, “When does it end?”

I don’t have an answer. What I do know is this: I can wake up each day and choose to love my neighbor—including those who don’t love me. I can do nothing else. Neither can you.

Perhaps—just perhaps—if enough of us choose this every single day, the ripple effect might change our neighborhoods, our towns, our states, and even our country.