by: Cassie Clark

In late September, I had the chance to attend the Salt & Light Conference with a press pass.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, the Salt & Light Conference is North Carolina’s largest faith-based policy event, hosted each year by the NC Faith & Freedom Coalition in Marion. It brings together conservative Christian leaders, thinkers, and advocates from across the state — and beyond — to connect, learn, and find inspiration from dynamic speakers.

The conference takes its name straight from Matthew 5:13–16, where Christians are called to be “salt” and “light” in the world — preserving what’s good and shining truth into dark places. The goal is simple but powerful: to encourage believers to live out their faith boldly, to step into the conversations shaping our culture, and to do it with both conviction and grace.

Culture? That’s my wheelhouse. It’s what I’ve dedicated the last four years of my life to — not the trendy kind that fades with hashtags and hype, but the deep-rooted kind. The kind that connects us to each other and to the places we come from. The kind that tells us who we are and why it matters.

Still, I’ll admit — I was apprehensive walking in.

I’m a Christian, albeit not a perfect one. I have a strong relationship with Jesus, but I cuss a lot. I drink moonshine. I’ve been known to let my temper get the best of me.

I tell people I’ll probably end up on the south side of heaven. It’s mostly a joke — but like most jokes, there’s a bit of truth in it. Yes, I’m opposed to sin. Yes, I try to do better every day. But I also know I’m human, and grace is real. I don’t beat myself up for being imperfect, and I don’t judge others who love Jesus but fall short sometimes, too.

I’m a conservative as well — but not a Republican. The best way to describe me is a constitutional conservative, someonewho believes in a strict, literal interpretation of the Constitution.

In my mind, that’s what the Republican Party used to stand for, or at least what it was meant to. These days, I find myself asking: what exactly are we conserving?  Shouldn’t conservatives be the ones preserving history, protecting the land, and defending small-town ways of life? Shouldn’t we be the ones standing up for local culture and old traditions before they’re gone for good?

And as a Christian, I don’t believe religion should dictate federal policy — but on the state level, I do believe people have the right to determine how their faith shapes their laws and communities. That’s part of the balance between freedom and responsibility our founders envisioned.

Depending on the issue, I might lean a little more libertarian — or even a touch more liberal — than most folks expect.

So, as I packed up my microphones, laptop, and gimbal, I couldn’t help but wonder: how would someone like me be received?

To make matters worse, I knew I was underprepared. I’d never sat on media row before, and I wasn’t sure what that would even look like. I was about to get a crash course in professional press coverage — and my amateur setup was bound to stand out. My folding table looked bare compared to the slick banners and branded backdrops around me. I didn’t bring flyers or stickers or even a display sign for Where the Dogwood Blooms. Just business cards and a prayer.

It felt like all the cards were stacked against me.

But that wasn’t what happened.

Sure, there were protesters standing at the entrance. They held up signs and shouted about the “true” meaning of Christianity, but even they smiled and waved when we pulled in — and again when we left.

And yes, I made mistakes. I set up in a spot with way too much background noise. I didn’t think about lighting or camera placement. My interview angles were awkward, and my tripod nearly toppled twice.

But none of that mattered.

From the moment I walked through the doors of Nebo Crossing Church, I was met with genuine warmth. The conference drew more than 2,000 people this year — pastors, activists, elected officials, and everyday believers — yet somehow, it still felt like a small community. There was a hum of optimism in every hallway. People hugged like old friends, even if they’d only met online.

And to my surprise, I wasn’t as politically out of place as I’d feared. I met other constitutional conservatives — and more libertarians than I ever expected. We talked about faith, family, and freedom, but also about farming, land preservation, and the importance of keeping local traditions alive. Those conversations reminded me that political identity doesn’t have to fit neatly into one party line.

Over the weekend, I listened to nationally recognized speakers and local voices alike. Big names like Shawn Hendrix, Adam Smith, and Greg Biffle shared the stage with pastors and grassroots leaders who spoke from the heart. The focus wasn’t just politics — it was purpose. Faith in action.

And Greg Biffle? OMG — the nicest guy in the world. I cried when he sat down during a roundtable discussion to talkabout Hurricane Helene. I was so nervous afterward that I couldn’t bring myself to ask for an interview, but I did work up the courage to ask for a photo.

There were other moments that caught me off guard, too. A few times, people recognized me — not as a reporter, but as me. They came up to hug me or tell me how much they appreciated what I do. I’ll be honest: sometimes I forget that my platform actually reaches people, that it makes a difference. Hearing that reminded me why I started all this in the first place.

One pastor spoke about our duty to serve our communities, and that hit me right in the chest. I’m a proud WNC hillbilly, and after Helene, I’ll never let another disaster strike without rolling up my sleeves and getting my hands dirty.

By Saturday afternoon, the sanctuary was buzzing with energy. Folks exchanged business cards and ideas, prayed together in corners, and laughed over barbecue in the fellowship hall. It was like a revival and a town hall rolled into one — equal parts policy and praise.

What struck me most wasn’t the political alignment. It was the sincerity. These were people who cared deeply — about their country, their faith, and their neighbors. Whether we agreed on every issue didn’t matter as much as the fact that we were all showing up.

By the time Sunday rolled around and I started packing up my gear, something inside me had shifted.

I came to the Salt & Light Conference expecting formality and rigidity — a crowd that might not have patience for someone like me, who straddles the line between conservative and contrarian.

Instead, I found warmth. I found people willing to listen, to debate respectfully, and to pray together anyway. I found that faith and conviction don’t have to divide us — not if we lead with grace.

When I pulled out of Marion that afternoon, the foothills fading in the rearview, I realized I hadn’t just covered a conference. I’d been reminded of what it means to be salt and light myself — imperfect, human, but still shining the best I can in my own little corner of the world.

And maybe even more important than that was the realization that people — with all our varied views, quirks, and convictions — can still come together, united in the simple goal of making the world a better, freer place.