I played the role of proud grandfather.

Northkirk Presbyterian Church, by my guess, would have been built in the 1950s or 60s, back when modest sanctuaries held maybe three or four hundred. Small stained glass windows depicted biblical scenes along the side walls, letting in colored light. White cloths with religious symbols draped the pulpit, communion table, and baptistry. The plain, large Cross behind the stage on the back wall did not include the crucified Jesus. The American and Christian flags adorned the front, one on either side. Colorful banners hung just so, with inspirational phrases taken straight from the Scriptures. Solid oak pews were cushioned with book racks that contained Bibles and Hymnals, along with the visitor’s registration card (to be placed in the offering plate during the service). The only sign of modernization in the room would be the two large flat-screen TVs on either side of the stage, just inside the flags.

It’s been years since I have been in a church like this. It so reminded me of the churches of my childhood - and the first church I served as a pastor way back in the 1970s.

Intrigued, I picked up the hymnal right there within my reach. And again, memories flooded my mind. And heart. I hadn’t seen a hymnal in, well, decades.

Apparently, there are churches out there that continue the tradition that I remember from the earliest days of my weekly church-going ritual. We didn’t attend until I was in the second grade. Somewhere in the mid-fifties, my Mom and Dad decided to follow Jesus, honor God, and raise their growing collection of children in “the way of the Lord.”

So Sunday in church has been a weekly tradition, well, for most all of my life.

We had a piano in our house. The one book you would find above the keyboard on the little wooden shelf would be a hymnal. Church would not be church (at least in our tradition) without a Bible and a hymnal there in the church pew, alongside that registration card and a sharpened pencil. (The ushers were sure that it was all there, ready to go, before the service began.)

So right there in Northkirk Church, I pulled that hymnal off the rack, and began to page through it - all five hundred pages. There were some hymns I did not recognize - but to my surprise, almost half of them were familiar as yesterday. Somewhere in the folds of my brain, somewhere in the massive collection of cells, where the neurons fire off sparks, all of those hymns are somehow stored away. Usually stanzas 1, 2, and 4.

Alas, and did my Savior bleed, and did my Sovereign die

Would He devote that Sacred Head for such a worm as I?

While I enjoyed the recital and the little elementary school kids fingering out a forced strain, I found myself in another world. Old melodies and harmonies and lyrics came flooding back like a dream. For good reason.

Not only did I grow up in a church that included at least three hymns at every gathering, but I am also a Bible School graduate. For three years, a full-time college-level student, we started every class, every class, with a hymn. Add a couple more in the daily chapel. Then on to seminary - more hymns. When I was a pastor, every week, I would write a sermon, bring the main theme to the planning team for the selection of the three hymns for that Sunday, just in time to include the name and page number in the bulletin (printed on a mimeograph machine).

The overhead projector.

It would signal the beginning of the end of the hymnal. But it was a slow evolution. That overhead projector would be a precursor to the jumbotron and light shows of the mega-church that today rival arena concerts. Back then, overhead transparencies enabled the preacher and the music minister to project the lyrics up there on the big screen. We called them Choruses. And then Worship Songs. Looking down at the hymnal became passé. We should look up, heads high, and sing. And we did.

Slowly, the hymnal hit the dustbin. At least in my world. Where we once debated the presence of a guitar, no less a drumset in church, today the Worship Team is a full-on band. In the late 70s, when the Jesus Revolution was in full swing, I spent a week in Estes Park, Colorado, listening to a new generation of Jesus Rock. The most tame of them all was Evie, a Swedish vocalist who loved Jesus.

The times, they are a changin’... it was the birth of CCM - Contemporary Christian Music. It would become a mega industry. From then on, those projected lyrics on Sunday morning would include copyright detail, to be sure the writers and producers of the new music would get paid.

Occasionally, we hear a subtle reference to a lyric from an old hymn in one of those Worship Songs. But truth be told, those old hymns have pretty well disappeared, replaced by songs designed to connect with a new audience. Folks who only know mega-church probably have little or no awareness of the old hymns.

At the Cross, at the Cross, where I first saw the light,

And the burden of my heart rolled away.

It was there by faith, I received my sight,

And now I am happy all the day.

I must say, I’m pretty ambivalent about the whole thing. The memory of sitting passively in the pew Sunday after Sunday, mechanically taking the hymnal in hand, turning to the selected page, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, as the piano and organ played an intro and a guy (always a male) took to the pulpit to wave his arms, raise his eyebrows, start the melody in full voice and guide us through a repeat of an all-too-familiar hymn… well, it rarely led to profound spiritual transformation. More like “going through the motions.”

On a hill far away, stood an old Rugged Cross

The emblem of suffering and shame

But I love that old Cross, where the dearest and best

For a world of lost sinners was slain

Sitting there in the Northkirk church, leafing through that old hymnal, I realized that in those early days, I spent at least as much time in the hymnal as I did in the Bible. The theology I inherited back then came as much from the hymns as it did the Scriptures. We assumed that all those verses were rooted in The Text, so the whole exercise would be “Biblical.” But it didn’t occur to me at the time that maybe those hymns were as much a product of American revivalism as historic Christian orthodoxy.

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine

Oh - what a foretaste of glory Divine!

Heir of Salvation, purchase of God

Born of His Spirit, washed in His Blood.

But I kept turning pages. What A Friend We Have In Jesus. Just As I Am. Rock of Ages. Great Is Thy Faithfulness. In the Garden. The lyrics and melodies all came back, even as the recital continued up front there in Northkirk Church.

* * * * * * * * * * *

As a little boy in Wheaton, Illinois, we had a little toy record player in my room upstairs. Somehow, I managed to get my hands on the 45 RPM recording of “How Great Thou Art” featuring Billy Graham’s beloved soloist, George Beverly Shea. I curled up around that little plastic player and listened over and over again, singing along with the deep, rich baritone voice, trying to mimic “How greeeeeeaaaaat Thou art,” and imagining the throngs in the stadium moved by the heart and soul of my voice… like his.

Later, because my grandfather and “Bev” were close personal friends, I would meet Bev Shea and sing along with him at the piano in this Western Springs home. He told me to call him “Uncle Bev.”

* * * * * * * * * *

I look back at some of those hymns (Washed in the Blood, Nothing But The Blood) and realize that much of the religion I inherited included some pretty bizarre ideas.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me.

There’s a whole lot of blood in there. Substitutionary atonement. Obsession over the hereafter (When We All Get to Heaven). God loves me, without one plea (Just As I Am). Submission (Trust and Obey). I’m a wretch, a worm, but I’m safe and secure (Leaning On The Everlasting Arms).

Safe and secure.

* * * * * * * * * *

All that said, some of it, I miss. Really. I miss standing there in a full church singing in full voice with the pipe organ blasting and a pianist who really knows the keyboard filling in the space with runs up and down…

To God be the Glory, great things He has done

So loved he the world that He gave us His Son

The vilest offender who truly believes

That moment from Jesus a pardon receives!

Praise the Lord!

And then, more than once in my memory, I would sing along with my fellow church goers, “It is well (it is well), with my soul (with my soul) - it is well, it is well - with my soul” and tears would form in my eyes.

* * * * * * * * * *

Two nights later, we gathered to celebrate another granddaughter, this time, High School Graduation, along with her best friend. About sixty of us came together to honor their achievement, including Kate’s other two grandparents, John and Betty.

I overheard Kate ask Betty, “Grandma, will you play something for us on the piano?”

Betty hesitated. We grandparents are about the same age, the same lifestage. We all know Betty as a fine concert pianist with extraordinary talent. Before our kids found each other and married, she played for my grandmother’s funeral there in her hometown. Later, she would play at our kids’ wedding. She brings that rare combination of technical skill and heart to the keyboard that takes you beyond listening - you feel the music.

