They’re Watching Us: Our Kids, Power, and Politics

Our kids are watching us in this moment.

Today is Epiphany—January 6—the day the church proclaims that God pulls back the curtain. Epiphany is about revelation: light breaking through, truth made visible, God showing up in places that are shadowed, dreary, and hate-filled. It is the season when we dare to say that light still shines, even when the world feels dangerous and unclear.

But Epiphany has always carried tension.

Entangled in that story of starlight and revelation is another reality: fear, power, and a ruthless ruler on the throne. The same story that tells us about wise ones following light also tells us about Joseph and Mary making urgent, terrifying decisions to protect their child because Herod ruled by violence and insecurity. The holy family became refugees because power felt threatened by love made flesh.

Herod is still on the throne.

There are moments when the news lands not just as information, but as a moral gut punch. This last weekend is one of those moments.

Our nation’s actions to kidnap the leader of another country are profoundly troubling—politically, ethically, and spiritually. Regardless of where one stands on that leader or that government, this kind of action represents a dangerous disregard for international law, national sovereignty, and basic human dignity. It signals a willingness to use power without accountability and force without restraint.

As a person of faith, I am deeply aware that the way we do things matters. Ends do not justify any means necessary. How we pursue justice, security, or accountability shapes who we are becoming—not just as a nation, but as a people. As United Methodists, we vow in our baptism to resist evil and injustice in whatever forms they present themselves. That vow does not disappear when resistance becomes inconvenient, unpopular, or costly.

Lately, this has become especially real for me as the parent of a tween who is wrestling with big, heady questions about the world. They are trying to make sense of why humans continually make poor choices—why racism persists, why people bully others who are different, why power so often harms instead of protects. These questions don’t come from nowhere. They are shaped by school hallways, social media, dinner table conversations, and the headlines we scroll past too quickly.

Right now, they are on a kick of watching nonfiction and fiction rooted in moments when ordinary people worked hard to make things right. Over Christmas break, we watched Hidden Figures, Wonder, and The Unbreakable Boy. They are currently listening—for the second time—to Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America, grappling honestly with the long, painful history of racism in this country. What they seem to be searching for are examples—proof that injustice is not inevitable, that cruelty is not the final word, and that regular people can choose courage and compassion even when systems resist change.

And here’s the part that keeps me up at night: the kids are watching us. They are paying attention to how adults talk about the news, how we explain power, and how we respond when harm is done in our name. They are learning not only from the stories we point them toward, but from the ones we embody.

That is why the damage being done by Mr. Trump and his administration feels so heavy. The erosion of trust on the global stage will not be undone in our lifetimes. When international law is treated as optional, when national sovereignty is violated, and when bullying is dressed up as strength, the consequences ripple outward. We lose allies. We create enemies. We teach a generation that power excuses cruelty.

The United States has a long history of moral and political failure in foreign policy. We have done this before, and we should know better by now. History does not absolve us—it warns us. Repeating these patterns does not make us safer. It makes the world more fragile and more fearful.

What troubles me most is not only what this does to global relationships, but what it forms in our children. What are they learning about leadership? About accountability? About whose lives and laws matter? When they see aggression rewarded and empathy dismissed, what conclusions are they drawing about how to live in the world?

Epiphany insists that light still shines—but it never promises that light will go uncontested. Herod raged because the light threatened him. And still, God revealed love anyway. Psalm 34:14 calls us to “depart from evil, and do good; seek peace, and pursue it.” This peace is not passive or naïve. It is disciplined. It requires restraint, humility, and a willingness to choose justice over domination—even when it is slower, harder, and far less flashy.

As people of faith, and as a parent, we are called to show up differently. The way we speak matters. The way we act matters. The way we interpret the world for the children watching us matters.

This moment is about more than one action or one administration. It is about who we are becoming—and who our children are learning to be. On this Epiphany, may we choose to follow the light. May the light leads us away from power, away from fear, and toward the hard, holy work of turning the world for peace.

Pursue the light.