On Jan. 1, 2025, Civic Nebraska convened Civic Saturday: UNBROKEN, a virtual gathering to kick off the new year with shared purpose. Steve Smith, a National Civic Saturday Fellow from Lincoln, delivered the following civic sermon. Learn more about Civic Saturdays here.
Recently, I came across a map of our solar system; a black-and-white illustration from the early 1970s. As was the custom then, the entirety of the solar system was arranged left to right – starting with our Sun, and then the planets in order, evenly spaced in a line, from Mercury to Pluto.
It wasn’t to scale, thank goodness. Truly grasping the vastness of outer space requires something that is … well, let’s admit it. It’s beyond our human capacity to appreciate. It takes light, moving at 186,000 miles a second, a full two years just to span the length of our solar system. Our brains can absorb that fact, but still, translating that into a physical understanding of actual distance? That’s the bendiest of mind-benders. We can’t do it. It’s too big.
Now, because this map was old, it still included Pluto – way out there on the outer edge – as a planet. And … well … this made me sad. Because we all remember what happened to Pluto some 20 years ago. Yeah. Back in 2006, at the annual meeting of the international body that governs astronomy, Pluto was demoted to something called a “Dwarf Planet.” The scientists in attendance decided our ninth planet was a closer cousin to the thousands of small, icy bodies at the edge of our system than it was to, say, Mercury, Venus, Earth, or Mars.
It’s a good example of the old saying The future is made by those who show up. Fewer than 10 percent of voting members were on hand when the vote was taken. And you think voter turnout in November left something to be desired.
So, Pluto was condemned to second-class status. In a way, it’s fitting: That distant ice-ball has always been a contradiction. Here’s a glimmering object in our heavens, but it’s named for the Roman god of the underworld. A barren world whose name, nonetheless, means “wealth-giver.”
We also find Pluto in the term plutocrat, or a rich person who uses their fortune to gain and exert political power – often, it should be said, in a way that is corrupt or even oppressive. And so therefore, a plutocracy is a society that is ruled by, yes, the wealthy.
We have some experience with this back here on Earth – back here in America – don’t we? There haven’t been any Mr. Smiths in Washington for a while now, and our politics have devolved into the toxic realm of the rich. Think about it: You can’t be president anymore unless you’re heir to a family fortune; a celebrity of some means; or in thrall to Big Media and Big Business.
This has real-life impacts on us all. Nearly everything we see, hear and do – from the food we eat, to the health care we need, to the news and information we consume – is controlled, managed, and manipulated by an ever-smaller, ever-richer group. A House seat costs about $3 million; a Senate seat, about nine times that. And of course, we just re-elected our wealthiest president ever with the help of the world’s wealthiest man. We should not be surprised that they are surrounding themselves with fellow billionaires, fellow plutocrats.
Yet, we gather today on a day of optimism. It’s the dawn of a new year. A new Earth year, anyway. And with the start of a new circle around the sun, we note the end of one era, while resolving to improve ourselves and our communities at the start of new one.
Our solar system is made up of endlessly complex trajectories. Earth’s orbit is 365.4 days. One Pluto orbit around the Sun, meanwhile, takes 248 Earth-years. That’s right, 248 years. The last time Pluto cruised through the same region of our solar system that it is moving through now, it was 1776.
Big year in human history. That’s when we declared that all men were created equal, called a petty tyrant’s bluff, and set off on the treacherous, bloody road to independence. In 1776, with threats to their way of life all around them, American revolutionaries looked up, and said enough.
Today, we find ourselves at another crossroads. There’s no denying the threats we face. Our democracy is under siege in ways that are unprecedented in modern history. We’ve heard promises of authoritarian rule, threats to silence dissent by force, and attempts to strip away the very foundations of our democracy in so many ways and on so many fronts, it makes your head spin.
In moments like this, the question before us is simple: What do we do?
To me, there are three paths we can take. We can exist, we can evade, or we can engage.
First, let’s look at what I mean by “existing.”
I’m talking here about a sort of sheltering in place. If the world is on fire, if inhumanity seems unrelenting, if chaos is constant — it’s natural to seek shelter, turn inward, and build walls around ourselves. Given everything we’ve been through in the past decade, it’s understandable that many of us have gone underground. Withdrawn. Checked out.
Not uncommon following a collective trauma. I spent all of November and much of December forcibly withdrawn from our nation’s new reality. I deactivated my social media accounts. I repeatedly turned down lunch invitations and coffee dates. I rudely left texts and emails unanswered. I hardly ventured away from home.
