The Rio Stanton Report

Category: Culture & Society

  • Memorial Day, Patriotism, and the Stories We Tell Ourselves

    Memorial Day, Patriotism, and the Stories We Tell Ourselves

    I have a hard time participating in jingoism, even when it is meant to honor people I respect, sometimes even members of my own family.

    Memorial Day is the day Americans set aside to remember the men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice while serving in the United States armed forces. It also happens to be the unofficial start of summer, a day of barbecues, pools, and gatherings with friends and family.

    But every year, as the speeches and social media posts roll in, I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with the rhetoric surrounding the holiday. Much of it feels less like remembrance and more like pseudo-patriotic flag-waving.

    Let’s be honest about something.

    The United States has not fought a war primarily over the freedom of its own citizens since either the War of 1812 or the Civil War, depending on how one chooses to frame it. Nearly every major conflict since then has been tied to geopolitical strategy, alliances, or the protection of American economic and imperial interests abroad.

    From the Cold War through the late twentieth century, many U.S. military interventions were justified under the Truman Doctrine, a policy aimed at stopping the spread of communism. But communism was never an immediate threat to the civil liberties of most Americans. What it threatened was the global political and economic order dominated by the United States and its Western allies.

    And while American leaders were promoting narratives about defending freedom abroad, millions of Black Americans were still fighting for the most basic civil rights at home.

    Black soldiers served in every American war. They fought and died under the banner of freedom while living in a country that often denied them full citizenship, equal protection under the law, and even basic dignity.

    In many cases, they returned home from battle only to be treated as second-class citizens. Their sacrifices were praised in speeches, but their humanity was still questioned in everyday life.

    In that sense, the people who fought most directly for my freedom were not generals or politicians. They were activists, organizers, and everyday citizens who challenged systems of racial injustice. Many of these heroes were harassed, imprisoned, exiled, or assassinated for their efforts.

    They fought not on foreign battlefields but in American streets, courtrooms, churches, and communities.

    That history makes it difficult for me to fully embrace the triumphant, chest-pounding patriotism that often dominates the Memorial Day holiday.

    This doesn’t mean I don’t respect the individuals who served. Many of them acted out of genuine belief, duty, or economic necessity. Some of them were family members. Their sacrifices were real.

    But respect for those individuals doesn’t require me to accept the mythology that surrounds American military power and American motivation.

    So while others participate in the patriotic pageantry and blast Toby Keith songs about American might, I’ll probably spend the day doing something much quieter.

    I’ll remember the complicated history behind the holiday.

    Then I’ll enjoy the food, spend time with family, and maybe take a dip in the pool.

  • The Imaginary Conservative Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

    The Imaginary Conservative Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

    Every January, around the time of Martin Luther King Jr. Day, a familiar political ritual begins.

    Public figures across the political spectrum invoke King’s name in support of their own positions. Liberals quote him. Conservatives quote him. Moderates quote him. Everyone suddenly seems convinced that Dr. King would agree with them if he were alive today.

    In many cases, these attempts say more about the people invoking King than about King himself.

    One of the more curious examples in recent years has been the claim that Dr. King would have opposed modern gun control laws because he owned firearms.

    At first glance, this argument might sound plausible. It is true that King once applied for a permit to carry a handgun after his home was bombed during the Montgomery Bus Boycott. In the violent atmosphere of the Jim Crow South, many civil rights leaders faced credible threats to their lives.

    But isolating that fact while ignoring King’s broader philosophy creates a deeply misleading picture.

    Dr. King was one of the most committed advocates of nonviolence in modern history. His entire political and moral philosophy centered on the belief that violence ultimately corrupts both individuals and societies. Throughout his career, he repeatedly emphasized that the civil rights movement must reject violence—even in the face of brutal repression.

    More importantly, King’s political views extended far beyond the narrow civil rights narrative that is often presented today.