In recent years and months, Betty has battled cancer. Her hearing, too. Not long ago, she had a cochlear implant installed. Impaired hearing has affected her ability to play the way she once did.

“Grandma, please? I love to hear you play,” Kate pleaded.

“Oh, alright…” Grandma Betty relented.

She took to the upright Kawai piano in the living room, surrounded by teenagers. She put the microphone she carries (to aid her hearing) on the top of the piano, and began to play. How Great is Our God.

It took me by surprise. I choked up. It was so beautiful to see our Kate (a fine pianist herself) so tuned in to the grandmother who not only taught her to play the piano, but also to know of a great God who will energize and sustain and comfort even through cancer and lost hearing - and aging.

“OK, one more,” Betty said. She began again, hitting the notes and chords with charm and grace.

Abide with me: fast falls the Eventide;

The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

To: Those Americans who are 25 years of age or younger

The oldest of you would have been Junior High age in 2015. That means all the rest of you were younger that same year.

It’s the year Donald Trump announced his candidacy for the President of the United States. His name was already in the headlines. A couple of years before that, he accused President Obama of being a fraud. He asserted that Obama had been born in Kenya, not the USA (Hawaii) as he claimed. Trump told everyone who would listen that Obama’s Presidency was illegitimate. A whole lot of folks believed him, mainly because they wanted to.

So for more than a decade, Donald Trump has dominated the headlines. Yes, President Biden occupied the White House for four of those years, but even then, Trump managed to overshadow the sitting President in the national headlines. When Biden won, Trump, for the first time in the history of our country, refused to concede. He called on his supporters (mainly white, male Christians) to storm the Capitol the day Congress came together to confirm the vote, ordering them and his Vice President to block the confirmation of Joe Biden - all to keep Trump in office, even though he lost - decisively. Then, again, for the first time in Presidential history, he refused to appear at the Biden inauguration.

Then he announced his candidacy for the next election, years ahead of the normal timing, so that he could call himself a Presidential candidate. It shielded him from the large collection of court cases coming from all directions. In spite of that strategy, he was convicted of the crime of falsifying his business records. He lied to banks, investors, and illegally paid off a sex worker with whom he had an affair (while his wife was pregnant). He’s a convicted felon.

In spite of all this and more, his supporters make all sorts of convoluted excuses. Because, they say, he has supported conservative causes and protected “persecuted” Christians, they have overlooked his egregious indiscretions.

So for more than ten years, Donald Trump is, in reality, the only President you know.

It hasn’t always been like this.

I lament this fact. You deserve better. So much better. If I could, I would change the story, undoing the past. But that’s not possible.

You’ve been told by some that he is what our country needs. You’ve been told to celebrate his appointment of Supreme Court justices who managed to overturn Roe v. Wade, making abortion illegal. You’ve been told that immigrants are destroying our country and must be deported, no matter what the means. You’ve been told that our great universities have become woke and cannot be trusted or funded. You’ve been told that our efforts to embrace diversity and inclusion have become a threat to good, American (white) “patriots,” and it has to stop. You’ve been told that history needs to be rewritten - that the darker periods in our past should be erased and replaced with glowing accounts of our mighty progress. You’ve been told that the climate is not warming. That the supply of fossil fuels and coal is limitless. That clean energy is a waste of resources. That scientific research, especially into disease and public health, shouldn’t be trusted. That efforts to alleviate suffering - from poverty and neglect and disease - well, it’s not our problem. That public education is not the government’s responsibility. We’re not our brother’s keeper. The poor will always be with us. Social safety nets only breed laziness, crime and corruption.

They say we need a strong, powerful leader. Only he can fix it.

I don’t know how much you pay attention to these things. But it’s important to me that we talk about it.

Please hear me now. In light of all this, I want you to know how proud I am of this generation. Your parents have given all they have to create a world that will give you the best chance to flourish and thrive into adulthood. Our commitment to each other is way more important than politics.

You have been taught to be independent thinkers. You’ve proven yourselves capable. You are readers. Artists, too. You’ve been taught the disciplines that will enable you to succeed. You’ve got the support of people who love you, who are there when you stumble and fall, experience disappointment, or fall short of your goals. We call it “unconditional love.” It may sound like a cliche, but it’s for real. No matter what happens to any one of you, we will be there. You can count on it.

Along the way, many of you have learned to love God and to follow Jesus. To dig into your Bible. To value your community. To care for each other. You’ve cultivated a deep spirituality that sustains you. We revel in that beautiful focus of your lives.

So I feel compelled to write this open letter.

You have lived most of your life in a political environment that is, frankly, toxic. We live in a diverse, pluralist democracy, and in many ways, we have always been polarized. But these past dozen years or so, thanks to our President, those differences have been exaggerated and magnified and poisonous. We view those who have opposing views not as fellow citizens, but as enemies to be overthrown. We demonize the opposition. Name-calling, vitriol, memes, and tropes become our weapons. Religion claims a divine right - God is on our side, not theirs. My news sources reinforce my prejudices and justify my resentments. My champions are those who call out my perceived enemies and dismantle their views, belittle their significance, and drive them into hiding.

Somehow, over the past fifty years, we Christians have been told that the two primary political values are 1) the elimination of abortion and 2) the denial of homosexuality (LGBTQ rights). As long as a politician signs off on those two issues, nothing else matters. It’s black and white, either/or. Everything else is secondary.

That means the politician who claims this “Christian” view can be a convicted felon, married multiple times, accused of sexual misconduct, incapable of speaking the truth, appointing corrupt cronies to high office, ignoring the courts, claiming powers that belong to Congress, violating the rights of citizens, slashing funding for government functions he doesn’t like, unleashing an unidentifiable “police force” on the citizenry, sending hordes into inadequate detention centers without due process, imposing disruptive and inflationary tariffs, and starting wars all without a hint of remorse. Or respect for the law of the land.

This president has endorsed “Christian Nationalism.” That Christians are “persecuted.”

Our democracy is in peril.

As a Grandfather, I want you to know that I grieve that this President is all you know. Our nation is not and never has been a theocracy. The Presidency is not and never has been a Monarchy. Our Constitution formed our Democracy. We are a nation of laws. We are a diverse people. There is no State Religion. Our leaders are not required to take a religious test.

Religious freedom is not my right to tell other Americans how they are to live or whom they are to love. With reference to religion, we are guaranteed the freedom to believe as our conscience dictates. As a Christian, I celebrate all of this. My Christian tradition has taught me to believe in diversity, equity, and inclusion.

I long for the day when we all can experience leadership that is committed to these core values - integrity, honesty, equity, civility, and unwavering commitment to the common good.

I lament the reality that for these long years, our headlines have been filled with one outrage after another.

Thanks to this administration, the only one you’ve known, it’s been a decade of intolerance, grievance, and retribution.

But all that said, most importantly, we have each other. Each one of you has great potential. You have proven yourselves to be compassionate, empathetic, energized, winsome, eager, and capable people.

While I have my laments, you fill me with hope. I remain confident that your future is bright - that you will flourish, even in the presence of adversity.

I fully believe that your lives will be filled with laughter and happiness and love.

Be assured - even today - you make us proud and fill us with delight.

With great anticipation,

Ken Kemp

(An aging Grandfather)

----------------------------

*This is the same generation as our fourteen grandchildren.

Last month, the history department at California State University in Fullerton hosted a memorial for a beloved professor of history, Dr. Ronald Rietfeld. Not only did I know his reputation as a celebrated Lincoln and Civil War scholar, but I also knew him as a friend (and long-time client in my former life).

