See how very much our Father loves us, for he calls us his children, and that is what we are! But the people who belong to this world don’t recognize that we are God’s children because they don’t know him. — 1 John 3:1 (NLT)
Well, another election has come and gone. Today we can watch TV like normal people again! That has to be something to celebrate, if only because we can go back to laughing at a bird talking about car insurance or the latest miracle drug with a jingle like, “Nothing is everything!” Still, I realize there is a lot of emotion running one way or another right now. It might even send some people to that place called ‘social media’ to share their feelings in ways that are not always healthy. We all know some of the unhealthy things people can post, and if you are wise, you know the media companies shape your feed with one goal in mind: getting you to react. So, with politics and media both working to pull a negative reaction out of us, what is one to do?
I have found that it is important to know who you are. As I got older, I found that alone was not enough. I am also reminded of one of my favorite sermons, one I heard years ago, that said it matters just as much to know whose you are.
That distinction has stayed with me, and it feels especially timely this week. The algorithm does not know who we are. It only knows what we click, how long we linger, and what makes our pulse jump. From that, it quietly builds a version of us and then feeds that version more of the same. If anger keeps us scrolling, it serves anger. If fear keeps us scrolling, it serves fear. Over time, it can start to feel like the outrage is our own, like the label the feed has assigned us is the truest thing about us. After an election, that label usually comes with a team and an opponent, and the opponent is often a neighbor, a coworker, or someone sitting across the table at Thanksgiving.
The apostle John wrote to believers who were being pulled in many directions, unsure of where they stood. He did not start by telling them how to win the argument. He reminded them whose they were: “See how very much our Father loves us, for he calls us his children, and that is what we are!” I love that last phrase. Not what we might become if we post the right thing. Not what we are on our better days. That is what we are. John also warned that the world would not recognize it. We shouldn’t expect a feed to affirm what only our Father can name. Our identity is not curated from our reactions. It is given, and it holds whether the comments section agrees or not.
When I remember whose I am, the post designed to raise my blood pressure loses some of its grip. I can still care deeply about what happens in our country. I can still hold convictions. But I don’t have to hand my peace to whatever shows up next on the screen. Before I type, I have learned to ask myself a simple question: Does this sound like a child of God? James put it plainly: “You must all be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry.” (James 1:19) An algorithm is built for the opposite. It rewards fast, loud, and angry. A child who knows he is loved can afford to be slow. He does not have to win every exchange to know he belongs.
It also changes how I see the person on the other side of the post. The feed would like me to see an enemy. God sees someone He loves. That doesn’t mean I have to agree with them, but it does mean I do not get to reduce them to a caricature.
The feed will refresh tomorrow, and it will be ready with something new to provoke us. Before we open the app, maybe we can pause long enough to remember. We are not what the algorithm says we are. We are not the sum of our reactions. We are His children, and that is who we are.
What has your feed been quietly telling you about who you are, or who your neighbor is? What might change if you asked, before posting or replying, “Does this sound like a child of my Father?”
A PRAYER
My prayer is we thank God for calling us His children when the world around us is busy calling us so many other things. When the feed pulls at our anger or fear, slow us down and remind us whose we are. Help us listen before we speak and see the people on the other side of the screen the way You see them. Let our peace rest in You, not in what we scroll past. Amen.