Since the Trump 2.0 regime took office this January, there has been much talk—as well as significant action and activism—around the concept of resistance. This is important. We must resist the fascist ideologies and actions of a government operating daily from an extrajudicial posture of authoritarianism.
That said, and knowing there will be any number of battles we will lose along the way, I find myself thinking more frequently about resilience. What does it look like to build communities of resilience in these times?
How might they withstand the numerous harmful policies and their impacts on the most vulnerable among us, so they can rebuild and live into a future of healing after Trump leaves office? Because let us be clear: righting these wrongs is likely to be a decades-long process (at minimum), and we are still in year one of Trump 2.0.
In a world where food for 42 million Americans is being held hostage by the threat of an equally death-dealing loss of affordable healthcare for many of the same people, how might hyper-localized communities of resilience engage in sustainable practices of mutual aid?
This seems like an easy lane for the church to step into. After all, churches have historically been very good at operating food or clothing pantries, handing out bus tickets, and connecting neighbors in need with direct-service local agencies.
But we can’t assume those activities alone will continue to sustain communities through these times. Food pantries alone do not create community. They do not build the kind of solidarity that fosters the resilience needed to survive—much less thrive—in such a time as this.
This week, I witnessed the beginnings of a community of resilience with a coalition of faith-based and non-faith-based organizers and city council members. They all came together to celebrate a “win” at the local level over new zoning codes.
These new regulations will ultimately create opportunities for more affordable housing in a city and state where the cost of housing is increasingly pushing more people toward homelessness. I saw power in this coalition coming together for a more affordable city for all our neighbors.
This particular gathering was simply to celebrate the victory, encourage one another in the work that lies ahead, and invite more neighbors to join those efforts. There was pizza, wine, homemade zucchini-pineapple bread, and leftover Halloween candy—offerings of mutuality and joy shared by the community.
In true preacher’s kid fashion, my three-year-old ran around the room playing with the children of the coalition’s lead organizer. They added their screeches and laughter as the mayor and several council members offered their words of gratitude to the group. This celebration took place at our church, in an art gallery festively decorated with a Día de los Muertos exhibit curated by our Latine and Indigenous partners in the local art community.
As I took in the sights, smells, tastes—and yes, sounds—of this celebration, it felt a lot like the beginnings of a community of resilience.
The mutual aid present in the shared breaking of bread (be it of the zucchini or pizza genre) and drinking of wine (or Jarritos soda) felt very reminiscent of the celebration of the eucharist—the thanksgiving sacrament. We often celebrate that meal in quiet reverence, void of the joy-filled screeches of three-year-olds. But it is also void of the fullness of what holy communion could mean in a world where communities of resilience are crucial to our sanity and, for many, essential for survival.
One of our young Latine council members made sure to remind everyone of the deeper, historical forces and fears at play among those already working to block the new zoning laws from coming to fruition. “Let’s not forget that the reason our current laws exist is because there are people in our city who don’t want people like me living in my house,” she said. “There is still more work to do. Thank you all for being in this fight.”
Coalition-building. Solidarity. Community of resilience.
The coalition organizer made sure to share information about a local group that takes home-cooked meals every Friday evening to where many of our unhoused neighbors gather. He encouraged members of this coalition to join them. Someone in the room reminded everyone about the halt to SNAP benefits.
Mutual aid. The breaking of bread. Community of resilience.
If churches are going to be part of “the resistance,” it is imperative that we also find ways to be part of “the resilience.”
When opposition to zoning changes turns into ICE raids on our Latine neighbors, will the church be scrambling to figure out how to respond? Or will it already be intricately involved in existing communities of resilience that know one another and know how to care for one another?
When the meal for unhoused neighbors needs to expand to accommodate the families who’ve lost their SNAP benefits, will the church offer up a few remaining canned goods and then shut the doors to its pantry? Or will it multiply its impact because it’s already part of a broader coalition of individuals and organizations that say, together, “None of our neighbors will go hungry on our watch”?
Coalition-building. Solidarity. Mutual aid. The breaking of bread.
How can your community of faith become a community of resilience?
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Dr. Rebecca M. David Hensley holds a PhD in religious studies, with an emphasis in theological and social ethics. She is a member of the adjunct faculty for Iliff School of Theology and an ordained Deacon in the United Methodist Church.
