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September 9, 2026

This edition is sponsored by Christianity Today's Church Resource Guide

Hello, fellow wayfarers … Why Trump-era laughter at immigrant suffering is deforming our souls … What I wrote for the Library of America about why Wendell Berry can’t be replaced … How a fictional rural community in Kentucky challenges Christian nationalism … A Desert Island Bookshelf from a longtime missionary in Japan … This is this week’s Moore to the Point.

The Trump-Era Laughter at Immigrant Suffering Is Deforming Our Souls

Did you hear the one about the Haitian immigrants eating cats and dogs? Wasn’t it hilarious? Here’s the setup: A community of vulnerable people, escaping danger to their lives in their home country, are quietly minding their business in a community, working long hours at hard jobs. Lots of them are Christians worshiping Jesus in churches on Sunday. The punch line is that these people are stealing their neighbors’ pets for dinner. It wasn’t true, of course. It never happened. We all know that now; we all knew that then. But why take everything so seriously?

A joke is a joke, right?

But wait, it gets better. Here comes another laugh line. Roughly 350,000 Haitians sojourning among us—immigrants legally here—have had their Temporary Protected Status removed, and people are having fun with memes. These memes aren’t from cranks on the internet but from the official accounts of the White House and the Department of Homeland Security.

The government posted a video of shackled Haitian men being loaded onto planes to upbeat music and the taunting message "Temporary Meant Temporary. Leave Now." The official White House site created a 1980s-style arcade video game in which players can chase, capture, and deport immigrants.

Those who run focus groups to discern the opinions of American citizens find some people who are overtly hostile to immigrants—and say so. But most people, when trying to justify support for immigration raids and mass deportation, soften their language. They are not against immigrants, they say. They just want people to "do it the right way," not to "skip to the front of the line," and so on. When these participants are told, for example, that our Haitian neighbors did in fact apply and were here legally, that the government is specifically acting to make them illegal, many just don’t want to think about that at all.

There’s a kind of moral laundering that can enable us to imagine it’s all Venezuelan gang members in these detention camps, rather than the 4-year-old we taught to memorize John 3:16 at vacation Bible school this summer.

But what some in charge know is that at least a slice of the American people doesn’t need any conscience soothing. For these people, the fact that most people would be shocked by a country with our history posting images of Black men shackled in chains is exactly what makes those posts funny—like the edgy stage comic who "goes there" with something that makes half the crowd wince.

Just for a moment, let’s forget the policy disputes—how many people should be allowed in and how. Suppose you want zero immigration to the United States or wherever you live. Suppose you can make the case that the Bible’s command to care for the sojourner doesn’t apply. Suppose, even, that you set aside what happens to these vulnerable people—some of whom, in the case of the Haitians and others, have every reason to believe gang violence will now kill them. Even if you are okay with all that, why would you ever find it entertaining?

A social media meme is meant to be shared—sent to someone else with the implicit assumption This is the kind of thing that people like you and me find funny. We’re in on the joke.

And a video game is an imaginative participation in something. To suggest that a game built on humiliating endangered people does nothing to us is the same perverted logic that would suggest that, as long as the imagery is artificially generated, child pornography is a morally neutral way for people to safely explore their fantasies (Matt. 5:21–30).

The novelist Frederick Buechner came to faith while listening to a preacher describe Jesus as crowned in the hearts of those who believe "among confession, and tears, and great laughter." The laughter was so unexpected that it jarred the then-young man to see Christ in a new way. Laughter can be joyous and life-giving.

But as with most beautiful things, when twisted, laughter can be the ugliest thing in the world. Jesus was hailed by crowds amid great laughter, yes, but he was crucified to the sound of laughter too. The soldiers dressed Jesus up in mock kingly costumery—and made fun of him, enjoying his degradation.

Laughter can make us see things. Just this morning, I laughed at a meme a friend had sent me about the different ways boomers, Gen Xers, millennials, and Gen Zers act on an airplane. Whatever the exaggerations, we think to ourselves, Yes! That really is what it’s like!