I told myself I was protecting my peace. And yes, there’s wisdom and value in doing so. None of us are meant to absorb the weight of the world all at once. Yet, if we retreat so far that we disengage from the world around us, we risk losing something essential, not only for ourselves but for the communities that rely on us.
If we permanently retreat into isolation or apathy, we invite a kind of cultural, social, and spiritual deep freeze. The warmth of shared purpose, collective action, and group advancement just fades away.
Now, some of us may see checking out right now as a form of resistance: If the game is dominated by noise and nonsense, refusing to play can feel like an act of defiance. The truth does not require your participation in order to exist, the saying goes.
You know what does? Democracy. It runs on people, and it needs you. It needs voices raised not in perpetual anger but in newfound optimism and hope. It needs neighbors looking out for one another, ready to stand together when the storms come.
Steve, I can’t do it. I care too much. And I can’t bear to get hurt again.
Look, sometimes caring deeply about this work can hurt. The setbacks, the struggles, the heartbreaks … they all come with the territory when you’re fully invested in something that truly matters. But that pain? It’s a sign you’re alive. That you’re all in. It means you’re not just clocking in and out; you’re pouring yourself into the work, people, and mission.
That’s what makes it worth it. Caring isn’t a burden – it’s a strength. It’s what drives us, connects us, and gives us meaning. That matters: When we choose to withdraw and pull back into a perpetual detachment of learned helplessness, the spaces we vacate are filled with forces that thrive on division and despair.
So, when you’re tired — and believe me, we all get tired — learn to rest, not quit. Recharge, but come back to the work of being a citizen, neighbor, and builder of something greater.
Nebraska needs you. America needs you. The world needs you. Right now, in this extraordinary time, it needs your passion. And most of all, it needs your compassion.
The second of our three paths is to evade.
And by this, I mean literal, physical evasion.
After everything we’ve been through and feeling like we’re right back where we started, it’s tempting to think about packing up and leaving. To find someplace quieter, safer, less burdened by the weight of history or the struggles of the present.
My overwhelming impulse to leave the United States occurred a few months before Election Day. On July 1, the U.S. Supreme Court made a devastating decision that essentially put the president above the law. After that, my wife and I renewed our passports. We met with our financial adviser to game out a plan if we had to go quickly. We considered the cost of living in Canada, Costa Rica, Australia, and a few other places. Spoiler alert: They were all higher than what we live on in Lincoln. But that’s nothing compared to the cost of losing our freedoms, our livelihoods, or, God forbid, our lives.
But let me tell you something painfully obvious: This struggle for the soul of America cannot be won if we all walk away. Those who seek to rule us, who would strip away our freedoms and our voices, want nothing more than for us to “Love it or leave it.” They’d be happy to see dissenting voices quieted, communities hollowed out, and our country’s greatest strength — its people — isolated, scattered, and disengaged.
The work of democracy isn’t somewhere else. It’s right here. In the places we know, the neighborhoods we’ve built, the communities we call home. It’s in our town halls and school boards, our union halls, and places of worship. This is where we have put down our roots, and this is where we must plant our feet and say, Not on my watch.
There is courage in picking up your life and settling somewhere less chaotic, less repressive. But there’s greater courage in staying put – in owning not just the future but the history of the place that made you. In valuing what’s yours — not out of sentimentality, but because this is your home, and you love it enough to protect it.
So, if you’re thinking of leaving, I understand. For some of us, it may even be necessary. But there will be work to do for those of us, and that’s most of us, who are staying. Together, we can own our future, hold fast to the ideals that define us, and make sure that when the census is counted in 2030, our state and our nation is still alive and well. Because we stayed to fight for it.
When I mentioned the vote to demote Pluto, I said the future is decided by those who show up. America’s future will be decided by those who stay.
Finally, we can engage.
That’s our third pathway, and it’s also the most difficult and dangerous one. Opposing powerful regimes, especially in places where dissent is met with repression, is not something to enter into lightly. Engaging in this sense – the last go-round, we called it resistance – inevitably will summon us toward danger. It can put us, our families, and our community in harm’s way.
It’s easier to exist. It’s safer to evade. But for each of us, the time to engage will come. We must answer this call; tyranny is made possible not just by the actions of the powerful, but also by the inaction of the fearful. The history of humankind is full of good and decent people who worked hard and who just wanted to live their lives … and who chose to look the other way when the curtain fell. Some were afraid of what would happen to them if they spoke up. Others convinced themselves it wasn’t really their problem. Still others, in direct opposition to the evidence of their eyes and ears, said the situation was exaggerated, or expected someone else to step in.