    In the final years of his life, King increasingly criticized economic inequality, militarism, and American foreign policy. He spoke openly about the need for a radical restructuring of American society and argued that poverty, racism, and war were interconnected problems.

    He supported strong labor rights, called for major government programs to address poverty, and spoke favorably about forms of democratic socialism.

    In other words, the historical Dr. King was far more politically complex and far more radical than the sanitized figure often presented in modern political debates.

    Projecting modern ideological battles onto King may be tempting, but it risks distorting the historical record.

    Rather than imagining the version of King we wish existed, it might be more productive to engage honestly with the one who actually did.

  • Limousine Liberalism and the Politics of Comfort

    Limousine Liberalism and the Politics of Comfort

    If the phrase “limousine liberal” needed a modern example, many critics would point to Bill Maher.

    For decades, conservatives have used the term to describe a particular kind of liberal politics… one practiced by wealthy cultural elites who champion progressive social causes while remaining largely disconnected from the economic struggles of ordinary people.

    Whether that label is fair in every case is debatable. But the criticism highlights a real tension within American liberalism.

    The problem is not support for civil rights, LGBTQ equality, environmental protection, or other social issues, no matter how tepid and/or performative it may be. Those struggles are important and necessary. The problem arises when those causes are championed without addressing the economic structures that produce inequality in the first place.

    This tension was visible in a recent segment of Maher’s show in which he criticized younger Americans for being overly pessimistic and encouraged people to “cheer the fuck up.” In his view, dissatisfaction with the current political environment reflects an overly negative outlook among younger generations.

    But that interpretation overlooks the economic reality facing millions of Americans.

    Over the past several decades, the United States has undergone a dramatic economic transformation. Manufacturing jobs that once provided stable middle-class livelihoods have been replaced by lower-paying service work. Wages have stagnated while the cost of housing, healthcare, education, and childcare has steadily risen.

    Today, many Americans are financially fragile. Surveys regularly show that a large percentage of households would struggle to cover even a modest emergency expense. At the same time, economic growth and stock market gains are increasingly concentrated among a relatively small segment of the population.

    When commentators dismiss widespread economic frustration as simple negativity, it can come across as profoundly out of touch.

    For people living paycheck to paycheck, debates about stock market performance or macroeconomic indicators feel distant from their everyday reality. Economic insecurity is not simply a matter of attitude. It is a real material condition.

    This is where critiques of “limousine liberalism” gain traction.

    Symbolic gestures and self-righteous virtue signaling can coexist with an economic system that continues to produce inequality and insecurity. Without adequately examining the deeper structural issues of unsafe labor conditions, wage stagnation, sharply rising housing costs, decreased access to affordable healthcare, and the massive influence of corporate power, political rhetoric about social progress can begin to feel hollow.

    Many Americans are not asking for perfection. They are merely asking for a political system that seriously addresses the economic pressures shaping their lives.

    When those concerns are dismissed as whining or irrational pessimism, the gap between political elites and working people only widens.

    And that gap helps explain why so many voters remain deeply dissatisfied with the current political moment.

  • From Protest to Prosperity: The Generational Divide Between Boomers and Millennials

    From Protest to Prosperity: The Generational Divide Between Boomers and Millennials

    One of the things that has always puzzled me about the Baby Boomer generation is the contrast between their revolutionary youth and their often conservative attitudes later in life.

    The Boomers, along with many members of the Silent Generation, were the people that Generation X grew up admiring. They were the students sitting at segregated lunch counters while mobs attacked them. They were the Freedom Riders. They were marching against the war in Vietnam. Some were even killed during protests, such as the students shot by National Guard troops at Kent State.

    They were the generation that gave rise to the Civil Rights Movement, the Black Power Movement, women’s liberation, the American Indian Movement, early gay rights activism, and a broader counterculture that questioned the entire structure of American society.

    They were also the generation that gave us revolutionary genres of music, such as classic rock, heavy metal, punk, and hip-hop. Melly Mel was a Boomer who gave us “The Message”, and Chuck D was a Boomer telling us to “Fight The Power”.