Laughter can also keep us from seeing things. The Bible warns us of those who cover up lies with "Was I not joking?" (Prov. 26:18–19, NASB). Extremist groups have always known that jokes and memes can push the boundaries of what’s acceptable, and can link together those "in the know" while allowing them to escape detection by saying, "Come on, it’s just trolling."

What we learn to laugh at disciples us. It trains our consciences to enjoy and not to recoil from what once would have shocked us. A lie becomes a joke which becomes a meme which becomes a game which becomes just the way things are. When cruelty and degradation are funny, something has happened to us. Something breaks, something not easily bound back up. We can laugh our way to hell.

We will come back from this twisted time. I am convinced of that. But one of the ways we will know we are coming to sanity again will be a recovery of grief at what is grievous, shock at what is shocking. We will recover what philosopher Leon Kass once called the wisdom of repugnance. The refining fire of repentance, poet T. S. Eliot told us, includes "the laceration / Of laughter at what ceases to amuse."

Some people created in the image of God came here to seek a new life for their children, away from violence and death. They were told, by us, that they would have safety. That safety was suddenly taken away, and—as with the lies told about them before—some people found their humiliation useful. Most of us yawned. And some of us laughed.

We can choose to treat human life this cheaply; we can choose to treat our souls this cheaply. We can listen to the laughter and walk away like a comedian finishing up a set at a comedy club.

We might even say as we go, "I killed."

You Can’t Upload Wendell Berry

The Library of America asked me to write a few words about Wendell Berry after his death last week. It ends this way:

Wendell Berry is gone. We carry those stories now. We are the ones who stop in the middle of an argument to think how it’s better to "rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup." We are the ones who, anytime we see a seed, will think "Plant sequoias." We are the ones who will flinch every time we hear a Secretary of Agriculture use the word "efficiency."

We will feel grief that the one who gave us those is gone. But then we will let the grief lead us to gratitude. That’s what Wendell Berry taught us. A library has burned, yes, but Wendell Berry was more than a library. He was more than an agrarian or a contrarian or any of the labels affixed on him. He was more than an ag policy. He was more than Port William. A wonder. That’s what he was.

You can read the whole thing here.

What Wendell Berry’s Fiction Can Teach Us About Christian Nationalism

On this week’s episode of the podcast, we revisit a talk I gave called "Faith, Fiction, and Christian Nationalism" for the Rabbit Room’s Hutchmoot Homebound event in 2021.

In the background was my (still unabated) shock and rage at the January 6, 2021, insurrection attack on the United States and our system of government—particularly the "Jesus Saves" sign carried by the same mob that constructed a gallows on which they wanted to hang the vice president of the United States.

My talk is about why movements so obsessed with "blood and soil" are populated by people with so little rootedness in either. And it’s about why people who are insistent on killing or jailing or marginalizing everyone but Christians are so distant from actual Christlikeness. That had me thinking about Wendell Berry, who died last week.

I talk about the difference Berry pictured between a real community and a mob, between real patriotism and nationalism, and between membership and resentment. In Jayber Crow, Hannah Coulter, and other Port William stories, Berry gave us a depiction of an alternative to all this idolatry and anger.

I also get into where I think Mr. Berry was wrong—especially about John 3:16. He believed evangelical talk of being "born again" could separate soul from body, heaven from earth, and belief from neighbor love. I argue almost exactly the opposite: The new birth is what gives those things their integrity, because it joins us to Christ and therefore to one another.

Along the way, I talk about Eudora Welty, Robert E. Lee, Karl Barth, YouTube radicalization, and one of my favorite moments in Berry’s fiction: when Jayber quotes "love your enemies" to Troy, who then asks him where he picked up that nonsense. And I talk about what happened when I started hearing that in real life.

You can listen to the episode here.

The Trump-Era Laughter at Immigrant Suffering Is Deforming Our Souls

You Can’t Upload Wendell Berry

What Wendell Berry’s Fiction Can Teach Us About Christian Nationalism

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