In the filament between thought and action, we are shaped most profoundly not by what we claim to believe but by what we love.

Our loves and loyalties are forged not through mere intellect, but through the embodied practices and rituals that captivate our hearts and mould our identities. Like a sculptor's hands upon clay, we perform our loves, and through various performances, our identities are forged.

The word 'perform' troubled me this morning. It sat awkwardly on my tongue, a borrowed garment that revealed more than it concealed. I traced it back to its Latin root—performo: "to form thoroughly"I found the light that was hiding in a dark corner of my mind.

The revelation landed quietly but profoundly: every act of performance is not mere execution but the slow, deliberate sculpting of identity. The self, it seems, is shaped not solely through grand declarations, but rather in the quiet accumulation of performances, the ongoing enactment of words and deeds.

Stand. Kneel. Sing. Raise holy hands, becomes the furnace where worshippers are recast, their deepest loves hammered not through cognition's forge but the body's mute obedience. Each genuflection etches new neural pathways, each major and minor chord rewiring desire itself. This is how worship transforms us at the deepest level: the liturgy that appears to be performed by us is ultimately performing upon us, its repetitions embedding belief into bone-marrow truth until the scripted becomes scripture.

Each motion
a chisel,
each genuflection
etching neural grooves
where belief
will later nest.

Not what I claim
but what I love—
this is the furnace
where the self
is forged, is
broken, is remade.

To perform:
performare—
to form
thoroughly.

Imagine stepping into a liturgical space—a cathedral or a modern worship venue—where the architecture itself performs. In a Catholic cathedral, sunlight filters through stained glass windows, transforming ordinary light into sacred radiance. The nave stretches like an ancient pilgrim’s path, its cedar ceiling soaring upward, unbroken by pillars, as if to remind the gathered faithful of their shared journey toward the divine. The air hums with quiet reverence, punctuated by the murmurs of prayer and the faint echo of footsteps on stone. Here, performance is ritualised, each genuflection and chant chiseling unseen grooves into the soul, as if the space itself moulds those who enter it.

Contrast this with a contemporary mega-church: a vibrant stage pulses with synchronised lights and screens that glow like modern stained glass. Stage lights pulse like arterial blood, their RGB spectrum synced to chord progressions. The sound engineer's fader moves like a priest elevating the host, lifting Reckless Love into the acoustic stratosphere. You find yourself singing not only because the lyrics convince, but because the bass frequency vibrates your sternum at 40Hz—it is resonance as theological argument.

Both spaces embody their own kind of sacred choreography: one steeped in tradition’s weighty grace, the other alive with innovation’s electric energy. Yet in both, the act of worship performs upon its participants—etching faith into flesh, shaping hearts through light, sound, and movement. Both spaces share this liturgical genius: they bypass the cortex to address the cerebellum directly, making believers through muscle memory before catechism begins.

I kneel
before I believe.
I sing
before I understand.
I raise
these hands
that shape me
as they rise.

Now imagine stepping into the White House Cabinet Room on April 10, 2025—where Trumps Cabinet itself performs a liturgy.

Sunlight filters through bullet-resistant windows, transforming ordinary daylight into the consecrated radiance of power. The mahogany table stretches like an ancient altar, its polished surface reflecting faces taut with ambition and doubt, unbroken by division, as if to remind the gathered officials of their shared pilgrimage toward legacy. The air hums with practiced reverence, punctuated by the murmurs of aides and the faint percussion of secure phones vibrating against wood. Here, performance too is ritualised, as if the oval-shaped space itself moulds those who enter it.

When the President enters, watch how the Cabinet transforms: spines straighten like congregants at the sound of a processional hymn. Technology extends this sanctuary beyond its physical walls—cameras like digital scribes capturing each gesture, each nod becoming scripture for devotees, markets, and foreign capitals. The soundscape envelops participants—clear, resonant, alive—with every policy pronouncement reaching ears not as mere strategy but as secular creed. Here, performance is simultaneously scripted and spontaneous, each member reciting their departmental liturgies while navigating the unpredictable currents of presidential favour.

What transpires is not merely a meeting, not simply a ritual, but a liturgy—a choreographed sequence of embodied practices that worked upon those present like a sculptor's hands upon clay. The cabinet members' effusive praise, their carefully calibrated gestures of deference, and their synchronized affirmations were not neutral activities but formative liturgies, each carrying a tacit vision of human flourishing. These rituals of devotion, performed with precision and coordination, served to shape the participants' identities and loyalties, molding them into true believers of the president's agenda.

