I never intended to climb up onto this soapbox. My hope was to finish my book first—a carefully crafted exploration of faith, morality, and what it means to live a life of love and justice—before turning my attention to the issues of the day. I thought I’d have time.
Unfortunately, the world doesn’t wait.
I grew up singing “This Little Light of Mine” in Sunday school, holding my hand high and pretending my fingers were a flame. Back then, I believed the lesson: to let my light shine, to reflect Christ’s love in a dark and broken world. I wore bracelets engraved with “What Would Jesus Do?” and tried to answer that question with every decision.
However as I’ve grown older, I’ve watched the very people who taught me those lessons extinguish their own lights. They replaced Christ’s compassion with condemnation, His call to love with a mandate to judge, and His command to care for the least of these with a justification for selfishness and cruelty.
So now, I’m lighting myself on fire—not literally, of course, but in spirit. John Wesley once said, “Light yourself on fire with passion, and people will come from miles to watch you burn.” That’s what I’m doing here. I’m speaking out with all the urgency and conviction I can muster, knowing full well that I may alienate friends, anger strangers, and make myself a target.
I can’t wait for the perfect moment or the perfect words. The world is on fire, and too many Christians are sitting comfortably by, singing hymns of love while their actions—or inactions—sow hatred and division. I can’t stay silent while the faith I was raised to cherish is wielded as a weapon, its core message twisted into something unrecognizable.
I’m writing these letters because words must lead to deeds. Faith without works is dead, and Christianity without love is nothing but noise. I refuse to let my light be snuffed out by fear or apathy. If the lessons I learned as a child still mean anything, then this is my answer to the question “What would Jesus do?” He would act.
So here I stand, ablaze with conviction, daring you to watch and see what happens. My hope is that the fire will spread—not as destruction, but as light and warmth. I can’t promise to be perfect, but I can promise to be honest. If my words make you uncomfortable, ask yourself why. If they make you angry, ask yourself what that anger serves. And if they make you want to join me in doing something—anything—to make this world brighter, then I invite you to come closer to the fire.
Let your light shine. Let it burn. Let it mean something.
With urgency and faith,
R.L. Lawrence