Sojourners in Babylon
What Do Christians Do When There Are No Right Options
I failed my team last week.
The temperature hit -40 degrees on Friday. My leader told me the expectation was for everyone to work in the office. I didn’t think it was right to make people risk driving in that weather to do work they could easily do from home. I also couldn’t just ignore my leader’s directive.
So I tried to thread the needle. Thursday I told my team the expectation from leadership was to be in the office, but I wanted them to be safe—if they felt more comfortable working from home, do that. That evening when the weather got worse, I reinforced it: stay home if it’s safer. Then Friday morning my leader reached out: everyone needs to be in the office, tell your team.
I told my team they needed to either come in or take the day off.
One person took the day off, which created a scramble to cover their work and bad feelings from an associate who felt penalized for making the safe choice. My leader was frustrated with me. My team got whipsawed by my changing messages.
I was wrong. Not because I picked the wrong side necessarily, but because I didn’t make a clear decision early. By trying to protect everyone—my team’s safety, my leader’s authority, my own standing—I ended up putting everyone in a worse position.
And I sat with that failure all weekend, trying to figure out what I should have done instead. Tell them to risk their safety for office work? Tell my leader he was wrong?
But the more I’ve wrestled with it, the more I realize this isn’t just about a weather decision. Because as much as I try, I couldn’t avoid the news.
Federal agents in Minnesota. Two civilians killed. Families torn apart. Protests met with tear gas. Churches disrupted. Everyone shouting about who’s right.
And I found myself in the same position I was in with my team, none of them seem right.
Illegal immigration violates the law and strains sovereign resources. Border enforcement separates families and people end up dead. Violent resistance to legitimate authority creates chaos.
I realized that this is essentially the same problem, just bigger.
At work, I’m a middle manager—caught between authority above me and responsibility below me. As a citizen, I’m caught between authority over me and conscience within me. As a Christian, I’m caught between commands to submit to governing authorities and commands to do justice, love mercy, and protect the vulnerable.
I don’t know how to navigate that tension without doing something wrong.
Submit to governing authorities, Paul says—they’re instituted by God. Honor the king, Peter says. Obey your parents. Respect your leaders. The Bible clearly states that submission to legitimate authority is how Christians are to operate in the world.
Then there are passages like Micah 6:8—do justice and love mercy. Or all the passages about defending the fatherless and the widow. Or the numerous prophets who speak out against authorities. When the Pharisees asked Jesus what the greatest commandment was, he didn’t say “submit to Rome.” He said love God and love your neighbor.
These aren’t contradictory in theory. In practice, they collide when the authority I’m supposed to submit to demands something I believe is unjust.
Most of the time I can avoid the tension. My leaders are generally reasonable. The laws are mostly fair. I can submit to authority and live justly without much conflict. But then -40 degree weather happens or immigration enforcement happens and I’m standing in the gap between two commands that won’t reconcile.
The conservative (not necessarily political) answer is to always submit. Romans 13. Government is from God, so obey. Your boss has authority, so comply. You’re just following orders. If something goes wrong, it’s on the authority, not you.
Except that makes me complicit. The Hebrew midwives were ordered to kill Hebrew boys. If they’d submitted, they would’ve committed genocide—but God blessed them for refusing. Peter was ordered to stop preaching. If he’d submitted, the gospel wouldn’t have spread. Sometimes submission to human authority means disobedience to God.
The progressive (not necessarily political) answer is to always resist injustice. When authority is wrong, oppose it. Protect the vulnerable. Stand up for what’s right. Be prophetic.
Except that makes me lawless. Paul used Roman citizenship to appeal unjust treatment—he worked within the system. Jesus submitted to unjust execution—he didn’t lead an armed revolt. Sometimes resistance to human authority means chaos.
Both answers are appealing because both eliminate the tension. You just pick your rule and follow it. Submit or resist. Conservative or progressive. Law or justice.
But I’m starting to think both are wrong because both pretend I can operate as a pure citizen of heaven while actually living in the kingdom of man.
The kingdom of heaven runs on transformed hearts. In God’s kingdom, there is no coercive power. People submit to God voluntarily. The worst consequence for refusing is being separated from the community, but no one forces compliance.
In the kingdom of man, force is inherent. Laws are backed by the threat of violence. Authority is exercised through coercion. If you don’t comply, eventually someone with a gun shows up or your livelihood is threatened. That’s true of every government, every employer, every institution that has power over you. The difference is just how much force and how often.
When coercion is the framework, all available options involve participating in that system to some degree:
Submit—you’re participating in injustice through compliance.
Resist—you’re participating in rebellion.
Navigate a middle ground like I did with my team—you’re still operating within a system where someone gets hurt no matter what you choose.
Perhaps that’s what it means to be a sojourner. We’re citizens of heaven, but we’re residing in Babylon. And Babylon doesn’t play by heaven’s rules.
Peter calls us “sojourners and exiles” (1 Peter 2:11). We’re not home yet. We’re passing through territory that operates on different principles than the kingdom we belong to. That means we can’t operate “properly” if “properly” means “without compromise.”
The compromise is built into the territory.
So what do I do?
After sitting with my failure all weekend, I think I’m starting to see what I did wrong. It’s not that I picked the wrong side, but that I didn’t make a clear decision early.