It was an honor for me to be asked to share some thoughts that day, held on the top floor of the Pollack Library on campus. I found myself in the company of Dr. Rietfeld’s distinguished faculty colleagues, scholars, and teachers, as well as Ron’s son, Dr. James Rietfeld, who is an exceptional scholar in his own right. Ron’s wife Ruth, also a dear friend, flew in from Iowa to attend.

As I put my thoughts together, knowing the context, frankly, I felt rather intimidated. It was sophisticated company. What came into focus for me is Ron’s remarkable legacy. It was more than inspiring. His life was and is a timely example of what we need in the anti-intellectual, polarized world we live in today.

I decided that it’s something I want to share with you.

Here it is (pretty much) as I delivered it.

-----------------

I am honored to be here today among these distinguished guests - especially Ruth and James - to remember a remarkable human being - a scholar, a colleague, a husband, a dad, a grandfather, a person of deep faith, and a friend, Dr. Ronald Reitveld.

I want to express my thanks to the University for hosting this event.

Today, some of you have come to the Pollack Library at California State University, Fullerton, to remember the life and legacy of an esteemed professor and valued colleague, a history lecturer, a Sunday morning Bible teacher, a travel host who visited historical sites all over the United States, a husband, a Grandfather, a Dad, or a neighbor.

I know him best as a tax client. I prepared his tax returns for many years.

I hesitated to tell you this. Whenever I mention that I prepared taxes as part of my career résumé, folks are inclined to tell me their tax stories or seek my advice. Just know that I sold my business in 2004. I’m the last person you want to rely on for tax advice.

That said, a tax preparer has a unique insight into his or her client’s life - we know a whole lot about the person that the rest of the world would not necessarily know. Maybe not as much as a therapist, but almost.

So every year, Ron, Ruth, and I would meet and go over the numbers. Thankfully, Ruth had things together, and we would dispense with the number-crunching quickly. Doc, the consummate storyteller, would entertain us for the remainder of the hour. I always looked forward to that appointment. Ron would talk about Springfield, Civil War sites, Washington D.C., museums, research libraries, Holland, and of course, Pella, Iowa.

Carolyn and I have had an affection for Carnegie Libraries all over the country. One of our favorites is in Silverton, Colorado. Another is in picturesque Port Townsend, Washington, right on the bluff overlooking the beautiful Puget Sound.

When we were there vacationing with our family one year, we discovered a complete set of LIFE MAGAZINES right there in Port Townsend. It filled an entire section of the classic, old library. We looked at each other in amazement as though we had made a terrific archeological find. We asked, “Gosh, do you think we might find that article about Doc Rietfeld’s discovery of the last Lincoln photo - the one with Abraham Lincoln in the open casket with the guards standing by?”

We went on the hunt. And sure enough, after a long search, we found the April 14, 1952, issue. And then the March 30, 1954 issue that included the now iconic, grainy Lincoln photo and its discoverer, 14-year-old Ron Rietveld. We were so excited. We made copies and mailed them off to Doc.

For young Ron, that heretofore unknown photo was a fateful find. That photo was hidden in a long-ignored file because Mary Todd Lincoln demanded that the guards on that final cross-country tour prohibit any photos of her assassinated husband. But someone violated the rule then hid the photograph, unseen for nearly one hundred years.

That unlikely discovery by a young high school student launched a career that has inspired hundreds of us, including many of the scholars in this room.

It’s my conviction, a conviction shared by many, that the liberal arts have been undervalued for a long time in our pragmatic country. For too many, higher education is a utilitarian means to an economic end - which major will yield the highest-paying job? Anything that doesn’t contribute to that goal is a waste of time, energy, and money.

Like Doc Rietfeld, my academic career began with Bible college. When I graduated from high school in 1966, I was accepted at Cal State Fullerton (the head count that year, as I remember, was only 6,000) - but I chose instead to go off to Chicago for Bible training. For eight years, I was a full-time student - six of those years studying Bible and theology.

But for the next two years after Bible school, I somehow got myself into UCLA, again - full-time, I took those lower division classes - “Breadth Requirements.” It was my initiation into the Liberal Arts. In those tumultuous years, 1969-1971, I immersed myself in introductions to psychology, sociology, literature, philosophy, geology, biology, French, chemistry, astronomy (not to be confused with astrology), and history. Looking back, those were some of the best years of my academic life. It set me up for a lifetime of learning. And to appreciate Ron Rietveld.

Doc Rietveld was an historian. A Lincoln scholar. A scholar of the Civil War. If asked, Doc would certainly affirm that history is the crown jewel of the Liberal Arts.

A scholar is expected to have answers, but more than that, to ask perceptive, piercing, probing questions. Doc possessed an insatiable curiosity. He wanted to know more. His quest for knowledge lasted a lifetime.

He understood that higher education exists for much more than future employment. Those years spent in any of the liberal arts cultivate the life of the mind, the stimulation of curiosity, the value of scholarship, the mastery of the disciplines, and an understanding of and a commitment to the common good.

Doc Rietveld had a kindred spirit in his colleague and associate, the late Dr. George Giacumakis - who was also a long-time and dear friend of mine. Dr. George, you may remember, served for years as Director of the Irvine Campus of Cal State Fullerton over there on what once was called the El Toro Marine Base. Both earned their PhDs. Dr. Ron at the University of Illinois (Lincoln’s home state) in Urbana, Dr. Jake at Brandeis.

Together, over the decades, Doc Rietveld and Doc Jake contributed to a university that would become a major California institution of higher learning with a sterling national reputation.

And then, there was that life-long friendship with Corrie Ten Boom - the Dutch woman whose family in Haarlem, the Netherlands, hid Jewish families in a back room of their home during the Nazi occupation. In 1944, the Hiding Place (the name of her famous novel), was breached by armed soldiers. They broke into their home and carted the entire family off to concentration camps. Corrie survived. But not her family.

The Rietvelds became close personal friends with Corrie, traveling annually to the Netherlands to spend long hours together.

This is the company Doc kept.

I was honored to know him.

We live in a polarized world. It’s nothing new, really. Think about World War II and Corrie Ten Boom. I reflect on my years at UCLA - the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights legislation, Watergate (the President resigned), feminism, Roe v. Wade, Kent State, and the generation gap.

Today, we feel that polarization. We are a divided nation. Us versus them. Left versus right. Pro versus con.

Doc Rietveld would remind us - if we want to understand our polarized world, we need to study the Civil War. The Mason-Dixon line lives. It is still with us. But we should also get to know who Doc would call the greatest President in history, the one who wrote these words regarding our country, “a nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men [persons] are created equal.”

We too easily think in binary terms - us and them. For Doc, the “other” was not someone to hold in contempt. The “other” is one to be understood. Doc, as a historian, was a truth-seeker. And in that role, he was a reconciler.

The philosopher Martin Bubar didn’t use the phrase “Us versus Them,” he talked about I-It and I-Thou. When we think of the other as an “it,” an object, there is distance, indifference, suspicion, contempt. But when the other is a “thou,” a subject, there’s opportunity for affection, mutual respect, understanding, co-operation, and even reconciliation.

Dr. Rietveld was an “I-Thou” person in the best sense of the term.

I believe that’s why I liked him so much. If you were his student, I believe that’s why you were energized and motivated to become a scholar, like him. If you were his colleague, that’s why you looked forward to the next conversation. If you travelled with him, that’s why you just couldn’t get enough; you wanted more. If he were your Dad, your Grandfather, your friend, your neighbor, that’s why you feel the loss so deeply today.

This is Dr. Rietveld’s legacy. He knew us all as a “Thou.”

Let us all go now from here and follow his lead.

Thank you, Ron.

