But as I reflect on the election results, I don’t think empathy is what’s missing. The answer, I believe, lies in understanding the hot-cold empathy gap. Think about the last time you went grocery shopping on an empty stomach. That junk food that leapt into your cart was induced by impulsive cravings—a “hot state.” Later, when you were satiated and relaxed—a “cold state”—you wondered what came over you. This same dynamic plays out in politics. Human emotions are not fixed; we shift between calm, collected states and intense, reactive states. The challenge is that empathy, inherently state-dependent, often fails to account for these shifts. In a cold state, we imagine responding to stress with logic and composure, but in a hot state, we behave differently. (When you are starving, your usual diet goes out the window). Campaigns that evoke visceral emotions push voters into hot states where rational appeals and promises of gradual progress lose their resonance. This disconnect explains why emotionally charged messages often overpower logical, measured arguments in shaping voter behavior.
 
About ninety-percent of US counties shifted red from the last election, so it is clear that the country’s resting pulse is high. Donald Trump capitalized on this hot-state politics. By amplifying grievances and stoking fear about immigration, economic decline, and cultural change, he moved voters into a heightened emotional state. This strategy tapped into deep-seated resentment and a desire for security, to preserve identity, and assert control in an uncertain world. This seemed to appeal to young men in particular. Meanwhile, the Democratic campaign leaned on cold-state reasoning, promising stability and incremental change, a calm, ordered “we are not going back” rhetoric. While logical, this approach failed to address the simmering frustrations that had been building for years, leaving Democrats disconnected from voters seeking immediate emotional validation.
 
Ironically, Trump also performed well with voters who Democrats assumed would be in a hot state but were, in fact, cold. For instance, he secured record-high support among Latino voters, despite running a campaign centered on mass deportation. Even among Puerto Ricans, who might have been expected to recoil after the “floating island of garbage” remarks, he performed surprisingly well. Why? Many of these voters, now removed from the immediate struggles of recent immigrants, were in a cold state. For them, Trump’s economic message was more relevant than his inflammatory speech; those “poisoning the blood of our country” now referred to somebody else, and therefore lost its sting.
 
So where does this leave the disillusioned citizen? Ezra Klein urged Democrats to respond with curiosity, but Democrats have been the party of curiosity. From listening to conservative radio in rural Alabama to dissecting New York Times election podcasts, much of the last eight years of my life has been spent trying to understand Trump voters. I put myself in their shoes, trying to make sense of rationale ranging from misunderstood views on tariffs to podcast bromances to “he just speaks his mind,” to “If a fellow felon can become President, that makes my prospects better.” The thing is, I can empathize with those viewpoints. I get why a convict becoming the President would give hope to someone with a criminal record. The real obstacle for Democrats wasn’t lack of empathy, it was the volatility of the emotional state of the voting public.
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Of course, we must acknowledge the broader context. Dissatisfaction with the status quo—fueled by COVID and inflation—meant that nearly every incumbent government worldwide faced similar struggles. Perhaps the 2024 election was inevitable. But that doesn’t diminish the lesson. Empathy is not just about understanding others’ feelings but recognizing the emotional states that influence their actions. To move forward, political campaigns must address voters’ fears and frustrations while offering a vision of hope and long-term progress. For citizens, fostering empathy means engaging with opposing views in good faith, striving to understand not only what people believe but why they feel the way they do. Though divisions run deep, building a resilient democracy starts with a shared commitment to listen, understand, and bridge the emotional divides that shape our decisions.

The part I couldn’t shake was “a peaceful and quiet life.” If this is truly what evangelical Christians want, then why are their views so often made public? Harvey insists that the church is not getting more political, rather “politics is getting more spiritual.” In his view, politics are now trespassing into areas traditionally discussed and decided by the church. This has led to a public discourse where gender, sexuality, and family structures have become political battlegrounds with evangelical voices leading the charge.

Anyone who has followed politics over the last 8 weeks (or 8 years) would agree that Donald Trump lives the opposite of a “quiet and peaceful life.” Harvey’s defense is that his congregation supports the platform, not the person, but this justification offers a moral loophole. As long as a candidate champions certain values you agree with, all other values—and personal transgressions—can be overlooked. We’ve seen this alignment in action for a long time. Trump was first elected as “a symbolic defense of the United States’ perceived Christian heritage,” next he followed through on a promise to overturn Roe v. Wade, then he leaned into masculinity and an anti-immigrant rhetoric, and started thumping his own Bible, and most recently he has weaponized some of their deepest fears (e.g., transgender people).
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Pastor Harvey’s quote concisely encapsulates the paradox that is the overwhelming support for Trump by white Christians. In one breath, he speaks of peace and quiet; in the next, he defends a movement that persistently targets those who would likely be met with Jesus’s compassion and empathy. Trump only amplifies the chaos that evangelical churches claim to wish to avoid. True peace and quiet would mean letting others live authentically and without judgment. It would mean not turning personal matters into political ones, platforms into pulpits, or faith into a shield for exclusion. If the church truly values peace, the quietest—and perhaps the most Christian—vote would be for a candidate who is only vocal in her advocacy for inclusion, progress, and the welfare of the entire country.