    Of course, not every Boomer was part of those movements. Many supported segregation, the Vietnam War, and conservative politics. But the public image of the generation was shaped by its loudest voices: young people challenging authority and demanding social change.

    Somewhere along the way, that spirit changed.

    By the 1980s, large portions of the Silent Generation and the Baby Boomers had embraced a very different political outlook. Ronald Reagan’s landslide victory in 1984, in which he won every state except Minnesota, was powered largely by voters from the Greatest Generation, the Silent Generation, and many Boomers who had entered middle age.

    To understand this shift, we must first look at the economic environment in which those generations came of age.

    The decades following World War II produced one of the most prosperous periods in American history. Beginning in the late 1940s and continuing through the early 1970s, the American middle class experienced a dramatic expansion. Unionized manufacturing jobs were plentiful and often paid wages that allowed a single worker to support an entire family.

    For many Americans, especially and particularly white Americans, economic security was relatively attainable.

    By the mid-1970s, however, the foundations of that economy were beginning to erode. Deindustrialization affected major cities such as Detroit, Cleveland, Baltimore, and St. Louis particularly hard. Manufacturing jobs disappeared, urban budgets were slashed, and many white families relocated to suburbs that remained economically stable.

    While inner cities struggled with job loss, poverty, and rising crime, many suburban communities continued to experience relative prosperity well into the 1980s and 1990s.

    This created a divide in perception.

    Many Baby Boomers came of age during a period when stable employment and home ownership were still achievable for large segments of the population. Younger generations, by contrast, entered adulthood during a period defined by stagnant wages, rising housing costs, student debt, and declining economic mobility.

    As a result, Millennials and younger generations often experience economic conditions acutely differently from how their parents did.

    From the perspective of many Boomers, the United States has already achieved enormous social progress. Segregation has been dismantled, women have gained expanded rights and opportunities, and same-sex marriage has been legalized.

    From that viewpoint, younger generations may appear overly pessimistic or overly focused on grievances.

    However, that perspective sometimes overlooks a crucial reality: the economic landscape has changed dramatically.

    Many Millennials and younger adults face rising costs of education, healthcare, and housing while earning wages that have not kept pace with inflation. Buying a home, starting a family, or building long-term financial security has become significantly more difficult than it was for many members of earlier generations.

    This creates a generational misunderstanding.

    Older generations may view younger people as overly sensitive or insufficiently resilient. Younger generations may view older voters as disconnected from the economic realities they now face.

    Both perceptions contain elements of truth and misunderstanding.

    The social struggles fought by earlier generations were enormously important and deserve recognition. But social progress alone cannot resolve the economic challenges confronting younger Americans today.

    As Martin Luther King Jr. increasingly emphasized in the final years of his life, the struggle for social justice is incomplete without a parallel struggle for economic justice.

    Understanding that connection may be one of the most important tasks facing the generations living in America today.

  • Political Courage and the Question of What Is “Realistic”

    Political Courage and the Question of What Is “Realistic”

    One of the more puzzling arguments I have seen on social media comes from people (ADOS and FBA) who dismiss policies like universal healthcare, tuition-free public college, or a living wage as unrealistic “pie-in-the-sky” ideas, while simultaneously insisting that reparations for slavery and Jim Crow should be a major policy priority.

    This contradiction became especially visible during the 2020 Democratic primary when people attacked Bernie Sanders’ supporters online. I posted a Bernie “Infinity Gauntlet” meme referencing several progressive policy goals, and the response from some critics was predictable: comments about how those policies were impossible, along with sarcastic questions like “Where is the reparations stone?”

    But that criticism raises a serious question.

    If policies that benefit tens of millions of Americans—things like universal healthcare or free public college—are supposedly too politically difficult to achieve, what does that say about the political chances of reparations?

