I love this place.
I grew up in Cabarrus County. I’m raising my daughters here. I pastor a church here. My wife teaches here. We’ve put down roots in this soil because we believe something is possible in this community that isn’t possible just anywhere.
But I’m watching us drift. And I can’t stay quiet about it.
A garden, not a battlefield.
Picture for a moment what a community is supposed to look like.
Neighbors who know each other’s names. Kids playing in yards while parents talk over fences. Teachers respected — and paid — like the keystones they are. Local businesses that care about more than their margins. Churches that serve their cities instead of arguing about them. Schools where every kid feels safe, seen, and prepared for a world that’s changing faster than any of us can keep up with.
That’s not utopia. That’s just what good looks like.
And I believe we can have that here. Not because Cabarrus is perfect — we’re not — but because we still have something most communities have lost: the muscle memory of how to be neighbors.
What “everywhere else” looks like.
Turn on cable news. Open Facebook. Look at how the rest of the country handles disagreement.
Two tribes. No nuance. Pick a side or shut up. If you’re a Christian, you’re supposed to vote one way. If you’re progressive, you’re supposed to think a certain thing. Whatever the issue of the week is, your only options are full-throated agreement or full-throated condemnation. There is no middle. There is no I see both sides. There is no let me listen first.
Everyone’s screaming. No one’s listening. And the people getting hurt the most are the ones who didn’t ask for any of this — our kids.
Right now, we’re fighting over real things. Bathrooms. Budgets. Curriculum. Phone policies. Discipline. Funding. Every one of these conversations matters. Every one of them involves real children, real families, real teachers, and real consequences. None of them are simple.
But we’ve turned every hard, human moment into a political football. Outside accounts pick up local stories. National platforms amplify them for clicks. Local news milks the heat. And the actual humans involved — the actual kids, families, and teachers — get reduced to talking points in a fight they didn’t start and won’t benefit from.
That’s not Cabarrus. That’s everywhere else.
The real crisis.
While we fight about whatever is trending this week, here’s what’s actually happening to our kids:
Mental health rates among teenagers are at all-time worst. Loneliness has become an epidemic. Social skills are declining at a rate that researchers and educators can barely keep up with. Literacy rates in our schools are slipping. Violent crime in our county is up. Teachers — the people we trust to actually shape the next generation — are leaving the profession in record numbers.
We have a state lottery — sold to us as the answer to school funding. And our teachers are still being paid like an afterthought. Our schools are still underfunded. Our kids are still falling behind.
This is the actual crisis. Whatever the latest headline is — that’s a symptom. The crisis underneath is bigger.
The third way.
So what do we do?
We could double down on the fighting. Most people will. It’s easier. It scores points. It gets engagement. It makes us feel like we’re doing something.
Or we could try something harder.
We could choose to be a community where left and right talk to each other. Where Christians and non-Christians, conservatives and progressives, rich and poor, white and Black and Hispanic, gay and straight — all of us — sit at the same table because we share something more important than our positions: our kids and our neighbors.
We could choose to disagree without dehumanizing. To hold strong convictions without losing our compassion. To name real problems without pretending the answers are simple. To listen before we label.
We could choose to be neighbors first.
I know what some of you are thinking: That’s idealistic. That’s naïve. That’s not how the world works anymore.
You might be right.
But Cabarrus doesn’t have to be the world. Cabarrus can be Cabarrus.
A confession.
I’ve been part of the problem.
There was a moment last year when I called something out publicly in a way I still believe was right in substance — but the manner cost things that mattered. It triggered ripples I didn’t anticipate. It taught me something I’m still learning: speaking truth and loving neighbors aren’t opposites, but they have to live in the same sentence, or you’ve lost the plot.
So this letter isn’t me throwing rocks. It’s me asking us to put the rocks down.
What I’m committing to.
I’m a pastor. I’m not a politician. I’m not running for anything. I’m not trying to take a side. I’m trying to take responsibility — for the corner of this county I can actually influence.
So here’s what I’m doing:
SOJO Church is going to focus on serving the schools within reach of us. We’re going to bless our teachers. We’re going to show up for our kids. We’re going to partner with anyone — any church, any business, any neighbor, any organization — who wants to do the same.
I’m not promising we’ll fix everything. We won’t. But we’ll do something. Because the alternative is sitting on the sidelines while our community falls apart, and I’m not willing to do that.
One last thing.
Do you want to be right? Or do you want to make a difference?
That question has been sitting on me for weeks. I think it’s the question of our moment.
Being right is easy. You just pick your tribe and hold the line. Making a difference is harder. It costs ego, certainty, and comfort.
But it’s the only thing that actually changes anything.
Cabarrus, we don’t have to be like everyone else.
Let’s prove it.
— PC
Lead Pastor, SOJO Church
Concord, NC