Writing blogs—especially those that touch on political and theological themes—has never been about stirring up conflict, even if it’s sometimes received that way. For me, writing is an invitation to slow down, to ask harder questions, and to examine not only what we believe, but why. I include myself in that work. I’m continually asking whether the way we talk about God actually reflects His inclusive love and justice, or whether we reshape Him to fit our fears, biases, or agendas. These conversations matter because the way we portray God shapes how we treat one another, and I believe we’re called to wrestle honestly with that responsibility.
As someone who grew up in the church, I’ve been shaped by the belief that God’s love is unconditional and inclusive. That’s why I feel compelled to speak carefully about claims of divine intervention, particularly in moments of public tragedy. When former President Donald Trump survived an assassination attempt, I was genuinely relieved and thankful that his life was spared. At the same time, I found myself wrestling with the way some immediately framed his survival as proof of God’s favor. If God intervened for Trump, what does that say about the person who was killed by mistake? That question isn’t political for me—it’s theological, and it goes to the heart of who we believe God is.
I think about this the same way I think about sports. Fans on both sides often pray before a game with equal sincerity, yet only one team wins. Most of us don’t believe God favors one team over another, and that understanding has always helped me trust that God’s love isn’t selective or transactional. When we extend the idea of divine favoritism into politics, it becomes much harder to reconcile with a God whose justice and compassion are meant for everyone. The temptation to assign meaning in this way may feel reassuring, but it risks narrowing our understanding of God rather than expanding it.
There’s also a practical reality we can’t ignore. The shooter was roughly two hundred yards away—about two football fields—and anyone familiar with firearms understands how difficult accuracy becomes at that distance. Trump’s movement while speaking may have played a role in his survival. Acknowledging these factors doesn’t diminish gratitude for life; it simply keeps us from assigning meaning in ways that may unintentionally distort God’s character. When we rush to label one outcome as divine intervention while overlooking other losses, we risk oversimplifying tragedy in ways that leave little room for grief or nuance.
For me, faith has never been about aligning God with power or success. Scripture consistently points us toward a God who lifts the humble and stands with the marginalized—a God whose love is not reserved for the influential or the protected, but extends especially to those who suffer and are overlooked. When we single out one life as evidence of God’s intervention while glossing over the pain and loss of others, we risk misrepresenting that truth. I understand why the idea of divine intervention is comforting, especially in moments of fear and uncertainty, but comfort should not come at the cost of compassion or clarity.
If our theology is shaped in the image of our preferences and politics, it will always fall short. But if it draws us toward greater humility, justice, and love, it has the power to heal. In times of tragedy, I believe our calling is not to declare who God favored, but to embody His presence—to be the hands and feet of Christ to everyone affected. That, to me, is what it looks like to reflect God’s heart: not certainty without compassion, but faith that moves us toward mercy, integrity, and a deeper love for all.
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