    A $15 minimum wage benefits workers across racial lines. Universal healthcare benefits everyone who needs medical care. Free public college benefits families nationwide.

    Reparations, by definition, address a specific historical injustice and would primarily benefit the descendants of enslaved people. That makes it politically even more challenging within the current American political system.

    This is not an argument against reparations. I support the idea of reparative policies for the legacy of slavery and Jim Crow.

    The point is about political honesty.

    If a politician tells voters that universal healthcare or a Green New Deal is unrealistic while simultaneously promising to pursue reparations, it is reasonable to question whether that promise is sincere or simply a form of political pandering.

    Real political change rarely begins with cautious, incremental thinking. It begins with bold proposals that shift the boundaries of what people believe is possible.

    Abolitionists were once told that ending slavery was unrealistic. Civil rights leaders were told that full legal equality was politically impossible. Major social reforms, from labor rights to voting rights, often began as ideas that the political establishment dismissed as radical.

    Not every bold proposal becomes law immediately. In fact, many fail in the short term.

    However, political movements often start by pushing ideas that expand the horizon of what people are willing to imagine.

    That is why the debate about “realistic” politics matters.

    If political leaders only pursue policies that the existing power structure already accepts, meaningful change rarely happens. Progress usually comes from those willing to challenge the limits of what the political establishment considers possible.

    If universal healthcare, free-college tuition, and other progressive campaign promises and goals are unrealistic, then so is the possibility of America paying the debt that it owes Black Americans.

    Whether one supports Bernie Sanders or not, that broader principle remains true.

    Political courage has always been the starting point for major social change.

  • The Death of Nuance in the Social Media Era

    The Death of Nuance in the Social Media Era

    One of the things that constantly amazes me about social media discourse is the tendency to treat historical figures, as well as contemporary public figures, as if they must be either entirely good or entirely evil.

    The moment someone mentions something positive about a controversial figure, it is almost guaranteed that someone will jump into the conversation to remind everyone of that person’s worst actions.

    Mention that Henry Ford introduced innovative ideas about wages and working hours, and someone will immediately point out that he was a racist and an antisemite.

    Discuss the artistic achievements of a filmmaker, and someone will remind you that the director was a convicted criminal. Mention a political leader’s accomplishments, and someone will respond with a list of that leader’s moral failures.

    Now, to be clear, none of that information is wrong. History should not sanitize or hide the harmful actions of powerful people.

    But the question is whether those reminders are always necessary in every conversation.

    There is a difference between acknowledging wrongdoing and insisting that a person’s flaws invalidate everything else they ever did. Human beings are rarely that simple.

    Franklin D. Roosevelt oversaw the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. This was undoubtedly a grave injustice. Yet he was also responsible for the New Deal, which reshaped the American economy and expanded social protections during the Great Depression.

    General William Tecumseh Sherman played a decisive role in defeating the Confederacy during the Civil War, even though his campaigns later involved violent acts of genocide against Native Americans.

    History is filled with figures whose lives encompass both achievements and moral failures.

    The same is true in other fields. A performer like R. Kelly can be both a talented songwriter and someone who committed horrific crimes. Kevin Spacey can be a brilliant actor while also facing serious accusations of abuse.

    Recognizing these contradictions does not excuse wrongdoing. It simply acknowledges reality.

    The problem is that social media often rewards a much simpler way of thinking. Online discourse often reduces people to heroes or villains, leaving little room for complexity. If someone is morally flawed, the logic goes, then every accomplishment must be dismissed.

    But that approach does not lead to a deeper understanding of history or human behavior.

    It leads to something much simpler: moral sorting.

    The truth is that human beings are capable of doing both admirable and terrible things. Acknowledging that complexity does not weaken moral judgment, it actually strengthens it.

    Unfortunately, nuance is rarely rewarded in the age of social media.

    And that may be one of the greatest intellectual casualties of the digital era.