What I should have done Thursday was tell my team: “I know it stinks, but on this one we need to be in the office. If you don’t feel safe coming in, go ahead and take the day off.” Clear. Direct. Acknowledged the difficulty but didn’t waffle.
Would that have been the “right” decision? I don’t know. Maybe I should have told my leader directly: “I’m not asking my team to risk their safety,” and dealt with the consequences. Maybe I should have told the team it’s not a big deal—it’s -40, not impossible, you can make it in with proper precautions.
What I do know though is that trying to avoid making the hard choice didn’t eliminate the choice. It just made it messier.
That’s what navigating as a sojourner looks like. Not finding the right answer, but making the call, accepting the consequences, and trusting God’s mercy covers what my faithfulness can’t.
For the work situation, that meant deciding sooner. Being clearer. Taking whatever heat came from it.
For the immigration situation? I honestly don’t know. Do a better job at the border? Stop risking the lives of your families? Create an expedited path to citizenship for those that are already here? All of the above? But maybe that’s the point—maybe recognizing there are no clean sides is what keeps me from the arrogance of thinking I’m righteous while others are wicked.
What I do know is that I can’t just pick a political tribe and assume their position is the Christian one. I also can’t absolutize “always submit” or “always resist.” I can’t pretend I’m pure while everyone else is compromised.
Because I am compromised. We all are. That’s what happens when you’re trying to live heaven’s ethics in Babylon’s territory. You get dirty hands. The question is whether you recognize it and ask for mercy, or whether you pretend your hands are clean while everyone else’s are filthy.
Here I’m reminded of Jeremiah’s letter to the exiles. “Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare” (Jeremiah 29:7).
The exiles wanted to go home. They wanted their kingdom restored. They wanted obvious answers—should we resist Babylon or submit to it?
God says neither. You’re going to be there for a while. Build houses. Plant gardens. Seek the city’s welfare. Pray for it. Your welfare is tied to its welfare even though it’s not your home.
That’s sojourner ethics. Not revolution or collaboration, but faithful presence in a place that’s not home, seeking its good while longing for something better.
I had a meeting with my leader Monday morning.
He didn’t bring up Friday’s blunder, so I did. I apologized for making a mess of it. For not making a clear decision early, for putting him in a bad position, for creating confusion.
I also had a meeting with the associate who had to take a day off after already working two hours from home. She wanted to meet with HR and voice her complaints about the whole situation. We talked through it. I listened. I gave her a makeup day off.
That’s what repentance looks like as a sojourner. You fail. You ask forgiveness. You make it right where you can. You don’t pretend you found the right answer—you just do the next faithful thing.
As for the immigration situation—and all the Christians I see picking political tribes and declaring their side righteous—here’s what I keep coming back to:
If you want to prophetically condemn, you need to condemn all of it.
Condemn illegal immigration for breaking the law and straining resources. Condemn enforcement that kills civilians and detains 5-year-olds. Condemn violent resistance to legitimate authority. Condemn the systems that created the desperation in the first place. Condemn all of it, because all of it is broken, all of it participates in force, all of it causes harm.
But if you’re going to pick a side and declare it righteous while the other side is wicked? If you’re going to claim clean hands for your political tribe?
Then you’re not being prophetic. You’re being partisan. Placing politics above God.
The alternative isn’t silence. It’s prayer. Pray for healing. Pray for peace. Pray for the welfare of the city, like Jeremiah told the exiles. Seek the good of Babylon even while longing for Jerusalem. Protect the vulnerable in your actual sphere of influence, not just on social media. And recognize that you’re operating in a system where all available options involve dirty hands.
That’s what it means to be a sojourner. Not finding the right political position. Not perfecting Babylon or burning it down. But seeking its welfare while knowing it’s not home. Making the best calls you can. Asking forgiveness when you get it wrong. Trusting God’s mercy to cover your failures.
And longing for the day when the kingdom of heaven doesn’t have to operate within the kingdom of man anymore.
I still don’t have clean answers about authority. I probably never will.
But Monday morning, I apologized to my leader and made it right with my associate. That’s what I could do. That’s what sojourner faithfulness looked like in that moment.
Next time—and there will be a next time—I’ll make the call sooner. I’ll be clearer. I’ll accept the consequences with less resistance.
And I’ll fail differently. I’ll make new mistakes I haven’t made yet.
Because I’m not arriving, I’m navigating. That’s what it means to be a citizen of heaven living as a resident of Babylon.
The kingdoms will keep colliding. Authority will keep being both real and limited. Situations will keep arising where all options involve compromise.
And I’ll keep walking through them, one impossible choice at a time, trusting that God’s mercy is big enough to cover what my faithfulness can’t.
Because God’s mercy is bigger than Babylon’s demands. Learning to live in that mercy—instead of claiming righteousness I don’t have—might be the most important sojourner skill of all.
Thanks, Andrew! Yes, formation, patience, and hope. It's amazing how unified the biblical authors are on the topic of being in the world but not of the world.
This really resonated. I appreciate how you frame Babylon not as something to flee in panic or baptize in naïveté, but as the place where faithfulness is patiently learned. Exile as formation rather than failure feels like a deeply biblical recovery—Jeremiah, Daniel, even Peter’s language of sojourners echo quietly underneath this. Grateful for the clarity and steadiness here.