I’ve been thinking about how easily communities drift when fear sets the tempo. Fear is rampant in our world. Fear is brutally efficient. It corners people and convinces them to shrink their world. We’re left with only what feels safe and controlled. 

I have watched churches and conferences do this. I have watched families do this. Sadly, I have done it. 

Someone makes a comment, or a rumor starts up, or an old argument resurfaces, and people pull back. They guard their language. They avoid certain conversations. They forget courage rarely waits for perfect conditions. It usually shows up when everything feels slightly off balance.

The new year presses on us with talk about improvement. Every headline stresses efficiency or optimization, as if we are one careful plan away from a life free of heartache. 

It never plays out that way. We step into January with a mix of grit and hesitation because the year behind us leaves marks. Some are easy to name. Some stay hidden in the deeper pock-ets of memory. 

I walk into this season remembering how closely grief and gratitude sit beside each other and how quickly they trade places without warning.

Communities tell the truth about what has been lost and what is still possible. The honest ones do not rush each other. They do not demand tidy recovery. They sit together when nothing can be fixed. They say things like “keep going” or “I see you” or “you can rest here for a while.” 

Those sentences do not erase pain, but they create enough room for people to breathe again. That room is usually where healing begins. 

When we are no longer in the room together, how then do we communicate and heal? 

Mennonites should offer that kind of room. Not as a performance, and not as a program. As a way of life. 

People rarely need more instructions for success. They need a place where their voice still matters. They need a circle that does not flinch when someone admits they are overwhelmed. They need language that is strong, steady and free of condescension. 

When honesty enters the room, compassion usually follows. It might arrive quietly. But it arrives.

God meets us where we are, not in the walls we build when fear convinces us distance is more holy. That truth steadies me every day right now. 

The prophets understood this. They described valleys lifted and rough places made smooth. They pictured a world where justice stops being optional and becomes the ordinary expectation. They told weary people God had not walked away. They said mercy can reshape even the most rigid landscape.

People want to belong to something real. They want to know they are not expendable. They want faith that does not drown them in shame when they fall short. 

Shame is a terrible architect. It builds tight, airless rooms. It keeps people obedient but never whole. 

Love does the opposite. Love makes room. Love widens the path. Love calls out what is true and refuses to let fear be the final voice.

Too many keep forgetting this. Many congregations announce welcome on their signs yet build systems that shut people out. Others say everyone is loved, then panic when someone’s story does not fit the expected script. Welcome becomes a slogan instead of a way of living. The gap grows, and people feel it. They sense when the room is safe and when it is not.

I want Anabaptists to model something better. A place where complicated stories do not cause alarm. A place where exhaustion does not disqualify anyone. A place where justice is not treated as a side project but as a core expression of faith. 

Our tradition carries enough courage for this. Our scriptures point toward it with plain language. Our own lives bear witness to what happens when people finally stop pretending.

This new year will bring its own mix of light and shadow. Some of us will celebrate new beginnings. Some of us will say difficult goodbyes. Some will carry questions that are not ready for answers. 

Faith does not erase these realities. It anchors us in them. It teaches us to trust that God is present and patient. Still working in ways we cannot see. 

God stays when the night feels long. God steadies when our confidence wears thin.

I want this new year to hold gentler conversations, braver choices, fewer walls. I want us to give ourselves a little more room. I want to reject the fear.  And to give each other grace. 

I want us to build communities where people can follow in the way of Jesus.

That is the work. And it’s worth doing.