Stay Woke: From 1984 to Big Brother in a Red Baseball Cap

Photo by Francesco Ungaro

By Derek Penwell

When I was in 11th grade, I took a civics class. We had to read a short little book entitled 1984. (Actually, I read it in 1982, so I figured we had a couple of years to see if it would really come true.) This was at the height of the Cold War, which meant that my generation cut its political teeth on the fear of nuclear war and the kind of authoritarian state we might anticipate if the Soviet Union got the drop on us.

But I don't want to oversell the panic--at least as experienced by my 16-year-old self. In my little slice of suburban heaven, the world seemed "normal" and otherwise filled with infinite possibilities.

I guess I felt comfortable allowing my political senses to be lulled into the soporific belief that, yes, there were existential threats (both foreign and domestic), but no, those threats weren't actually that threatening. It was "the 80s, man." We thought we were finally getting ready to turn a corner on the economy, and we were assured that the "Evil Empire" was far enough away that a Red Dawn invasion and occupation of the United States was only a hazy nightmare that hung at the edge of our awareness, but didn't feel remotely possible when we were wide awake.

I, along with many others, retained that vague and (in retrospect) naïve belief that the sorts of horrible things that happened to Winston Smith in 1984, because he defied the state, were just fiction. The book was published in 1949, and it was supposed to be about Adolph Hitler, not Leonid Brezhnev. That stuff could never happen to us.

I've retained that unfounded optimism through much of my adult life. When things are going well, with no major bumps in the road or storms to navigate, it's easy to fall asleep at the wheel.

But lately, it feels like the guardrails are wobbly and somebody's stolen the road signs. And way up ahead, there's a watchtower with Big Brother in a red baseball cap--eyes that seem to follow your every move.

Creeping authoritarianism works because it creeps. It starts with ridiculous public rantings about some gauzy golden age that, for many Americans, never existed. To sell it, the powerful have to gin up hatred and fear toward an easy target, that is, people who are different. It's all theater for public consumption.

But in private, while the crowd is hypnotized by what would be considered utter nonsense in almost any other context, you can almost hear the quiet click of power being consolidated, targeting the vulnerable, disguising propaganda as truth, and dressing injustice in religious robes.

Authoritarians have always understood that holding power means controlling the narrative. Herod knew it. By the time the Magi showed up talking about a newborn "Ruler of the Jews," Herod was an old man who'd clawed his way to the top and wasn't about to let go.

For decades, he'd played the game brilliantly, kissing Caesar's backside, keeping just enough of the religious establishment happy, and building massive monuments to prove his loyalty and his own greatness. But all the gilded ornamentation couldn't hide the deep fear that someone might come along, backed by a different kind of power, and take his place.

So when word of Jesus reached him, Herod's first instinct wasn't curiosity; it was survival. In a world like that, there's no room for competing visions, no tolerance for anyone who suggests the way things are might not be the way God wants them to be.

Whether in first-century Judea or twenty-first-century America, the logic of empire is the same:

• Cling to control like grim death.
• Demand loyalty above all else.
• Crush or co-opt any rival vision of the world, because anything but the party line is a threat.

Herod's fear of a baby in a manger is the same fear every autocrat feels when confronted with a kingdom they can't buy, bribe, or bully into submission. It's the fear that somewhere out there, people might start believing that love, justice, and mercy are more powerful than fear, control, and violence.

That's why following Jesus has never been a "live and let live" proposition. The new world God is creating doesn't fit neatly alongside the empire's to-do list. Instead, this new realm exposes the empire's agenda, confronts it, and offers an entirely different blueprint for how the world should work.

Jesus didn't build monuments to himself; he built tables big enough for people the empire had discarded. He didn't consolidate power; he gave it away (usually, to all the wrong people: to fishers, tax collectors, women, lepers, and the poor). He didn't demand loyalty through fear; he invited people into love so compelling that even death couldn't shake it.

And here's the part that keeps empires up at night: he taught his followers to do the same.

If we take Jesus seriously, we cannot bless what he came to dismantle. We can't pretend that the reign of God and the reign of empire want the same things. We can't be content with a gospel that comforts the powerful while ignoring the cries of the powerless.

So what does resisting empire look like for Jesus-followers?

• Tell the truth when propaganda would be easier.
• Protect the vulnerable even when it's costly.
• Refuse to baptize injustice in the language of faith.
• Live as if the new world God is creating is already here because that's what Jesus told us to do.

Authoritarianism thrives when people grow numb, tired, or afraid. The reign of God thrives when God's people stay awake, stay compassionate, and refuse to trade the hand of healing for the tools of the empire.

To call someone "woke," then, is to acknowledge that they've shaken off the tempting sleep of the satisfied and awakened to the possibilities of actually following God's command to care for the widow, the orphan, and the stranger, you know, the most vulnerable in our midst. It's a recognition that true faithfulness requires eyes wide open to injustice.

Maybe that's the real warning Orwell was trying to give us, not just that authoritarianism is dangerous, but that it's easy to stop noticing when it's on the rise. We can get so comfortable, so certain "it could never happen here," that we forget to keep our eyes open.

But the way of Jesus is anything but sleepwalking. It's living wide awake to the signs of the times, alert to injustice, quick to stand with those the empire would rather forget. It's trusting that the new world God is creating isn't just possible, it's already taking root ... right under the shadow of the watchtower.

Herod's reign ended. Empires crumble. But the reign of God is still breaking in, still disrupting, still inviting us to live as if the old order has already passed away. And it has, if we have the courage to live like it.

So stay awake. Speak up. Love fiercely. Because Big Brother may be watching, but so is the rest of the world. And they're wondering which future we're willing to fight for.