  • Moral Panics, “Groomer” Accusations, and a Familiar Pattern

    Moral Panics, “Groomer” Accusations, and a Familiar Pattern

    When conservatives are asked to provide empirical evidence of a connection between the LGBTQIA community and pedophilia, the response is rarely data.

    Instead, what usually appears are viral clips taken out of context, screenshots circulated by accounts like Libs of TikTok, isolated drag performances from other countries, sermons from openly hostile churches, anecdotes repeated on podcasts, or emotionally charged testimony from activists at school board meetings.

    What rarely appears are numbers, peer-reviewed studies, or credible statistical research demonstrating a meaningful relationship between LGBTQIA identity and child predation.

    This is not accidental.

    The current panic surrounding “groomers” follows a pattern that has appeared repeatedly throughout history. Moral panics often rely on emotionally powerful accusations that frame a targeted group as a threat to children or social order. Once that framing takes hold, evidence becomes secondary to fear.

    In many cases, the people promoting these accusations present themselves as defenders of vulnerable children. Yet it is often the same political actors who oppose policies that materially support children, such as expanded healthcare, education funding, or protections against abuse.

    That contradiction should raise questions.

    For Black Americans in particular, this rhetoric has an unsettling historical echo. Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Black men were routinely portrayed as sexual predators who threatened white women. These accusations were rarely supported by evidence, but they were politically powerful. They were used to justify segregation, mass incarceration, racial terror, and the destruction of entire Black communities.

    The narrative did not have to be true. It only had to be believed.

    The same mechanism is visible today. By portraying LGBTQIA people as inherently predatory, political movements can frame discrimination as protection. Policies restricting LGBTQIA rights are then presented not as acts of exclusion, but as necessary defenses of children.

    This strategy is not new.

    In the early twentieth century, the Ku Klux Klan expanded its influence by presenting itself as a protector of “American values,” white womanhood, and Christian civilization. Films like The Birth of a Nation helped transform the Klan’s image from that of a small terrorist organization in the South into a supposed guardian of social order.

    History shows how dangerous that type of narrative can become.

    None of this means that abuse never occurs in any community. Sexual abuse exists across every demographic group and social category. But addressing it responsibly requires evidence, data, and careful investigation—not broad accusations aimed at entire populations.

    When accusations replace evidence, the goal is rarely child protection. More often, the goal is political mobilization.

    Moral panics have always worked that way.

  • Trust, History, and the Controversy Over Leave the World Behind

    Trust, History, and the Controversy Over Leave the World Behind

    A line from the film Leave the World Behind has recently sparked outrage among conservative commentators:

    “I’m sorry, but if the world falls apart, trust should not be given easily to anyone… especially white people.”

    The quote, spoken by the character Ruth Washington (played by Myha’la Herrold), has been interpreted by critics as an example of “anti-white racism” and “woke propaganda.”

    But the reaction misses the larger historical context behind the sentiment.

    The scene itself depicts a tense, pre-apocalyptic situation. A Black family returns to their own home, even though white vacationers are renting it through Airbnb. The white family, especially the matriarch, is immediately distrustful of them. Although the house belongs to the Black family, the white characters initially assume they must be staff or impostors.

    Even when the owner of the house offers to refund half of their money and has the key to a locked drawer, the white matriarch still views them as dangerously and criminally suspicious.

    Anyone familiar with American racial dynamics knows that situations like this are not purely fictional.

    But the deeper issue raised by the quote is not about a single awkward interaction. It raises a broader question:

    What historical reasons do Black Americans have to extend unconditional trust toward white institutions or white society as a whole?

    The history of the United States complicates that question.

    After the Civil War and the passage of the 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments, the promise of freedom for Black Americans was quickly undermined by a series of legal and social systems designed to recreate racial hierarchy. Black Codes, vagrancy laws, convict leasing, peonage, and sharecropping placed many formerly enslaved people back into conditions that closely resembled slavery.