Thanks to my grandmother, His Majesty Charles III has been a player in my world as far back as I can remember. Charles and I were born the same year. (I’m ten months older than the Monarch.) Born in London, my grandmother lost her father to a heart attack as a young girl. An only child, her mother booked passage for the two of them to cross the Atlantic to start a new life in Canada when she was just eight years old. Her father worked on horse-drawn carriages in London, including, Grandmother told us, the King’s carriage.

He served King Edward. Then came King George IV, followed by George V, Elizabeth’s father. Grandma Dorothy loved the Royal family, and celebrated in 1952 when young Elizabeth was crowned Queen. Elizabeth was just twenty-seven, and mother to two young children: Charles (4) and Anne (2). Dorothy’s first grandson (me) was also four years old. She married a Charles (my Grandpa Charlie) and gave the same name to her firstborn son (my Uncle Chuck).

So the drama of the Monarchy in the United Kingdom has always captured my attention, some of it embarrassing, disturbing. Charles, always rather awkward, made headlines - and we all wondered how Diana could have been attracted to him - but there they were - the wedding of the century, capturing the world’s attention.

And then tragedy.

Along with all the Brits, we wondered when and how the crown would be passed to Charles. We even wondered if the Monarchy would survive. The Queen dubbed 1992 her “Annus Horribilis” - horrible year. Scandals. Divorce. The Windsor Castle fire. And then, in 1997, Diana died in that car crash in Paris.1

Would Charles ever be King? Could Camilla be Queen?

We tracked it all.

My expectations of King Charles’ visit to the United States were quite low. Knowing that our President is the Master of Distraction, I considered it one more way to redirect national (global) attention away from the intractable war in Iran. And then, on Saturday night, the White House Correspondence Dinner erupted into one more assassination story - that formal dinner descending into utter chaos and round-the-clock news coverage.

Less than two days later, the King and Queen arrived at the White House for a State Visit, with all the pomp and circumstance Washington could muster. On Tuesday, the King would address a joint session of Congress.

I’ve often heard Charles speak. To describe him as riveting would be a gross overstatement. But all that changed in the packed Chamber of Congress as the nation (the world) tuned in.

It was his finest hour. Churchillian, even.

To begin, as the King and Queen entered the historic room, you could feel the excitement. The entire Chamber welcomed the Royals, both sides of the aisle, the balcony, too, with an enthusiastic standing ovation.

Impeccably dressed in his tailored grey pinstripe suit, the King took his place at the podium with the Vice President and Speaker of the House seated behind him. The Queen took her place on the stage.

I had my questions. Would this be another predictable, boring recitation of politically neutral comments coming from the middle of the road, sure to offend no one?

It was neither boring nor middle of the road.

Later, at the formal State Dinner, Trump joked that he could not believe that the King managed to get the Democrats to stand and applaud, something he had never been able to do. When I heard that, I thought the opposite. The King got the Republicans on their feet - along with the Democrats - every time. That’s a much greater mystery.

Praise for the beautifully crafted speech is virtually universal. I believe that a primary reason is that we were exposed to the use of language, rich vocabulary, grammar, humor, history, literature, and persuasion that we expect from one who speaks from the podium of the House Chamber, but we rarely witness. There was no need to fact-check anything. My grandmother would speak of “The King’s English.” I knew what she meant. And this was definitely the King’s English.

For the last ten years, we’ve heard speeches from that podium that don’t even come close to His Majesty’s performance on Tuesday. Think of those State of the Union Addresses delivered by this President. Then those Inaugural Addresses - two of them. They were right in there with Trump’s rally speeches, stream of consciousness, word salads, filled with vitriol, name-calling, unashamed bigotry, predictable repetition, unprofessional profanity, wild exaggerations, mean-spirited accusations, blaming, shaming, and well, you know exactly what I mean. In his second term, the fact-checkers have given up. It has become a fool’s errand. We just all agree that “it’s just him,” accepting the fact that little that Trump says has merit, and we just shrug and move on.

But from the Republican side of the aisle, wild applause when he speaks. Go figure.

So, for all these years, those congressional ovations have come from either one side or the other. The Republicans stand and clap and shout their approval, looking across the aisle with disdain at their seated, silent opponents. When Biden spoke, the Democrats stood, Republicans sat. Where civility was once a hallmark, the unvarnished contempt in the room is palpable. That’s how it’s been.

But not this night.

King Charles managed to deliver a searing critique of this administration while simultaneously receiving enthusiastic applause from both sides of the aisle. How did he do it?

The King’s English.

With classic British reserve, he relied on language; the power of persuasion. Showing affection and respect for his audience with self-deprecating humor, he invoked Charles Dickens. He suggested that Dickens might call the break between America and Britain “The Tale of Two Georges” - King George III and George Washington. Charles referenced history and literature: Shakespeare, Dickens, and Oscar Wilde, who wrote -

“We have really everything in common with America nowadays except, of course, language.”

Yes, we Americans speak English, but not like the King.

I was so surprised and impressed by Charles’ not-so-subtle critique that I listened to the speech twice. I had to be sure I got it right. And I do believe I did.

Both J.D. Vance and Mike Johnson lit up like Christmas trees when the King referenced Christianity as his ethical inheritance - how it shaped his view of science, service, and public duty. Just behind him, the two Christian Nationalist champions jumped to their feet in wild excitement over their religion getting honorable mention right there in the Chamber from THE KING OF GREAT BRITAIN!2

But then, after the rousing applause subsided, Charles pivoted. He spoke of his commitment to interfaith dialogue; the religious diversity cherished in a healthy democracy. The rights of its citizens to believe as they choose. The necessity of mutual respect that is the essence of the democratic ideal. Without using the phrase, the King championed Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. The Vice President and the Speaker applauded again - this time in a tepid, obligatory manner, without that smirky smile and nod to one another.

So much for Christian Nationalism.

There were other clear statements of divergence from the Trump agenda. Charles underscored the importance of the NATO Alliance, which Trump regularly condemns. He also spoke eloquently about the threat of climate change, the fragility of our planet, and the duty and obligation to care for the Earth. He identified the “systems of nature” that have been disrupted, “to our peril.” Trump, as we all know, considers the whole conversation a “hoax.”

But the entire Congress stood and cheered anyway.

My favorite dig came out of his reference to the 1215 Magna Carta, which both of our nations cite as the source of our democracies. A key element of that document states clearly, “the principle that executive power is subject to checks and balances.” Whoa!

That key provision was included in the Magna Carta because the nation found itself in revolt against King John for his “capricious and tyrannical” actions. Even the King would be henceforth subject to the Rule of Law.

So I was shocked - on both my first and second viewing of the speech. Both Democrats and Republicans stood to their feet and applauded when the King declared, “Executive power is subject to checks and balances.” (Italics mine)

Do I believe that this speech will change anything? I had hopes.

But after the pomp and circumstance of the Royal visit - the welcome on the White House lawn, the speech to Congress, the State Dinner, the visit to the 9-11 Memorial in New York, the President returned to that all-too-familiar Trumpspeak: blaming Democrats for the assassin’s charge on the White House Correspondence Dinner. Selling his ballroom and his Arch de Trump. Speaking at Crypto conventions, enriching himself. Claiming victory (when there is none). Denying inflation. Punishing his critics. Covering up crimes.

The King’s English, now yesterday’s news.

But in this writing, I intend to remember that one brief, shining moment when we all stood together, forgetting the aisle that separates us, celebrating the possibilities of a vibrant democracy on this, our 250th Birthday - with liberty and justice, for all.

Thank you, King Charles, for a Master Class in Civility.

NOTE: Here’s an essay I wrote more than ten years ago. I remember writing it then. Today’s headlines triggered my memory. It took some digging - but when I found it, I knew I had to share it with you.

