a manifesto for times like these
i choose less, and in this choice, i am free
Evil kings have always existed.
Their kingdoms built on the backs of the dispossessed, convinced their power is divinely ordained. They call their conquests “peace” and name their destruction “defense,” stripping people of their homes, dignity, and even their right to grieve. Empire is always grasping and consuming without permission or heed for the cries of those in its path. Expansion is its gospel; dominion, its sacrament.
We’re watching this insatiable force at work, driven by the same ancient hunger that has fueled empires for centuries. Consider the audacity of declarations like, “The U.S. will take over the Gaza Strip and we will do a job with it too... I do see a long-term ownership position.” These words are not about security or justice—they are the echoes of empire’s belief that dominion is worth any cruelty.
But here is a truth that empire does not want us to remember: evil kings are fragile. Beneath their thrones of steel and stone, they are weak men—so afraid of losing power that they will burn the world before relinquishing it. They know this, even if they will never say it. So instead, they shout. They pound their fists. They issue decrees and drop bombs, trying to convince us that might is the same as strength, that destruction is the same as dominion. They believe that if they take enough, control enough, silence enough, they will finally be secure.
A leader’s recourse to bypass the sacred dialogue of democracy, speaks not of authority but of a deep-seated fear—because true strength is not found in the clamor of self-assertion; it is found in the courage to listen, to deliberate, to hold the tension of dissent.
Power built on fear is always desperate. It spins lies, tricking us into believing its leaders are gods when they are only men. They tell us they are defending when they are stealing. They tell us they are righteous when their hands drip with the blood of the innocent. And if we are not careful, we will believe them.
In a recent video, Ezra Klein said about the occupant of the White House, “[he] is acting like a king because he is too weak to govern like a president. He is trying to substitute perception for reality. He is hoping that perception then becomes reality. That can only happen if we believe him.”
The thing about empire is that it thrives on illusion. Its greatest strength lies in its ability to convince us that it alone can save us—so long as we pledge allegiance to its ways. It’s all about the façade. The problem, however, is that this façade has seeped into our bones, forming us in ways we don’t even notice. Empire has had its hand in shaping what we value, what we fear, and who or what we think we’re allowed to belong to.
This is why, in these moments, our resistance begins by looking inward, by ridding ourselves of any semblance of empire that seeks to take root within us—the need to dominate, to control, to prove our worth through accumulation.
In these loud and overwhelming days, I choose to not let empire consume me. I refuse to bow to its restless hunger or allow it to reshape my soul. I will bear witness and reject the narrative that some lives are disposable. In that refusal, I reclaim what empire seeks to crush: the sacred, the human, the holy act of being still.
In a world obsessed with more—more land, more ownership, more cruelty—I will choose less. The world might call it small. It might say I lack ambition, that I have surrendered too soon. But there is a surrender that is not defeat but liberation—a refusal to participate in the hunger of empire. To embrace less is not to shrink but to root. It is to say: I do not need to be everywhere at once. I do not need to own what was never mine. I do not need to expand my borders to justify my being.
In a world bent on taking, I will let go. I will heal by refusing its game. I will love what is near and protect what is fragile. I will believe in a kingdom not built on war but on justice, mercy, and the holy act of being fully human. This is a quiet rebellion, a holy defiance—to say no to empire’s restless hunger and yes to the slow, the small, the sacred.
Empire will not have my soul.
I choose less, and in that choice, I am free.
I want to hear from you: how do you choose less? How can we do less together?
"Choosing" less is so apt, because it is a choice. I am trying to choose less, by choosing family time spent in the garden, activities like walking that don't cost the earth (literally and metaphorically), composting food scraps, growing things, creating art and music, dancing in the living room, reading more, spending my energies on caring for people and trying to put love into the world. Looking always to be content with here and now, whatever the Lord has placed before me. All of this leaves much less time and space for shopping, accumulating, corporate ladder climbing. It is not perfect, but it is a start.
This is a word for our time. Stunning.
For me, it’s been recognizing that empire is driven by money, so being mindful of where my dollars go usually ends up with me spending less.
I’m also guarding my attention more and making sure the priority gets the most of it. Keeps me from getting hijacked and reduces the empire’s “reality” from poisoning me.