There are many things I don’t miss about being a pastor of a local church. Meetings that last two weeks in one night come to mind. There are more things, however, that I do miss. One of them is the gift of preaching every Sunday to a congregation with whom I have forged an emotional bond.

Oh sure, since retirement I have been given many opportunities to preach in various churches. I even did a brief interim pastorate for a friend who was suffering for Jesus on a sabbatical cruise in the Mediterranean. But the fun of being a visiting fireman now and then pales in comparison to the joy of sharing my thoughts, my feelings, and my wrestling with biblical texts in the midst of people with whom I have walked in grief and happiness for many years. Because I knew their struggles, and they knew mine, the preaching moment was a sacrament every Sunday. Perhaps only a pastor can understand what I am saying. If so, I am even more grateful for the experience.

So I have been thinking about my sisters and brothers in ministry as they faced the task of bringing a word of hope and challenge to their pulpits on the Sunday after the heartbreaking events of January 6, 2021 in Washington, D.C. Some, I am sure, wished they could dispense with a sermon altogether and declare a hymn sing instead. Given the divisions ripping our country apart these days, preaching about the Capitol stormed by an angry mob is like wading into a minefield blindfolded while wearing bedroom slippers.

I understand the uneasiness. Yet, throughout my forty years of pastoral ministry I found such opportunities energizing. I saw them as teachable moments, chances to link a scriptural perspective to an event that would be seared into a congregation’s mind for years to come.

Ergo, I have been ruminating on what I would have said to my congregation on January 10 if I were still a pastor. My thoughts, I admit, are not necessarily constrained by a date on the calendar, so, perhaps, they can be helpful at other times as well. If I had preached on January 10 I would have started with a story I saw play out on my television screen on the Wednesday before. An NBC reporter was shooting live video from the gallery as rioters invaded the Senate chamber. I never caught the reporter’s name, but he did his best to provide images of protestors carrying placards, wrapped in Trump flags and other paraphernalia, poking through Senators’ desks, gathering in the well of the Senate, and depositing themselves in the chair where the Vice President had been seated only minutes before.

When they began to filter into the gallery they spotted the reporter with his camera. Offscreen you could hear one of them ask, “Who are you with?” The reporter was savvy enough to realize an honest answer might be, shall we say, problematic. If that crowd knew he worked for the mainstream media—who, to their minds, was in league with Democrats, Satan, and Hilliary Clinton—he could either make sure his health and life insurance were paid up, or he could beat a hasty retreat. He opted for the latter.

But I cannot get the question out of my mind. “Who are you with?” The question asked in the Senate gallery was intended to neatly categorize a person as one of “us” or one of “them.” It was born out of the need we broken humans have to elevate life’s adjectives to the place of life’s nouns, the penchant we have for reducing fellow human beings to nothing more than our descriptors for them.

And yet, turned in a different direction, the question “Who are you with?” is the same question Jesus asks each of us. Here’s the way he framed it: “No one can serve two masters” (Matthew 6:24). I don’t know about you, but I have several advanced degrees in compartmentalization. My culture has taught me how to apply the demands of Christian discipleship only to the parts of my life where it causes me no serious inconvenience. So who am I with? Am I with the world that tells me “The one who dies with the most toys wins” or am I with Jesus who said, “Strive first for the kingdom of God” (Matthew 6:33)? Am I with the world that tells me “God, guns, and guts made this country great,” or am I with Jesus who said, “Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9)?

It’s my choice, and it’s your choice. It’s a choice that is deeper and wider than any side of the political divide. It’s a choice that decides nothing less than the assumptions that inform every action we take. And in these days when we seem intent on assigning blame for our problems instead of taking responsibility for their solutions, when we too easily demonize our opponents instead of seeing the image of God within them—in these days I can’t think of a more crucial question than “Who are you with?” The answer enables us to look beyond the petty disquiets of the next election, and see with new eyes the day when “The kingdom of this world has become the kingdom of our Lord, and of his Messiah, and he will reign forever and ever” (Revelation 11:15).

So…? Can I get an amen?