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Donald Trump: The Alpha White Male Returns

From The Beached White Male WordPress Blog (unedited)

August 3, 2015

Newsweek Magazine may have declared the end of white male dominance back in April 2011, but Donald Trump is undeterred. He has jumped to center stage, claiming the mantle of the White Knight, dare we say – the White Messiah – prepared to salvage our broken nation single-handedly, perhaps even Save the Entire World.

It has been a stunning performance. We’re all watching.

When I was a fledgling Bible school student back in the late sixties, learning all about the prophetic intricacies of the Last Days, we pondered wide-eyed over the biblical prediction of an Antichrist, who would emerge Jesus-like, entering the world stage on a metaphorical donkey as people waved palm branches, shouting “Hosannah!” We scanned the papers back then, wondering if perhaps this Dreaded Deceiver might already be on the scene – “Who might he be?” Speculation ran high. (There were numerous candidates.)

“I am rich. I fix things. I am loved. I will restore respect and honor. The others are stupid. Incompetent. Inept. Terrible! The politicians have sold out! They may be great debaters, but while they argue, the country is going to Hell! I’m not a politician. I’m not a debater. I’m a doer. I am going to win!” These are all now the familiar phrases that emanate from the open mouth of the front-running candidate for the Republican nomination for the office of President of the United States.

Immigration? “I will build an impenetrable wall, and send the bill to Mexico.” The Democrats? “Every one of them has come to me with their hat in their hand, and I helped them out. They all owe me, big time.” The Republicans? “Terrible! I’ve given them all money, too… and for WHAT? They’ve done NOTHING.” Hillary? “The worst Secretary of State in the history of the country.” (Lindsey) Graham? “He called me pleading for money… Here’s his phone number. Give him a call.” Obama? “He’s given away the US of A in exchange for a rotten deal. He’s the worst deal-making President in the history of the world.” McCaine? “He’s no hero. He got caught.”

Well, it’s no donkey. As the helicopter settles in for a soft landing on the helipad, TRUMP is emblazoned on the tail boom. When the corporate jet taxis up the tarmac, TRUMP in bold letters adorns the fuselage where we generally find the name of the airline.

We now refer to the name Trump as a Brand. The Donald has shelled out plenty of cash, apparently for no good reason, other than to buy off those who grant permission to build. The man is a master at securing permits. Standing down the no-growth crowd, obstinate city councils, and complaining neighbors. As a developer, he’s a living legend. Can you see the palm branches waving? Hear the hosannahs?

As I’ve indicated earlier in my blog, I’ve pretty well given up on White Male Privilege, White Male Dominance, White Male Entitlement, and White Male Superiority. I am, after all, the Beached White Male.

But these last few weeks, I have watched the polls. People love The Donald. He’s the top story, night after night. He revels in the “movement” swirling around his swelling ego.

So the Bible School kid in me wonders: would Jesus wear a TRUMP button on his lapel… er, robe? Would the Son of Man be relieved that finally, finally, someone is taking charge? Speaking his mind? Rallying the troops? Rising in the polls?

The Antichrist, I learned in New Testament Prophecy class, isn’t going to be a fire-breathing monster, wielding a pitchfork and frightening the daylights out of the general populace. No. Instead, he would be a smooth operator, persuasive and winsome. Deceivers are subtle. A great pick-pocket will be long gone before you ever notice anything missing.

So a wide range of people observe, “He’s one of us.” He says it straight. He’s not intimidated. He has no need to be “politically correct”. He’s not scripted. He stirs the pot.

“Antichrist” is a religious concept rooted in a mixture of biblical text and pop culture. In my early days, raised as a young pre-millennial dispensationalist, the Antichrist was a fearsome player in the cosmic End Times drama. Now, as we all know, his frightful story has secured innumerable millions in pulp novels and B-grade movie productions. Antichrist is a cottage industry.

Let it be known: the BWM has outgrown such fantasies.

But those early days sorting through biblical texts and comparative eschatological narratives left me with deep suspicions about those who would shamelessly exploit fear and bigotry and religious intolerance and the world-view of absolutes, all for personal gain.

And well, maybe that was a good thing.

After all, hubris should never be confused with gravitas.

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ENDNOTE: Before I started my podcast, I wrote a (still unpublished) book I called “The Beached White Male.” To get things started, I launched that WordPress blog site, giving it the same name.

In June of 2015, Donald Trump descended that golden escalator and announced his candidacy for President. His outrageous speech shocked the civilized world. He called Mexican immigrants “rapists …bringing drugs, bringing crime into our country.” He declared that “the American dream is dead,” that China is “raping our country,” that he will build “a great wall” on our Southern border (that Mexico will fund, he said), and that he would “Make America Great Again.”

Few people believed then that he had any chance of winning.

In August of that year (2015), I wrote that blog post, connecting the dots between this unlikely candidacy and the mythical biblical character called The Antichrist.

In September, he “debated” ten other Republican candidates1 at the Reagan Library in California. He attacked his opponents with his characteristic, unpresidential ad-hominem: insults, name-calling, bragadocio, trash-talk, mockery, and ridicule. It’s been his go-to, default mode of attack ever since.

This week, more and more commentators, both left and right, are asking the same question: could Donald Trump be the Antichrist?

I’m not a biblical literalist. That said, these ideas come straight out of an American evangelicalism popularized by Left Behind novels, Late Great Planet Earth, Thief in the Night, and now, the apocalyptic religion of Pete Hegseth, Doug Wilson, Paula White, J.D. Vance, and the President himself.

Many of his MAGA devotees - who up until now have believed the President has been sent by their God to save America - are beginning to wonder.

I’ve been wondering since 2015.

(NOTE: Spoiler alert - the following contains details you may not want to know until you have read Theo of Golden.)

I didn’t expect to get so caught up in a book. A novel nonetheless. Fiction.

In my last Substack, I confessed that in the reading, I felt changed. For the first time in my memory, I read a book for a second time. I savored it all along the way.

And I tuned in to the author’s appearances all over the internet. His debut novel, Theo of Golden, is something of a sensation - a self-published runaway, word-of-mouth best-seller. He’s been interviewed by a wide spectrum of podcasters, universities, literary groups, and well-known personalities - from Russell Moore to Katie Couric.

(Not everyone shares my enthusiasm for the book - some call it lightweight, predictable, tedious. Hmmm. I disagree on all counts.)

We called up some of Allen Levi’s old recordings from his “singer-songwriting” era. We heard his voice as he strums his guitar. His original ballads are filled with quirky observations and a sweetness that is hard to miss. As we listened, we laughed and cried, and our blood pressure dropped.

When I first read the book’s introduction, I had no idea the author was a Christian, or that he would openly affirm that his novel is his gift to the Jesus he so openly follows.

Katie Couric told Allen that she is not religious. She also confirmed that both she and Levi have Jewish grandparents. But when Katie read the sermon at Theo’s memorial at St. James Church, she wept.

Allen Levi’s version of the Gospel is pretty well stated in that sermon. Father Lundy put it this way -

“Along the way, there are questions, there is news, there are concerns and fears and uncertainties that furrow our brows, trouble our souls, and break our hearts. Death terrifies many of us. But God, in His sublime goodness, has always sent others, mysterious others, to walk with us — prophets, preachers, friends, teachers, artists, storytellers, wives and husbands, children, songbirds and rivers, even hardship and loss — to help us see clearly. They are ones who make our hearts burn within us, who call us out of our indifference, our lethargy, our death and defeat. They call us to be fully alive, or at least more alive than we were before we met them.”

And then the pastor identifies Theo as one of those sent ones, as Jesus was.

“...he settled among us, moved into our neighborhood, adopted us as his children, and made us the objects of his affection and the beneficiaries of his thoughtfulness… he came, as did His Lord, not to be served but to serve.”

