Civil Disobedience

We’re taught that obedience is virtue.

But what happens when the laws no longer guard the land, the people, or the soul. What happens when they only serve profit, machines, and the men who write the rules to feed themselves?

They’ve built a world where you need permission to milk your own cow.

Where the law protects what poisons the field

and punishes the one who plants without asking.

Where your neighbor is a customer, a tree is just lumber,

and childhood is a market.

But there is an older law.

Deeper than decree.

Stronger than screen.

More lasting than the lines drawn by empire.

And there comes a time, and this is such a time,

when to obey is to betray the earth, neighbor, and God,

and to disobey is to keep faith and become fully human again.

Not by protest, but by planting.

Not by slogans, but by seed.

Not by outrage, but by orchard.

Not by winning, but by tilling and tending.

So stay put.

To feed your neighbor before the market.

To kneel in the soil and know your place.

To raise children who bear heroic names, holy names older than those of banks, law firms, and lobby groups.

To grow food that answers to season, not system.

To care for the old without handing them a billing code.

This is how we recover a holy remembering.

A waking from the spell of profit.

A return to the deep bonds of kinship, not to nostalgia.

This is civil disobedience.

A loaf passed from hand to hand

A lamb raised without barcode.

A fire lit for neighbors, not content.

A psalm prayed at the ditch where the wild mint grows.

Build the economy of gift.

Trade sourdough for firewood.

Trust more than they can tax.

Love more than they can regulate.

Sow more than they can surveil.

And let the record show:

we chose the soil over the screen,

the seed over the salary,

the neighbor over the algorithm.

We did not save the earth.

But we remembered it, and we prayed and we planted.

And that, God help us,

is how the garden begins to grow again