    When Black political power briefly emerged in parts of the South during Reconstruction, it was violently suppressed through campaigns of racial terrorism carried out by groups like the Ku Klux Klan and the Red Shirts.

    The pattern did not stop there.

    From housing discrimination to segregated schools, from redlining to unequal policing, institutions throughout American history have repeatedly produced outcomes that harmed Black communities. Even today, debates continue over disparities in healthcare, environmental exposure, policing, and incarceration.

    The writer James Baldwin addressed this exact problem during a debate on The Dick Cavett Show in 1969. Baldwin explained that distrust was not based on abstract hostility toward white people but on lived evidence produced by American institutions.

    He said:

    “I don’t know what most white people in this country feel. But I can only [conclude] what they feel from the state of their institutions.”

    Baldwin’s point was simple but powerful. His point was that people judge a society not by its ideals, but by its outcomes.

    If institutions repeatedly disadvantage a group of people, it is unrealistic to expect that group to respond with automatic trust.

    This helps explain many of the cultural dynamics that outsiders often misunderstand. Black Americans frequently “gatekeep” aspects of their culture, remain skeptical of institutions, and react strongly to racial issues that others see as trivial.

    Those reactions are not random or irrational. They emerge from decades and centuries of historical experience.

    None of this means that every individual white person is malicious or untrustworthy. But collective histories shape collective perceptions.

    If trust is going to grow between communities, it cannot be demanded through outrage over a line in a movie. It has to be earned through meaningful changes in the institutions and behaviors that produced the distrust in the first place.

    History matters.

    And until that history is confronted honestly, lines like the one in Leave the World Behind will continue to resonate with many viewers, even as others find them uncomfortable.

  • Faith, Identity, and Belonging in the Divine Nine

    Faith, Identity, and Belonging in the Divine Nine

    For many years, I have wanted to become a member of one of the Divine Nine organizations. That interest goes all the way back to my senior year of high school, although circumstances prevented me from pursuing that path at the time.

    Even now, the idea still appeals to me.

    At the same time, I recognize something important: these organizations have long histories, traditions, and cultural norms. If I eventually seek membership, I cannot expect those institutions to change their identity simply to accommodate my personal beliefs.

    Respect has to go both ways. If they respect me enough to accept me as a member, I have to respect the organization enough to conform to their standards when representing the organization.

    This question came to mind recently after a member of Alpha Phi Alpha made headlines for wearing a pink suit and high heels during his graduation ceremony while wearing his fraternity sash. The member, who identifies as part of the LGBTQIA community, chose to celebrate his achievement in a way that expressed his personal identity.

    The reaction to that moment highlighted a tension that exists within many historically Black institutions.

    On paper, the Divine Nine organizations do not discriminate based on race, religion, or sexual orientation. In practice, however, many members, especially from older generations, hold traditional views about religion, sexuality, and gender expression.

    That tension is not unique to fraternities and sororities. It reflects broader debates happening throughout the Black community.

    For example, I am an atheist. I understand that every Divine Nine organization was founded within a Christian cultural context, and that prayers and religious language are often part of meetings and ceremonies. If I were to become a member someday, I would not expect those traditions to disappear simply because I do not share the same religious beliefs.

    All I would ask is the same courtesy in return: the ability to live according to my own philosophical beliefs while respecting the traditions of the organization.

    The situation becomes even more complicated when questions of sexual orientation and gender expression enter the picture. Unlike religious belief, which can remain private unless someone chooses to disclose it, gender expression is often visible.

    That visibility can place LGBTQ members in environments where parts of the membership may still be uncomfortable with their identity or self-expression.

    In the case of the Alpha Phi Alpha member who wore heels to his graduation, I believe it is important to remember the context. He was not attending a fraternity meeting or ritual event. He was celebrating his personal academic achievement, and he chose to do so in a manner that reflected his personality and personal identity.

    However, he wore the graduation stole of the organization during his graduation, and therefore was a reflection of the organization’s values and reputation.