Meanwhile
in rooms of power,
spines straighten
like congregants,
praise becomes
belief becomes
identity.

The scene unfolded with a precision that would make even the most seasoned cathedral choirmaster nod in appreciation.

One by one, cabinet members offered their devotions, not to policies or principles, but to the man seated at the centre of the table. Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins called it "the highest honor" to serve Trump's "vision," describing him as "family." Kelly Loeffler of the Small Business Administration thanked the president "on behalf of America's small businesses," despite the fact that many faced bankruptcy from the very tariff upheaval Trump had just retreated from. Secretary of State Marco Rubio, not to be outdone, lavished praise on Trump for "reordering the world in a proper way."

Throughout this litany of adulation, Trump maintained a stoic demeanour, occasionally offering remarks once the tributes concluded. The performance reached its crescendo when a light-hearted joke from the president elicited hearty laughter from all attendees, seemingly causing the table to shake with their enthusiasm.

This was not merely political theatre. It was liturgy in its most essential form—embodied practices that shape their loves and, consequently, because of the public performance is designed to shape ours. As James K.A. Smith reminds us, "We are what we love, and our love is shaped, primed, and aimed by liturgical practices that take hold of our gut and aim our heart to certain ends."

What transforms a "Never Trump guy" who once compared his leader to Hitler into Vice President? What liturgical alchemy converts a senator who called Trump a "con artist" into a cabinet devotee?

The April 10th cabinet meeting functioned as what Bishop Barron might call "a kind of high liturgy of our democracy". What makes this cabinet gathering explicitly liturgical rather than merely political is how it transforms participants through repeated symbolic actions. Like all religious liturgy, these performances are "not entertainment" but transformative ritual.

The Latin root of perform, to form thoroughly, is on full display. This etymological revelation illuminates how Trump's former critics have been reshaped through their performances in the administration's political liturgy. Consider J.D. Vance’s repeated performances of loyalty, defending policies, adopting rhetoric, participating in cabinet rituals—Vance became thoroughly formed into the image of the person he once vilified.

Liturgy shapes what we love, and we become what we love.

Scott Bessent, once known for orthodox economic views as a hedge fund manager, now participates in tariff policies he would have previously rejected. The liturgical nature of cabinet meetings "performs upon its participants", gradually reshaping their core beliefs through repeated ritual expressions.

Marco Rubio's transformation follows similar liturgical patterns. Once declaring Trump "a con artist" who "has spent his entire career sticking it to the little guy," Now he chants the administration's creed with convert's zeal. Marco Rubio's transformation can be described as following a three-step process: First, he abandoned his former principles and views on Trump. Second, he expressed repentance by reversing his policy positions. Third, he achieved a state of devotion through repeatedly performing loyalty to the president. The man who called Trump "a con artist" in 2016 now crosses himself with tariff approvals, each signature a genuflection to the liturgy of power.

Neuroplasticity reveals the liturgical secret: neurons that fire together, wire together. When J.D. Vance first defended border walls despite his Hillbilly Elegy laments, synaptic pathways sparked in conflict. But repetition bred alignment—each Fox News appearance, each Cabinet meeting applause, each policy paper signed eroded former neural canyons. Now his brain's default network lights at MAGA rallies like dopamine circuits responding to sacrament

Neurons that fire
together, wire
together. What began
as act
becomes
what I am.

Howard Lutnick's metamorphosis proves equally liturgical. The former free trade evangelist now advocates "liberation tariffs" with convert's fervour. His daily ritual—Morning Briefing, Policy Review, Press Gaggle—serves as a daily routine like a monastic schedule, reshaping economic orthodoxy through habituation. When CNBC's Joe Kernen asked about recession risks, Lutnick's answer came not as reasoned argument but liturgical response: "These policies are the most significant things America has ever had. It is worth it".

The cabinet meeting's persistent flattery performed its participants into creatures of perpetual deference. The bond market's volatile reactions performed investors into beings who crave stability over disruption. Each liturgy shaped what its participants ultimately loved, and consequently, who they ultimately became.

Consider how Attorney General Pam Bondi recounted her preferred narrative about the election and implied a reinterpretation of the Constitution during the cabinet meeting. "You were elected with an overwhelming majority," she stated, reiterating a falsehood often claimed by the president." The American people want you to lead because of your agenda, and the courts are affirming that you possess the authority to decide how the nation's funds should be allocated."

This wasn't merely a statement of political opinion; it was a liturgical act that performed both speaker and listeners into particular kinds of citizens with particular understandings of democracy and constitutional authority. The repetition of such claims—their liturgical enactment—shapes desires and imaginations more profoundly than any abstract argument could.

