A Holy Week Prayer: Faith, Reason, and Divided Neighborhoods

Lord,

There’s a strange thing happening in my neighborhood.

Political signs and party flags linger, long after elections are over—symbols of allegiance replacing the American flag, not in celebration of democracy, but in a quiet, unsettling exchange.

Have we traded a shared love of country for a whispered, “What have you done for me lately?”

Have we forgotten how to be one people? Were we ever?

Lord, it seems we’ve stopped listening. We’ve chosen sides. We’ve drawn our lines. We plant flags, not just in our yards, but in our hearts. “With us or against us.” No space for nuance, no room for conversation.

Have we lost the belief that our neighbor might love their country—and their God—as much as we do, even if they vote differently?

This is not just a local issue. It’s not just my street, my town. It’s everywhere. And it feels bigger than politics. It feels like a sickness of the soul.

In this climate, we’re told we must be all in or all out: all heart or all head. All faith or all science. All spirit or all skepticism. We’re told reason must serve our agenda, and faith must serve our individual comfort.

But You, Lord, never divided the world like that.

In Your presence, we are called to hold both the mystery and the mind. To be both seekers and believers. To ask hard questions and still hold hope.

We need both faith and reason. One without the other becomes brittle, sharp, hollow. Reason without faith grows cold and cynical. Faith without reason grows fanatical and afraid.

You never asked us to turn off our brains to follow You. You never asked us to ignore the ache of our hearts to be wise.

So why, Lord, have we grown so afraid of the middle? Of the alternative? Of the compromise? Why do we tear apart anyone who dares to walk the line between sides? To say, “Maybe both have something to offer?” To say, “Maybe there’s a third way. A better way.”

I remember singing as a child, “We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord.” But now I hear only, “my Jesus—my needs, my preferences, my salvation.”

Help us remember, O God, that salvation was never meant to be selfish.

Your way was never just personal—it was communal. It was sacrificial. It made room for the tax collector and the doubter, the fisherman and the scholar. It didn’t fit into neat categories. It welcomed the tension.

During this Holy Week, we remember how You walked into Jerusalem, not to take a side, but to break down the dividing wall between God and God’s “good” creation. Between Jew and Gentile. Slave and Free. Between “us” and “them.”

You asked questions. You told stories. You made space for mystery, and You trusted the truth to do its work. You didn’t force belief. You invited it.

And so, Lord, here is my prayer:

Help us walk that same narrow road—between extremes, between easy answers, between shouting camps and waving flags.

Help us build bridges, not walls. Help us be architects of peace in a culture of division.

Give us the courage to say, “I don’t know,” and the humility to say, “I was wrong.” Let us love our neighbors more than our opinions. Let us seek truth together, not just triumph.

And when we’re tempted to pick a side, help us instead to hold space. To stretch out our arms in the middle, like You did, bridging heaven and earth, faith and reason, spirit and truth.

Maybe that’s our calling? To not choose a camp, but to dance in the tension. To show the world that belief and understanding, faith and reason, were never enemies… they were always partners in a sacred dance.

This Holy Week, let us walk in Your footsteps.

And maybe, just maybe… Let us learn to dance again.

Amen.