    It is a complicated debate.

    Ultimately, moments like this raise a broader question for institutions like the Divine Nine and for the Black community as a whole: how do we balance tradition with evolving understandings of identity and inclusion?

    These organizations have historically played vital roles in leadership, scholarship, and community uplift. As society continues to change, those institutions will inevitably face conversations about how welcoming they are to members whose identities or beliefs fall outside traditional expectations.

    I hope those conversations lead toward greater understanding rather than deeper division.

    And while I am not yet a member of any Divine Nine organization, I still hope that if I ever do join one, it will be in a spirit of mutual respect: respect for the organization’s traditions and respect for the individuality of the people who choose to become part of it.

  • A Note to Christians About Atheists

    A Note to Christians About Atheists

    Many people who know me are aware that I am an atheist. But I wasn’t always one.

    I was once very religious when I was younger, but over time, my beliefs changed. I won’t go into the entire story of my deconversion here. That would require far more time and space than this post allows.

    Instead, I want to talk about something simpler: how expressions of faith sometimes come across to those of us who do not share those beliefs.

    First, a little context.

    I do not go out of my way to announce my atheism simply to provoke people or start arguments. In fact, I would generally prefer to be left alone about it. But I do sometimes wear clothing that reflects my support for secular organizations such as American Atheists, Black Nonbelievers, the Freedom From Religion Foundation, and others.

    And if someone asks me directly where I stand, I will answer honestly.

    For me, this is not about offending anyone. It is simply about expressing my worldview in the same way religious people often express theirs.

    My goal has always been to challenge the myths people have about atheists. Many believers are taught that atheists are immoral, bitter, or hostile toward humanity. In reality, most of us simply do not believe in any gods (Christian, Islamic, Hindu, or otherwise).

    But we still believe in empathy.

    Any good I try to do in the world is not motivated by promises of eternal bliss (Heaven), fear of eternal punishment (Hell), or the expectation of cosmic rewards. It comes from the basic recognition that other human beings deserve compassion and dignity.

    Recently, I had a small interaction that reminded me how easily misunderstandings can happen between believers and nonbelievers.

    While trying to locate an event for my daughter’s school, I briefly spoke with a group of Christians in the area. The conversation was cordial and short. As I was leaving, one woman said, “I’ll pray that you find where you’re going… in Jesus’ name.”

    I smiled and continued on my way. I didn’t respond or make an issue of it.

    But it did make me pause and reflect.

    Was she simply trying to be kind in the way her faith taught her to be? Possibly. I try not to assume bad intentions when I cannot know someone’s motivations.

    At the same time, moments like that can sometimes feel uncomfortable for those of us who do not share those beliefs. Not because we are hostile to religion, but because it can feel as though a very specific religious worldview is being assumed as universal.

    In a religiously diverse society, small differences in language can matter.

    A phrase like “I hope you find where you’re going” is universally understood. Even “I’ll pray for you” can feel relatively broad, since many different traditions include some form of prayer or meditation.

    But explicitly invoking a specific deity can sometimes feel like an assumption that everyone present shares that belief.

    That assumption is not always intended. But it is often felt.

    I want to be clear about something: I do not object to people having faith or expressing it. Religion helps many people navigate a difficult world, and if someone’s beliefs encourage kindness and compassion, I have no desire to take that away from them.

    What I object to are a few common assumptions:

    • That everyone is or should be Christian.
    • That atheists reject religion because they are ignorant or immoral.
    • That explicitly religious language is always welcome in every context.

    The reality is that we all share this society.

    Christians, atheists, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, pagans, and many others live side by side. Mutual respect requires recognizing that no single worldview represents everyone.

    That does not mean people must hide their beliefs.

    It simply means acknowledging that the world is bigger than any one tradition, and that the people we meet may not share our assumptions.

    Living peacefully in a pluralistic society requires that kind of awareness from all of us.