“... if you would honor the memory of [Theo], then do good, bestow kindness, strive for beauty, seek and find the river that leads to life everlasting, and draw from the fountain that never runs dry.”1

Remember, it’s the author who wrote that sermon. He put it in the voice of Fr. Lundy.

The novel has been described as intensely political, but not partisan. He certainly points to the anxiety and fear triggered by the headlines. But he doesn’t assess blame. He leaves that to us. The book has also been described as thoroughly Christian, but not creedal. I didn’t figure that out until I had read it twice and then listened to those interviews. It’s been reported that when the book took off on Amazon, Christian publishers went after Levi, hoping to land a contract. Levi turned them down. He published with Simon and Schuster. He didn’t want to be pegged as “Christian.”

So the Gospel According to Theo is not about Substitutionary Atonement or the One True Religion. It’s not about accepting Jesus as my Personal Lord and Savior so that I escape Hell and get my ticket to Heaven. Instead, Allen’s passion - his mission - to encourage us all to experience God and follow Jesus, is to make us, our neighborhood, and our world a better place. It’s about kindness, generosity, humility, and ordinary neighborliness. The novel tells countless stories that make the point.

That’s why I was so taken by this book.

--------------------

Please indulge me.

For weeks now, most of it battling what my doctor diagnosed this week as walking pneumonia, I’ve been trying to figure out why Allen Levi’s book has had such a profound effect on me. When I write, I get clarity. That’s what I’m trying to do here.

I’m over six years into my podcast. Along the way, I write. Both have been powerful therapy for me - providing me with both catharsis and education. I’ve managed to unpack so much religious and political baggage; discarding much of it, relegating the irrelevant to the sidelines, and affirming the rest. The network of guests and friendships has been so rich, so rewarding. The ability to call out toxicity, injustice, hypocrisy, and hubris, along with like-minded friends, has been an unexpected, welcome gift. Some friends have drifted away. Others, closer than ever.

I have a modest collection of generous supporters who have helped me offset the out-of-pocket expenses to keep it all going. But my efforts to monetize my work have been, well, ineffective. It’s not been for the money. For sure. That said, I feel well compensated for the effort.

Several milestone events led me to adopt the alter ego I’ve called The Beached White Male. For example, one was my failed return to pastoral ministry, now nearly twenty years ago. Another was the election of Donald Trump. Both events tossed me into a heavy, extended period of introspection, research, therapy, questioning, and exploration. Just these past two months in the reading of this book, I feel like I’m at a crossroads.

Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s all the work involved in producing a podcast. Maybe it’s burnout. Maybe “The Beached White Male” has served his purpose. Maybe I want to shift gears.

A good friend who regularly listens to my podcast and also read Theo of Golden passed along a beautiful comment. She said, “Those portraits on the wall of The Chalice that were purchased by Theo to be bestowed on the subjects with his friendship and blessing?… Your podcasts have been just that for you.” She’s right. Maybe that’s why I related so readily to Theo’s plan.

Today, our world is filled with vitriol, name-calling, cruelty, animosity, scapegoating, mean-spirited put-downs, misinformation, exaggeration, and dismissal. Bombs drop. Missiles fired. The innocent die. Hospitals lose power. Masses displaced. Our out-of-control polarization has threatened our very democracy. I have no regrets for calling any of this out.

I also know that I can come across as self-righteous, smug, and sanctimonious. I can be condescending and preachy (hey - I went to seminary!) And in that sense, I’m just as culpable as the folks I so readily critique.

Then comes Theo.

---------------------

Just this morning, I sat in the waiting area at Kaiser while Carolyn checked in with the Ophthalmologist to evaluate a floater in her right eye. I was there to get my blood work done. I looked up from my iPad as a woman helped a slightly built, frail elderly gentleman into the next seat over. With difficulty, he settled into his chair in that waiting area with a sigh. Then she sat down between him and me.

With a weakened voice, he spoke up. “I don’t know what I would do without you, girl” he told his caregiver.

She smiled, reached out to him and responded, “I don’t know what I’d do without YOU.”

He turned to her, looked her in the eyes and said. “I love you.”

“I love you back.” She paused. “You’re gunna make me cry.”

The next seat over, another woman, who like me could not help but overhear this very personal exchange said, “Now you two are gunna make ME cry.”

I couldn’t help myself.

“Me, too,” I said.

The caregiver, the old man, and the other woman all laughed along with me.

“Is he your Dad?” I asked.

“No he’s not.” The caregiver put her hand on my arm and said, “But there’s a story here.”

“Oh,” I said, “tell me more.”

“Well, he’s my late father’s very best life-long friend. Before he died, my Dad made me promise that I would take care of this guy for the rest of his life.”

“And you are doing just that, aren’t you…”

“Yes, I am.”

I took her hand and gave it a squeeze as I felt a wetness around my eyes. It matched hers. Maybe it’s because I hope that when I hit that stage, one of my daughters will be there for me.

My name appeared on the screen, instructing me to go to Station #2 to get my blood drawn.

“You two are blessed,” I said as I turned to go.

A serious endorphin rush shot through my body. It just may show up on my test results.

It was today’s Theo moment.

No matter where this paradigm shift takes me from here on out, I want more of those Theo moments.

Nothing less.

I read. A lot. It started a long time ago, I guess.

Not that I’m a great reader. I have to work at it. And, I’m a perennial note-taker, especially as I turn the page or listen to a lecture (sermon). If I took the time to update that reading list from my podcast website, I’d add a hundred or more books to the suggested reading.

So, Kindle knows me. My iPad app has no shortage of recommendations for my next read. When I finish a book, I go on the hunt for my next challenge. I’ll consult the NYT bestsellers (fiction and non-fiction); sometimes there will be a title that came out my last book, or I’ll peruse that Kindle collection, algorithms that target, well, me.

Just coming off yet another New Year and birthday, I am growing weary of this endless culture war. This week, we had another State of the Union Address. I couldn’t watch it. I gave it about 5 minutes. That’s all I could take - those robotic Republicans (my former party) jumping to their feet, applauding and cheering every disgusting, false, indefensible line. Remember in his first term, how we counted the lies? It was like the weekly body count from the Vietnam War back in the late sixties and early seventies. We kept score. As the calculation of dead bodies came in, the numbers were staggering - and mind-numbing. The outright lies from the President? Nobody counts anymore. He got re-elected anyway. We’ve grown accustomed to the incessant, perennial prevarication.

We expect it.

I ran down the list of books Kindle thought I might buy. They seemed to follow some familiar themes - the rise of Christian Nationalism. The MAGA takeover of the Republican Party. “Evangelicals” and their abandonment of Jesus; or their remake of Jesus. The history of the religious right. Christian Nationalism and white supremacy. The Bible and the Lost Cause Narrative. Jesus vs. Paul - which Christianity do we embrace?

Yes, I’ve read a lot of that in the past few years.

I needed a breather.

-------------------

I wish I could remember how I found this book. Somehow, it got in my queue. I read my free sample. I was hooked. I purchased the full copy, and devoured it.

It’s a book about kindness. Generosity. Human connection. Beauty. Art. Love and surviving loss. More than once, as I worked my way through the first few chapters, I felt something. Tears would form on the corners of my eyes. My throat swelled up in a warm charge of emotion. I’d break out in a surprise laugh-out-loud. It was food for the soul. The spell didn’t break until I closed the book.

I well may be guilty of overstatement here. But by the time I reached that last page, I felt as if I had been changed. Changed for the better. I took flight with the better angels of our nature.

