One of the greatest dangers facing the church today isn’t disagreement or cultural change—it’s the quiet loss of hope.

When the church loses hope, it doesn’t always look like despair. More often, it looks like anxiety. It sounds like urgency. It feels like fear dressed up as faithfulness. And when that happens, we can find ourselves reaching for substitutes that promise security, control, or influence.

I’ve been sitting with a phrase for a while now: displaced hope. I don’t mean it as an accusation. It’s a pastoral observation—one I’ve made in the church I love, and one I’ve had to make about myself too.

To be clear, I don’t think this is a new problem, and I don’t think it’s one the church has to guess its way through. Scripture has long given us language and images for moments like this—especially moments when fear begins to shape what we trust. When we turn to the Bible, we find that it often speaks about faith not in abstract terms, but through images meant to slow us down and help us see ourselves more clearly.

Scripture often speaks about faith in terms of roots. Through the prophet Jeremiah, God says that those who trust in the Lord are “like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream” (Jeremiah 17:7–8). It’s a simple image—but a searching one. What we put our roots into determines how we respond when the heat comes.

When the world feels uncertain—when things feel louder, more divided, or less familiar than they once did—our roots are tested. And sometimes, without realizing it, our trust begins to drift toward whatever feels most solid in the moment.

Here’s where I want to be more explicit. There is a real danger when our discipleship is shaped more by political allegiances, cultural identities, or partisan narratives than by the life and teaching of Jesus himself.

That kind of formation rarely happens on purpose. And it doesn’t usually happen because people stop caring about their faith. In many cases, it happens precisely because people care deeply—about justice, about the future, about their families, and about the church.
But over time, the questions forming us can quietly change. Instead of asking, “What does Jesus call us to do?” we begin asking, “What does my side need right now?” Instead of Scripture setting the agenda, we start turning to Scripture to reinforce conclusions we’ve already reached.

The apostle Paul names this danger clearly when he writes:

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of 
your minds” (Romans 12:2).

Paul assumes that formation is always happening. The question isn’t whether we’re being shaped—but by what.

When our roots grow shallow, or begin spreading into other soil, faith doesn’t disappear. But it does begin to change shape.

A lot of Christians are anxious these days. I hear it in conversations, in prayer requests, and in what captures our attention and energy. And to be fair, there are understandable reasons for that anxiety. The church has less cultural influence than it once did. The world feels more fragmented. The future feels harder to predict.

Fear itself isn’t the enemy. But when fear begins to take the wheel—when it starts shaping our instincts, our reactions, and our sense of urgency—hope gets displaced. We begin trusting power, control, or winning to do the work that only God can do.

Jeremiah’s image helps here. The tree rooted near water doesn’t avoid heat or drought—but it “does not fear when heat comes.” Its stability comes not from changing circumstances, but from where its roots run. That’s not abandoning Christianity. But it is reshaping it.

The Bible is remarkably honest about this dynamic.

Israel asks for a king—not because God failed them, but because they were
tired of feeling vulnerable.

Peter rebukes Jesus—not because he lacked faith, but because a suffering
Messiah felt too risky.

The disciples argue about greatness—not because they didn’t believe, but
because they were afraid of being left behind.

Again and again, faithful people reach for something more immediate, more visible, more forceful than the slow, often hidden work of God. And again and again, Jesus responds—not with dismissal, but with reorientation. He keeps bringing the conversation back—not to power or control—but to the way of the cross.

Years ago, a simple question circulated widely: “What Would Jesus Do?” It became a slogan on bracelets, t-shirts, and bumper stickers. Then a punchline. And many of us probably outgrew it.
But maybe we didn’t outgrow the question. Maybe we just stopped letting it do its deeper work. Not as a shortcut—but as a serious, demanding lens:

•How did Jesus treat those with power?
•How did he speak about the poor, the stranger, and the enemy?
•What did he do with anger, injustice, fear, and violence?
•Where did he refuse to compromise—and where did he choose mercy?

If our sense of “doing something” doesn’t resemble Jesus in word and deed, then no matter how urgent or justified it feels, it deserves to be examined again.

Let me be clear about what I am not saying. This is not a call to political passivity. It’s not a plea for withdrawal from public life. It’s not about telling Christians how to vote.

Christians have always been called to seek justice, care for the vulnerable, and work for the common good. Those commitments are deeply biblical.

But Christian action must be properly ordered. Our engagement should flow from discipleship, not replace it. From the life of Jesus, not merely from fear of loss. From love of neighbor, not loyalty to tribe.

The question isn’t whether Christians should act. The deeper question is how—and who is shaping our instincts as we do.

This is where I keep coming back to the idea of discipleship repair. Repair assumes something important: there was something solid there to begin with. It suggests strain and wear, not failure. Over time, fear, urgency, and constant reaction can stress even a healthy faith.

Paul’s counsel to the Colossians speaks directly to this work:

Not rooted in fear. Not rooted in reaction. Rooted in Christ.

But being rooted in Christ doesn’t mean life becomes easier or more comfortable. The words and example of Jesus should unsettle us at times. They should challenge our assumptions, stretch our loyalties, and call parts of us into question. Faithful discipleship has always involved wrestling—learning again and again what it means to follow a Lord who chose the way of the cross.

If following Jesus never presses on us—never invites repentance, rethinking, or realignment—it’s worth asking why. Sometimes discipleship feels easy not because we’re especially faithful, but because we’ve quietly reshaped Jesus to fit us. And instead of being conformed to the image of Christ, we end up forming Christ in our own image.

One of the reasons I keep returning to this idea of discipleship repair is because Scripture doesn’t just give us information—it gives us formation. The Bible doesn’t simply tell us what to believe; it patiently shapes how we see the world, how we understand ourselves, and how we learn to follow Jesus over time.

When I talk about being “Rooted in the Word,” I’m not talking about a program or a reading plan. I’m talking about a posture—a commitment to let Scripture do its slow, steady work in us, especially when faster, louder voices are competing for our attention.

The Word keeps placing the real Jesus in front of us—not the one we’re most comfortable with, but the one who loves us enough to change us. It pulls us back into a longer story than the one being told by fear, outrage, or urgency, and it reminds us that faithfulness is formed over time, not in a moment.

That’s why returning again and again to Scripture matters so much in a season like this. It helps us tend the roots—so that what grows in our lives and our witness actually reflects Christ.

Discipleship repair isn’t about tearing everything down or starting over. It’s about re-centering our lives on the words, practices, and way of Jesus. It looks like:

•allowing Scripture to challenge our politics, not just confirm them
•practicing prayer, worship, and community as formative disciplines, not
accessories
•learning again how to seek justice without surrendering humility, truthfulness,
or love

This kind of work is slow. It doesn’t grab headlines. But it forms people who actually look like Jesus.

So, here’s the question I’m trying to keep before me—and I offer it as an invitation, not a verdict:

When we feel compelled to “do something,” are we first asking what Jesus did—and
what he taught us to do?
And just as importantly: Where are we putting our roots when fear shows up?

Discipleship repair happens quietly—in worship, in prayer, in Scripture, in honest conversation, and in communities willing to let Jesus—not fear—set the agenda. That work may not make us louder. But it may make us more faithful.

And in a moment like this, that may be one of the most hopeful gifts the church can offer.

Grace and Peace,
Aaron