That fear, that silence, that quiet complicity, creates the conditions for tragedy. But what history also shows us, what it teaches us again and again, is that the only way to stop our fear from winning is to confront it. To organize. To find allies. To support one another, even when the cost is steep. To stand out and speak up.
It’s dangerous. But it’s also necessary.
In silence, we lose ourselves. We lose our sense of right and wrong. We lose our ability to look our children, our neighbors, our future selves in the eye and say, I did everything that I could.
I understand the risks we may be asked to face. But if we can find even the smallest way to resist — to whisper the truth when shouting it is too risky, to help our neighbor when the powerful would have us turn away — that matters. That makes a difference. And it reminds us all that while fear is a weapon, so, too, is our courage.
Think about those who have gone before us our American story. The abolitionists, marching and organizing to end the sin of slavery. The suffragists, reaching for the ballot at long last. The civil rights leaders, standing firm and refusing to back down to hatred and violence. Countless others both known and unknown. All of them faced persecution. Imprisonment. Immeasurable cruelty. But they pushed forward anyway with an unshakable faith in the power of their cause.
They knew that when you fight the good fight and not just to fight, then something more than the immediate outcome is at stake. It’s the struggle. It’s about the values you’re willing to defend. It’s about showing up, even when it’s hard, even when it’s dangerous, because you know in your heart of hearts that what you’re fighting for is bigger than you. Every step you take forward, every inch of ground you gain, you’re making it just a little bit easier for the next person to stand where you stood. To keep pushing.
That’s the face of engagement we need in America right now. That’s how, in spite of it all, progress can and will still happen. Not all at once, it never does. But piece by piece. Step by step. It will happen because people like you will decide to look up.
Look up. Because our fate is written there.
At the top of this sermon, I talked of tiny Pluto, spinning through the void of space, trudging along its long, long orbit around our common star. Two hundred forty-eight years to make a single circle. The same amount of time for a republic of laws to be born, to rise up and change the world, and to flirt with decay.
The reality is, Pluto doesn’t care how we define it. It’s indifferent to our human debates and divisions. It just keeps spinning on its path, as it has for billions of years. Its truth doesn’t require our participation.
But I believe it does have something to teach us. I believe that in some otherworldly way, the forces that shaped the cosmos are at work within each of us. How could they not be? The same elements that make up our bodies were created in the stars. As Carl Sagan said: “We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” And, if I might add, a way for us to know ourselves.
There is movement in the cosmos, and there is movement within us.
On a quiet Tuesday in November, exactly two weeks after Election Day, Pluto’s orbit edged the dwarf planet into the constellation Aquarius. At least, from our perspective here on Earth. For those keeping score at home, this also is happening for the first time since the 1770s. Pluto will stay in this area of our night sky for about the next 20 years.
Some say this new alignment indicates that we are standing on the edge of something profound — a new chapter, a new era. A … a cosmic vibe shift, in the lingo of our day.
In human lore, Pluto is the great transformer. It asks us to confront what’s hidden, to dig deep, to strip away the illusions that hold us back. It calls on us to step into truth, to reclaim our power, and to find authenticity in the world around us. And within ourselves.
Aquarius is the sign of innovation and progress. Of disparate groups coming together to create something greater. It also challenges us to stand apart when called upon, to break free from the crowd, the old ways of doing things, the boundaries of what we thought was possible.
The last time our night sky was arranged exactly as it is now, the world turned upside down. It was an era of breathless change – the American Revolution, the French Revolution, and the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. It was a time when people looked up, literally and figuratively. New ideas about democracy, freedom, and human rights took root, took hold, and changed the course of history.
So here we are again, on the precipice of another great transformation. What we choose to do with this moment will make all the difference in the days, months, and years to come. Will we take the lessons of the past and apply them to our struggle today? Will we summon the courage to defend our rights and the rights of others? To stand against authoritarianism and a rising plutocracy?
We will. Because we must.
We will make this moment a necessary turning point, the start of something new.
When we see anger and isolation, we will meet it with grace and renewed connection.
When we see oppression and cruelty, we will meet it with innovation and kindness.
When we see cynicism and hatred, we will meet it with faith and love.
As with the universe, so it is with the soul. Just as the universe is constantly expanding and evolving, so are we. As we move forward together, let’s remember the infinite possibilities within each of us.
The cosmos is always moving, my friends. And so are we.
Thank you.