The main character in the book is an aging white guy. He’s rich. He’s traveled the world. His curiosity drives most everything he does. Landscapes. Rivers. Trees. Birds. Food. Music. Architecture. Books. He loves them all and speaks of them as an artist with an expansive soul. He has a disarming way about him. Approachable. People tell him things they tell no one else. He’s safe. He’s known loss. Tragic loss. And he’s made mistakes. As he enters that final lap in life’s marathon, he’s on a quest for meaning. He had his moment in the celebrity spotlight (why, we don’t know until much later), but that time has passed. Now, in the historic Southern town of Golden, he’s just a regular, old, friendly guy. Anonymous, except for his first name: Theo.

Maybe that’s why the book got me. I’m an aging white guy, too. I’m not rich. But I’m reflecting on a full life. I’m sorting through the things that really matter.

--------------------

For six years, I’ve been The Beached White Male. It’s been my alter ego.

Theo has given me permission to think about the future of my podcast.

I’m not quite sure what that means. As I move forward, I just may change the name. The title - Beached White Male - is about me. But it’s never really been about me. It’s been about my guests and my listeners. It’s about our quest to understand a religion that has been adulterated by a movement threatened by diversity and weaponized to retain power, control, and wealth. I’m not alone. Many of my guests have shared their disillusionment in their books, their podcasts, and their blog posts.

We look for signs of the end of the nightmare. We remain skeptical, but hopeful.

Then comes Theo.

He asks a simple question. Do we get caught in the deadly quicksand of despair, or can we take time to contemplate the wonder of the murmuration of a thousand starlings at sunset? Can we gaze long enough into the face of a portrait to see humanity? Goodness? Divinity? Sadness? Joy? Can it be a mirror into ourselves? Can generosity become a way of life?

Through the decades, I found sustenance in regular (imaginary) visits to a Minnesota town out on the edge of the Prairie, mainly on Saturday nights. (My DNA reports identify me as mostly Norwegian. My mother grew up Lutheran.) Lake Wobegon is home to the Chatterbox Cafe, Lake Wobegon Lutheran Church, the Norwegian bachelor farmers, and Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility Catholic Church, where all the women are strong, the men are good-looking, and the children above average - compliments of Garrison Keillor, NPR’s beloved storyteller.

Like Keillor, Allen Levi has created a nostalgic town in Georgia that he named Golden. The local coffee shop and art gallery is The Chalice, and the used book store, the Verbivore. There’s a fountain in the town square called the Fedder with a bench occupied often by the elder newcomer, Theo.

It’s Levi’s first novel. He’s had as checkered a career as mine. A college English major, he went off to law school. For a decade or so, he practiced as an attorney and a judge. To everyone’s surprise, he left his law practice to earn an advanced degree in Scottish fiction at the University of Edinburgh, thinking he might become a professor. Instead, he launched a career in music as a singer-songwriter. Now, in his late sixties, he self-published his first novel. To his complete surprise, it has become a word-of-mouth, runaway best-seller. Off the charts.

It’s a treasure.

-------------------

Theo wanders into the Chalice. It’s an historic building that has been restored by the owner to reflect the charm of this Southern town. The coffee is world-class. But that’s not the real draw. On the wall is a collection of some 90 framed, pencil portraits, each one the creation of a local artist. Theo engages each intriguing face, recognizing the extraordinary skill of the illustrator. He’s captured the essence of his subjects. Theo can imagine the personality, the unique character, and the story represented in each face. He sees sadness, too. Pain, even past the smile. He also notes the price tags attached to each - a price Theo considers to be much less than the value. He asks the owner to explain.

Who are these people? They are regular patrons of the coffee shop - each has the name of the subject on the backside of the frame. Who is the artist? A local who has developed a modest but highly admired reputation. Why are they not selling? Good question.

Theo devises a plan. He’ll purchase each portrait, one at a time, write a handwritten invitation to the subject to meet on the park bench at the Fedder where he will make their acquaintance and present the portrait as a gift.

The novel goes from there. It’s a rich exploration of the beauty and wonder of each human story; how subjects must overcome the reticence to meet with a stranger; how Theo’s ability to see the richness of life as his new friends share challenges, disappointments, failures - but also the capacity for kindness, beauty, truth, and love.

I’m not the only one who loves this book.

It’s all over the internet. Allen Levi had his doubts that a book about generosity and kindness would catch anyone’s interest. He claims that he didn’t even think he would publish it.

He wrote it for himself - creating a character that he aspires to be.

And I’ll be damned.

He wrote it for me, too.

From the opening scene, I was transfixed. We start in the sugar cane fields of Puerto Rico, where workers joyfully gather the stalks. A powerfully choreographed camera takes us for a walk through Latin culture, the joyful dance and celebration of life envelopes us in an irresistible Latin beat. A relatively new technique in filming is the “long take.” This show mastered it, requiring incredible precision and timing. It’s the essence of great storytelling and holds our interest from start to finish.

Rather than rehearse the entire show, there were several highlights that will live long in my memory. The sugar cane fields remind us of the contribution field workers make to our lives; the shaved ice and coconut street vendors, the Puerto Rican Christian home, the Latin beat, the dominoes, and the boxers all take us to Bad Bunny’s home. Rather than make direct political statements, he chose to celebrate joy.

He picks up a little jewelry box from a vendor, inspecting a ring, then hands it to a young man who immediately drops to a knee to make his proposal to a beautiful young woman. Later, their wedding ceremony takes place (for real) right there on the Super Bowl stage as we all celebrate, joining in to a jubilant reception.

Then a young boy watches an old-school tube television as Bad Bunny acknowledges his Grammy on screen. Bunny steps into the living room, shocking the little boy, and hands him the Grammy Trophy, and then tells him, “Always believe in yourself.”

Four electrical power polls stood at the end of the scene with workers repairing a failed connection. Bunny climbs the poll, joining the technicians, and the transformers blow, sending sparks into the air, a reminder of the long power-outs in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria that caused such havoc. Then, standing on a roof, Bunny falls backward into the arms of his friends - the classic “trust experiment” that illustrates the beauty of community and mutual care.

At the end, for the first time in English, he shouts, “God Bless America!” For those thirteen minutes, we were given a picture of America that is indeed a contrast to TPUSA’s version. We are a country that embraces cultures from all over the world. We celebrate our plurality with mutual respect, laughter, and joy. Bunny went on - God bless Venezuela, Cuba, El Salvador, Colombia, Costa Rica… and on!

Then he showed us his football: “Together - We Are America!”

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Our Super Bowl party hosts speak Spanish. They did some translating. But it wasn’t necessary. I didn’t understand much from the lyrics, but I got the message.

As the image faded and the music ended, I got emotional. I was moved.

“That was hands down the best half-time show ever!” I told our hosts.

Not minutes later, my friend read from the President’s post on his phone. “Absolutely terrible, a slap in the face to the country, the dancing was disgusting,” and “nobody understands a word this guy is saying.”

That Truth Social post hit me about the same as his terrible post following the murder of Rob Reiner.

It’s his default comment for anyone who dares question his antics. “You are a terrible person!” “You have no talent!” “Your ratings are in the tank!” “Your career is finished!”

And this man got elected President of the United States.

Plenty of MAGA devotees jumped on the Trump bandwagon, echoing his condemnation of Bad Bunny and his performance.

--------------------

Just out of curiosity, I called up the TPUSA YouTube Channel and scrubbed my way through the alternative Half Time Show. It was not what I expected. Betraying my age, I expected something like the Gaithers or Sandy Patti. Instead, I found a darkened stage set to mimic the energy and tempo of the Super Bowl, with flashing lights and smoke and guys with lots of tattoos. I don’t know much about Kid Rock, except that he’s a seasoned white guy who is not much of a kid who delivers his lyrics in a tepid white guy version of rap. The grand finale featured a recorded sermon by the late Charlie Kirk congratulating his listeners as courageous culture warriors ready to do battle for truth, justice, and the American Way.

