Dear Mr. President...

Dear Mr. President,

We've not met. Nor, I suppose, will you ever read this letter. I'm a simple youth minister from St. Louis, and you are holding an office which has often been described as "the leader of the free world." It only makes sense that our paths wouldn't cross.

It is with the utmost conviction that I do not often discuss politics, either here or in the greater digital sphere. We have lost the capacity to humanize and sympathize with our neighbors through screens, and dialogue and discourse are, I feel, greatly endangered when we fail to speak when we can see our neighbor.

But this isn't about partisan politics or policies. Like any other politician, there are policies with which I agree and there are policies with which I disagree. You are no different, and I would assume nothing less from a Democrat or a Republican holding your office (as I have voted for both). This is not about that.

38 months ago I was a resident of Texas. You were a candidate for the Republican presidential nomination, and you were coming through Fort Worth for one of your rallies. It was during Lent.

This last detail may seem insignificant, but it is in fact what drove me to attend your rally. You see, I am a praying person, and it is my deepest desire to see the fullness of humanity and God's image in each of my brothers and sisters. As I watched you debate and listened to your speeches, I'm heartbroken to say that that was difficult for me.

Your words stung and you belittled your opponents and others. We teach our students to respect one another, that Jesus' love knows no boundaries and that no one is left out. So I went to your rally to pray. For you. Because I know that transformation cannot happen until we can see the reflection of our Creator in all. We cannot have peace with some until we can have peace with all. So I went to pray that I could love you better.

And as I waited in the line that wound around the building, I caught my first tinge of pain. I stood behind an anonymous father and his young daughter. On the roads surrounding the building were Hispanic protesters driving cars, waving Mexican flags, and shouting, "Dump Trump." I had anticipated demonstrations, I suppose, so I wasn't particularly surprised. What caught me off-guard was what I heard from the father in front of me.

He looked at his daughter, somewhat oblivious to the magnitude of the occasion, and reminded her how shameful the protestors were. They must've been in America illegally. They must've been too illiterate to have real jobs like her father. They must've been out of work because they were too lazy to find a real job. My heart broke a little bit and I pulled my hood above my head as the line neared the entrance.

After passing through security, I found a spot near the back of the auditorium and began to pray. I prayed hard. But my prayers were interrupted by conversations my ears could not tune out. They were the same conversations I'd heard in line. No, they weren't about the protestors, but they were stained with the same pain and the same anger. They were filled with the same arrogance and ignorance.

But I kept praying. And then you came to the podium. So I prayed with my mouth and listened with my ears. Eventually my ears won out and I tried to show you the respect of listening without distraction. I was there the day you splashed water on the crowd to mock Marco Rubio, whose own attacks had grown increasingly immature and disrespectful as well. You were acting like a bully, Mr. President.

But what stung more than your words was the way the crowd cheered them. What broke my heart more were the ways they laughed and mocked along with you. Clearly, not everyone in the crowd was doing this, and to paint with too broad a brush would be irresponsible and unfair.

Nevertheless, I learned an important lesson in that moment. Sir, by lowering the bar of respect and civility from that podium, you were lowering it for the rest of us as well. You were validating and legitimizing anger and hate and allowing others to feel affirmed in their speech to do the same. You see, when you tweet name-calling and disrespect, you are subconsciously allowing others to do the same.

I walked out of that convention center crying. I learned the limits of my heart's grace in that place, the limits to which my heart could not bend and break any further. I hope that in that pain my heart grew wider, that those limits have been broadened. This is my confession, my humble acknowledgement that I too am imperfect.

As I watch what is happening in our world, we need more strength through grace, more power through powerlessness. I'm reminded that our God taught us to love in our fullest through sacrifice. Power wasn't wielded through might, but rather through surrender. May we both learn the lessons of Jesus.

You are my brother, which is why I have not written with sarcasm or triviality. Those are not tools for resolving family conflicts. Patience, steadfastness, and grace are the tools for such work. I write this because your microphone is louder than mine, and it is with the deepest hope that I pray you will recognize in your position the potential for all humanity's life and flourishing.

Please sir. Let us both strive to live and love our neighbors with more exuberance. Lives depend on it.

forever unfinished,
a simple youth minister