What I Learned as a Conservative at a Liberal Conference
Reflections from the Summit for Religious Freedom
What happens when a conservative walks into a liberal conference?
That’s not a setup for a joke—it’s what actually happened when I attended the Summit for Religious Freedom, hosted by Americans United for Separation of Church and State. I wasn’t there to argue. I wasn’t there to protest. I was there to listen—and to see what I might learn when stepping outside my ideological comfort zone.
Why I Was There
I was invited to attend the Summit through my work as co-host of the Faithful Politics podcast, a show that exists in the strange (and often tense) space where theology and politics meet. We regularly engage voices from across the spectrum—left and right, progressive and conservative, Christian and non-religious—not to fuel outrage, but to foster honest conversation.
This conference, hosted by Americans United, focused on issues like Christian nationalism, abortion rights, and the separation of church and state. In other words, it leaned heavily progressive. It was not, by any stretch, “my tribe.” The assumptions, language, and even the humor in the room weren’t things I naturally resonated with. But I came with an open heart—and, honestly, a bit of fear. I knew I’d be challenged. I hoped I’d also be surprised.
The Spiritual Discipline of Discomfort
I didn’t attend the Summit for Religious Freedom to argue, to correct, or to convert. I went because I believe in the spiritual necessity of discomfort. Scripture doesn’t call us to remain in places of certainty or isolation. It calls us to “be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry” (James 1:19).
I wanted to learn—not just about ideas, but about people. I believe the Imago Dei—the image of God—is present in every person, including those I disagree with most. And if that’s true, then listening to people of goodwill, even when their convictions challenge my own, isn’t a threat. It’s a spiritual practice. A form of worship, even.
Being in the ideological minority forces a certain kind of humility. It presses on your instincts to defend or deflect. But if you stay in that tension long enough—without rushing to resolve it—you start to reflect more deeply on why you believe what you believe. You get to test whether your convictions are truly rooted in truth—or in comfort, culture, or fear.
And in that space—where ideas rub uncomfortably against each other—I think something sacred can happen. “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another” (Proverbs 27:17). But only if you’re willing to sit still long enough to feel the friction.
A Moment of Reflection: I Might Have an Audience Here
When I first arrived at the Summit, I assumed I’d be just another name on a media list—quiet, unnoticed, observing from the margins. But then I found myself seated right up front, fully visible in the main room, in direct view of the stage... and the cameras.
That’s when it hit me: I might not just be attending this event—I might be seen.
As I watched the cameras pan across the crowd, I had an almost irrational thought: What if this footage shows up one day in a blog or YouTube exposé—"Conservative Pastor Attends Woke Conference"—framed as proof that I’d sold out? That fear lodged itself deeper than I expected. The funny thing is, my views haven’t radically changed. I still hold the same theological and political convictions I did before. But I carry them now with more compassion. More listening. More curiosity. That doesn’t mean compromise—it means maturity.
And yet the fear wasn’t about changing my beliefs. It was about being misrepresented by my own tribe.
What really stirred me was realizing that my fear didn’t come from peace or security in Christ. It came from insecurity. I wasn’t afraid of being seen because I felt guilty or ashamed of being there. I was afraid of being seen because I wasn’t sure anyone in my “camp” would believe I was there to learn in good faith. That I could attend a progressive event not to adopt every idea, but to understand people I disagree with, and to reflect deeply on what I believe and why.
I feared being judged quickly and harshly—not by those at the conference, but by those back home who might never step foot in a space like that. The fear that I wouldn’t be given the benefit of the doubt, that my posture of learning would be interpreted as betrayal, exposed something tender in me: my deep longing to be both faithful and free.
It reminded me how much of my identity can still be shaped by fear of man rather than faith in God. And that realization? That’s the kind of spiritual disruption that changes you.
“Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.” – Galatians 1:10
Lord, make me brave enough to be misunderstood, humble enough to keep listening, and secure enough in You that being seen doesn’t shake me.
The Risk of Self-Deception and the Call to Listen
One of the most sobering truths I’ve had to wrestle with is that I am not immune to self-deception. None of us are. As the prophet Jeremiah writes, “The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately sick; who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9). That’s not just about moral corruption—it’s about the quiet ways we construct mental and spiritual shortcuts, the assumptions we inherit, and the lenses we don’t even realize we’re looking through.
I didn’t attend the Summit because I set out on some noble mission of bridge-building. I went because we were invited. But once I was there—surrounded by ideas, language, and frameworks unfamiliar or even uncomfortable to me—I started noticing something stirring. Not in the crowd, but in myself.
I became increasingly aware of how much of my thinking had been shaped by the environments I normally inhabit. My biases weren’t just intellectual—they were emotional. My gut reactions to certain phrases or assumptions revealed how easily I could dismiss or oversimplify those I disagreed with. And being in that space exposed those blind spots in real time.
So I started to pay attention—not just to the speakers, but to my own reactions.
Why did that phrase trigger me?
Why did I instinctively furrow my eyebrows at that story?
What am I assuming about this person’s motives—and where did that assumption come from?
I wasn’t trying to reinvent my theology. But I was trying to allow the Spirit to refine my heart. To search me, as the Psalmist says, and know me. Because I don’t want to be someone who defends truth but forgets grace—or who preaches humility but refuses to be taught.
Listening in that kind of environment isn’t easy. But it’s holy work. It’s a form of repentance—an acknowledgment that my perspective, however carefully built, is not infallible. That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.