Some thoughts on faith, flying, and traffic lights.
My freshman year of college, I had a sociology professor who liked to run fun thought exercises—things like “name an industry or trade that didn’t exist before the Industrial Revolution” (consensus answer: the fitness industry).
In hindsight, I think he was pressure-testing his faith in the next generation. One day, he asked all of us to give an example of faith or trust—I cited traffic lights. We trust they’ll work, and we have faith that people will obey them the way we do. In other words, a very secular example of having faith in one another.
I think about that class a lot, as the way I take home from work involves one of the most notorious intersections in the city. It’s not uncommon to see emergency vehicles there, and having to dodge wayward car parts and shattered glass rarely startles anymore. Sometimes it’s an accident. Sometimes it’s “police activity.” Why take this route? ’Cause it’s the quickest. It’s quite the bargain, gambling one’s health in exchange for getting to your driveway 2-3 minutes sooner. Lots of people wind up on the wrong side of that scoreline.
A year ago next week, the intersection was marked with a different sort of police activity. Tuesday marks the first anniversary of a school shooting at the Abundant Life Christian School that claimed three lives (including the shooter’s) and injured six more. A large urgent care clinic and medical offices mark one corner. On that afternoon, it looked like every squad car in the city was squished into the lot, with news crews lining the edges. Ambulances too. This was set up as the reunification center, and as we all crept by, my stomach sank. Everyone in there was having a bad day, but for some, you knew it was the worst day of their life. I’m not big on “vibes,” but you could feel it in your bones. It was easy to lose faith.
Faith and belief are funny things. ALCS is a parochial school, but this isn’t a religious post. It’s easy to dismiss faith and belief as something reserved for Sundays in the pews or involving crystals, but we execute small acts of faith all day long. My job involves bending several laws of physics. On paper, planes should not be rocketing all over the skies above us. Someone believed it would work, had faith in themselves, and now, well, here we are.
Clips of people losing their shit in terminals usually go viral, but that’s because flying is such a normal thing today. The system is robust, and we collectively put our faith in it so willingly that when things go sideways, we aren’t always sure how to react.
We believe our neighbors won’t leave the oven on and burn the building down. That the records we buy were manufactured right and will play correctly1. My kid recently traveled to/from Florida. I believed in people I’d never met to keep an eye on him. (spoiler: it had a happy ending).
In 2025, it’s easy to lose hope, to refuse to keep the faith. As a Gen X’er, cynicism is baked into my DNA. Living through whatever all of this is (waves hands at everything) would make it easy. But as I’ve been reading stories of the shooting’s survivors this week, one theme has shone through: faith. Religious faith, sure, but more than that. Faith in family, faith in community, belief in one another.
If they can see a way forward, surely we can as well?
As our pal Matty C put it recently,
…During my five plus decades on this rock, I have also codified a few core beliefs that I try to use to guide my daily life.
I believe in punching up and never down. I believe that art and music will save us. I believe that love is a superpower. I believe in us.
Same, Matty, same.
In the aftermath of this tragedy, there were some very visible signs that all was not lost. Culver’s2 franchises all held fundraisers, and the lines were ridiculously long. No one lost their shit. This was an easy way to take action. In the Midwest, when something bad happens, people bring you food. Chipping in like this was the easiest way to do that at scale. People were happy to wait. It helped restore a little bit of faith. Wisconsin is a balkanized state, but even Badgers know when to rally.
There were countless smaller acts, of course. The kind most of us will never see and never know about. Just up from that intersection, there is a soccer field bounded by a cyclone fence (sidebar: the coach of the team that plays there had faith in my other son and helped write a happy ending for his soccer career). On the fence, someone took red Solo cups—this is Wisconsin, after all—and spelled out “We Love ALCS.” A small intentional act. A year later, they’re still there.
A reminder to keep the faith, that love is a superpower, and to believe in us.
As always, thanks for being here.
KA—
Kevin Sent 