What makes political liturgies so potent is their ability to bypass our critical faculties and speak directly to our imaginative capacities. They don't argue; they envision. They don't persuade; they woo. They don't instruct; they form.

The brilliance of this political liturgy lies in its ability to transform through participation. Former critics don't merely endorse Trump's positions—they embody them, defend them, expand upon them. Through their words, by sharing of their faith in Trump, participants become living testimonies to their conversion.

Around the mahogany altar of power, former unbelievers genuflect in newfound devotion. Around it sit people who, in performing loyalty, become loyal; in articulating tariff defences, become protectionists; in celebrating Trump's leadership, become true believers.

As I said earlier, the word 'perform' troubled me this morning. Now that I have seen the splint in my brother’s eye, I see Jesus point at the log in mine. What performances are forming me? What dangerous liturgies have I failed to recognise as liturgies at all—the ones we mistake for neutral activities or mere entertainment. The ones I call "just the way things are."

Yet, but the reality is unchanged, liturgy shapes what we love, and we “become what we love and who we love shapes what we become." ((Ilia Delio)

Beyond churches and halls of power, more insidious liturgies perform their work every day, anytime, and everywhere. Consider how the smartphone's morning ritual—the 5:30am vibration that summons our fingers to scroll—performs us into creatures of perpetual distraction. Each social media swipe a performance that shapes our attention, our desires, and our very sense of self. Like the cabinet members, we too are moulded by the liturgies embedded in our daily routines, from the endless scroll to the compulsive checking of notifications. You emerge from fifteen minutes' "harmless browsing" feeling less human than data-point, your political desires reshaped by micro-targeted content the way incense reshapes air.

My phone vibrates
at dawn—
a matins bell
calling fingers
to scroll, to like,
to become
data
in the sacrament
of distraction.

These liturgies infiltrate our lives, quietly redirecting our affections and reforming who we become, often without our conscious awareness.

As Easter approaches, we might perform a liturgical audit of our own lives—hitting pause on our immersion to ask uncomfortable questions: What story carries this rhythm? What vision of the good life is performed when I repeat this pattern daily? What am I being taught to love through this ordinary practice?

The smartphone's persistent notifications perform us into creatures of perpetual distraction. The social media feed performs us into digital subjects craving validation. The shopping mall performs us into consumers before we've consciously embraced consumerism. Each carries a vision of flourishing, a tacit promise of salvation.

Consider the kitchen where father and daughter knead sourdough, flour dust motes catching dawn light. Their life-affirming-liturgy—measured cups, folded dough, patient waiting—rejects Amazon's rush delivery ecclesiology. The yeast's slow rise becomes an eschatological sign: not yet, but coming. In the process of kneading sourdough together, father and daughter experience a life-affirming ritual that cultivates their familial affection and patience.

Yet some liturgies deform rather than transform. The liturgy of consumerism shapes us into restless accumulators. The liturgy of social media moulds us into approval-seekers. The liturgy of political tribalism fashions us into fearful antagonists. When we engage these liturgies without critical awareness, we may find ourselves shaped into images we cannot recognise or love.

This is the danger: that our loves—misdirected and misshapen—form us into creatures estranged from our own hearts. What begins as seemingly innocent habit becomes, through repetition, the architecture of our desires.

The liturgy of Trump's cabinet meeting performed its participants into subjects whose primary love was directed toward power personified in a single individual. The liturgy of the bond market performed investors into beings whose primary love was directed toward stability and predictable returns. Each liturgy shaped its participants' affections toward particular ends, particular visions of flourishing.

What liturgies are performing you and me? The daily scroll through social media? The weekly gathering for worship? The monthly ritual of paying bills and balancing accounts? Each of these practices is not merely something you do but something that makes you—reshaping the very architecture of your desires while you remain, often, blissfully unaware.

What liturgies
sculpt your loves?
What performances
have thoroughly formed
the architecture
of your wanting?

If we become what we love, and our loves are shaped by liturgies, then the most important question we can ask ourselves this Easter is not "What do I believe?" but "What liturgies am I practicing?" For it is in the answer to this question that we will discover not just what we love, but who we are becoming.

The question isn't whether you participate in liturgy, but which liturgies are forming you. And in this Easter season of resurrection and new life, perhaps it's time to examine whether those liturgies are forming you into the person you truly want to become—or whether, like those cabinet members, you're being performed into something that, in the quiet of your heart, you cannot truly love.

The liturgies we choose—or that choose us—determine not just what we do, but who we become.

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