There’s a phrase that echoes through both American history and the human soul: “the better angels of our nature.” Jon Meacham revisits it in The Soul of America, drawing from Abraham Lincoln’s appeal during one of the nation’s most divided moments. Meacham’s point is not naïve optimism. It’s a sober recognition that we are always capable of our worst instincts: fear, division, self-preservation, but we are also capable of something higher. The “better angels” are not automatic. They must be chosen, summoned, embodied. History does not drift toward justice on its own; it moves when people decide to live from their highest values instead of their lowest fears.
That tension feels painfully present inside the Church today. In too many spaces, the message of Jesus is being overshadowed by something louder, more rigid, and more political. Some self-identified Christian and evangelical leaders have taken the language of faith and reshaped it to serve agendas that look far more like power than like love. Scripture is sometimes selectively quoted, reframed, or weaponized, not to heal, but to divide; not to include, but to exclude; not to reflect Christ, but to reinforce a particular ideology. And when the words of God are bent to fit human agendas, especially political ones, the result is not just theological confusion. It’s real harm. People are pushed out, labeled, diminished, and told they are less than in the very spaces that are supposed to reflect the radical welcome of Jesus.
This is where Meacham’s insight becomes deeply spiritual. Because for those of us who follow Jesus, the “better angels of our nature” are not just moral instincts; they are the Spirit of Christ within us, calling us back to what is true. They are what remind us that the Gospel was never about control or dominance, but about love that crosses boundaries, restores dignity, and refuses to play by the rules of fear. When we see faith being used as a tool for division, the better angels (the Spirit) compel us to respond differently. Not with more noise or more outrage, but with clarity, courage, and grace.
For gracists, those committed to practicing grace without the fine print, this moment matters. Because it’s not enough to quietly disagree with harmful theology or distorted messaging. Love requires more than silence. Appealing to the better angels of our nature means we are willing to gently but truthfully call out what does not reflect the heart of Christ. It means we refuse to accept a version of Christianity that trades compassion for control or mercy for political leverage. It means we name the harm being done, not to shame, but to restore; not to divide further, but to point back to a better way.
And yet, we have to hold that tension carefully. Because the same temptation we see in others: the urge to be right, to win, to draw lines, lives in us too. The call is not to replace one form of self-righteousness with another, but to embody something altogether different. The better angels invite us to speak truth without losing love, to stand firm without becoming hardened, to resist distortion without becoming divisive ourselves. That’s not easy work. It requires humility. It requires listening. It requires a deep rootedness in the way of Jesus rather than in the need to be validated.
What’s happening in parts of the Church right now is discouraging, and it’s tempting to either fight fire with fire or walk away entirely. But the way of Jesus offers another path.
The better angels don’t shout to overpower. They endure to transform. They show up in the quiet courage of those who refuse to dehumanize, who refuse to twist truth, who refuse to abandon grace even when it’s costly. They remind us that the loudest voices are not always the truest ones, and that faithfulness is not measured by influence, but by integrity.
Choosing this path will cost us something. It may cost us approval in certain circles. It may cost us comfort, simplicity, and even relationships. But this is the cost of aligning ourselves with the heart of Christ instead of the pull of the crowd. Because in the end, the question is not just what kind of Church we are witnessing—it’s what kind of Church we are becoming.
So, we appeal to ourselves, and to others, not to fear, not to power, not to political identity masquerading as faith, but to the better angels of our nature. To the Spirit within us that still whispers the truth of Jesus. To the love that refuses to be co-opted. To the grace that doesn’t come with conditions. And we choose, again and again, to live from that place.
Because that is where the real soul of faith is found. Not in winning, not in control, but in becoming more like Christ.
Patrick Carden
