It might sound strange to say that two politicians as different as Marjorie Taylor Greene and James Talarico have both been on my mind. For most of my life, I would’ve counted Greene as an enemy—the “Jewish space-lasers” lady, the caricature of everything I thought was wrong with politics. And yet, lately, I’ve found myself listening. Not agreeing, but listening.
That act alone has changed how I see the world.
Both Greene and Talarico speak to the same human instinct—the desire to protect what we love. They just stand at different points along that instinct’s evolutionary ladder. Greene protects her tribe: faith, family, the people she feels are under attack. Talarico protects the human family: every person who deserves dignity and opportunity. One speaks the language of defense; the other, of expansion. But the root is the same: care.
Over time I’ve come to believe that all morality grows out of this impulse. We start with self-protection, then learn to protect our families, our neighbors, and—if we keep maturing—the stranger, the outsider, even those we’ve been taught to fear. The work of civilization is simply to keep expanding who counts as “our own.”
The Lesson of the Classroom
Teaching showed me that almost anyone can change, at any age, if they feel seen. Kids who’d been written off as troublemakers lit up the moment they realized someone believed they could learn. That spark—of curiosity, of belonging—was sacred. And it’s the same spark that power always tries to control.
People in charge thrive on a delicate balance: enough fear to keep the public obedient, enough stability to keep the system profitable. They don’t want citizens who are awake and learning; they want workers and consumers who are tired, anxious, and half-numb. Real education—lifelong mastery, not just job training—is dangerous because it gives people meaning and self-direction.
That’s why I see Talarico’s focus on education and empathy as revolutionary. He’s saying that growth is the right of every human being. And Greene, in her own way, is also reacting to the collapse of meaning—she’s trying to defend her people against a world that feels rigged and chaotic. What looks like hostility often hides a kind of heartbreak.
The Compassion Test
If I could ask everyone one thing, it would be this:
Think about your worst enemy. Maybe it’s your neighbor, your childhood bully, your political opposite, or even yourself. Now try to look at them with compassion. Imagine what they’ve been taught to fear. Imagine who they think they’re protecting.
This isn’t about excusing harm; it’s about understanding it. Because the moment we see our enemies as human, the script changes. Compassion doesn’t make us weak—it keeps us from becoming the very thing we hate.
Why the Divide Hurts So Much
The left, right now, often feels exhausted and angry. The right feels cornered and betrayed. Both sides think the other has lost its mind. The truth is simpler: everyone’s scared that their world is slipping away. The right has done a better job giving their fear language—“illegals,” “elites,” “indoctrination”—while the left struggles to express its moral vision without sounding condescending. But underneath the slogans, both sides are crying out for the same thing: safety, purpose, belonging.
When I hear Greene railing against endless wars or Talarico preaching that “concern for everyone means everyone,” I don’t hear opposites anymore. I hear different stages of the same awakening.
The Great Restructuring
I think we’re living through what I’d call a great restructuring of faith and humanity. People are slowly remembering that “spirit” isn’t just belief in an afterlife—it’s the living energy of connection, curiosity, and care. Religion, entertainment, even politics were supposed to nurture that energy. Instead, they’ve been turned into distractions. We’ve mistaken stimulation for growth.
But the human spirit keeps pushing back. People are starting to see that peace and change aren’t enemies—that stillness and curiosity can live together. The desire to protect, when widened enough, becomes love.
Where Hope Lives
Hope, to me, isn’t optimism. It’s choosing to believe that growth is still possible, even for those we least expect. I’ve seen it in students, in myself, and yes—even in politicians.
If Greene’s instinct is to protect her neighbors, the task for the rest of us is to help her see that everyone is the neighbor. If Talarico’s instinct is to protect all people, the task for us is to make that vision tangible—to build systems where learning, dignity, and faith belong to everyone.
The future depends on whether we can keep widening our circle of protection. Because deep down, I think that’s the truest image of God—or of spirit, or simply of humanity:
a love that keeps learning how to include more.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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