One thing is clear. The President wasn’t watching. He tuned in to Bad Bunny. I doubt he watched TPUSA at all.

A friend of ours posted an on-the-mark comment: “People who watch the TPUSA Half Time Show are the same people who say they should have separate drinking fountains.”

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So Bad Bunny had an audience of 130 million. Kid Rock - 6 million.

Bad Bunny has taken his tour all over the world. But he doesn’t perform in the United States - with this one exception: Super Bowl LX. Why? Because, here in the U.S., he knows I.C.E. will be there at the entrance, carting off his fans.

The mighty contradiction is there for all to see. This administration has taken its bigotry and prejudice way too far. We are a diverse nation. We celebrate the beauty of rich cultures. The half-time show put family values on captivating display. If we weren’t dancing in our living rooms, we were tapping our feet. We couldn’t stop if we tried.

Bad Bunny’s words were declared from the JumboTron at the Stadium. They captured the impact of the thirteen-minute show. “The only thing more powerful than hate is love.”

And the greatest of these is love.

That was the message of the half-time show.

You didn’t need to know Spanish to get it.

Read Part 1

The last ten years or so, the halftime show at the annual Super Bowl has been a reminder (to this now seventy-eight-year-old) of how out of touch I am with pop culture. Back when I was starting my career and just becoming a dad, those shows at halftime featured marching bands and Disney characters. There was a salute to Duke Ellington and then later, “It’s a Small World” after all. One featured Mardi Gras and another year, Motown.

More recently, the football field has become a massive stage with hordes of dancers, fireworks, and top-of-the-charts performers rapping lyrics that go right past me. I Google the artists’ names to get a sense of how they became global superstars. I can still picture my Grandpa Charlie (may he rest in peace) turning his head in horror at some of the dance moves - and then peaking back, hoping no one will notice.

Last year, I did a podcast with two friends who know way better than I, the story behind Lemar Kendrick. I learned a lot.

This year was different.

As you well know, I’m a refugee from the evangelical version of religion that has become MAGA Christianity. This tribe (no longer mine) is well known for its readiness to boycott. That refusal to participate is rooted in an innate sense of moral superiority. If you don’t give witness to your loyalty to their God and their “World-View” and their Bible, you are not only an outcast, you are immoral.

So when it was announced that Bad Bunny would be this year’s talent for the most-watched television event in the calendar year, the MAGA tribe got busy. Turning Point USA took action - on two levels.

First, they would express their shock and dismay over the NFL’s choice with a nasty caricature of the Grammy award-winning artist as some kind of pervert. Second, they would put together a program of their own to be aired simultaneously to the Super Bowl halftime show as a righteous protest. Theirs would be a “family-friendly” tribute to the America they love - God, Country, and Faith. Their chosen superstar: Kid Rock. But, turns out, the real luminary would be the late Charlie Kirk, closing things out from the grave with an emotional appeal.

“What’s so bad about Bad Bunny?” I wondered.

To begin, I looked into the reasons the NFL chose him. We had watched the Grammys, a big night for Bad Bunny - three nominations and three wins, including Best Global Performance. Bad Bunny clocked twenty billion downloads on Spotify worldwide - a commercial feat that puts him in the entertainment stratosphere. The NFL’s current business plan includes moving beyond this country, penetrating the global market, and, at the same time, aiming at a younger demographic. A strategy of cultural inclusion makes Spanish a welcome attraction. Bad Bunny’s Puerto Rican roots tell a story of overcoming and celebration in spite of hardship, storms, and power-outs. He’s a proven product as an artist; his appearance in the 2020 Super Bowl gave the NFL confidence that he could pull off a big-budget spectacle on the world stage.

When he accepted those Grammys, he said, in English, “Before I say thanks to God, I’m gunna say… ICE OUT!” That line brought the house down. And he added, “We’re not savages, we’re not animals, we’re not aliens. We are humans, and we are Americans.” And then, he thanked his mother for giving birth to him in Puerto Rico and dedicated the award to “all the people who had to leave their homeland... to follow their dreams” and to “all the dreamers” who have lost loved ones.

Note: Puerto Rico is a U.S. Territory. If you are born there, you are a U.S. citizen.

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So why is Bad Bunny such a threat to MAGA America? He’s a “Trump-hater,” they say. His views contradict “traditional American values.” His lyrics are graphic and explicit. His moves, suggestive. He affirms LGBTQ and opposes Trump’s immigration policies. He’s anti-American, they say.

Turns out the half-time show gave us a very different picture of the artist.

Full confession: I am no expert on his music style, his lyrics, his views on sex, or his personal life. But I’ve reviewed some of those charges. And then I did a little homework on Kid Rock. Hmm. If Bad Bunny’s lyrics bother you, check out Kid Rock’s.

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Sunday afternoon, I settled in to our neighbor’s beautiful home in front of his theater-sized big screen television, complete with surround sound. The National Anthem. The spectacle. The athlete warriors ready for battle. Seahawks and Patriots. We were part of a 135 million-viewer global audience.

The game, frankly, fell short of the hype. It was a defensive battle. The Pats came close to being the first team in the history of the Super Bowl to be shut out. There were dropped passes, lots of field goals (Seahawks) instead of touchdowns, and only a few of those runaway ball carries. The Pats played well below expectations. So, the Seahawks deserved the win. They are now Super Bowl Champions.

But here, I’d rather talk about the half-time show.

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Read Part 2 now

There are many versions of the Gospel out there. Those who prioritize “The Gospel” have one thing in common - they are convinced that theirs is the authoritative version. It’s Non-negotiable. Universal. Cardinal. Paramount. Set in stone.

All the others are counterfeits.

In the Bible, the gospel is simply “good news.” In graduate school, determining exactly what is meant by the term can be complex. But not for Campus Crusade for Christ (now CRU).1 Years ago, the gospel was condensed into four key points crafted to lead a prospect to a commitment. Yes or no. Up or down. In or out. You decide. It’s the offer of a free ticket to eternal bliss and the escape from certain eternal judgment.

In Bible school, we memorized that little booklet. It could be “shared” in a matter of minutes, and, as we were told, it may well determine one’s eternal destiny. It’s the Gospel as elevator pitch. There are hundreds of knock-offs out there in the religious marketplace - usually four-pointers and a closing prayer: “Gospel Tracts.” There are souls to be won. Lost masses to be saved.

In a nation that has as many Christian denominations as there are hamburger stands (probably more), there exists a plethora of answers to the question “What actually is ‘The Gospel,’ anyway?” Jesus had a version - ““The Spirit of the Lord is upon me… He has sent me to proclaim good news to the poor… freedom for the captives… recovery of sight for the blind… to let the oppressed go free.”2 Paul had a version, too - “that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day…”3 Jesus’ brother James also had a version. It has a lot to do with caring for the poor and marginalized, resisting the temptations of wealth and power, and a commitment to the common good. (“Good works.”)4

The church has been homogenized in recent decades. It’s not so common to see “denominational” churches these days. More likely, the church in your neighborhood will bear a generic name like Cornerstone or New Life or The Rock or Journey or Hope or Grace. Or, it will be named after a road or geographic landmark - The Summit, Thomas Road, Granite Mountain, Hillside, Foothill, Green Lake or Highland. Our neighborhood elementary school is home to a new church plant called “Be The Message” Church.

Baptist, Lutheran, Episcopal, Methodist, and Presbyterian are more and more rare out there.

The Gospel message is further obfuscated by the church’s relatively new alliance with politics. The Gospel promoted these days in those generic churches includes an animosity towards secularism, liberalism, higher education, the Democrat party, immigration, science, vaccinations, and social safety nets. Patriotism, separatism, conservatism, and moralism are more likely to prevail as religious identifiers. Pro-life activism takes center stage. These rallying points constitute the essence of the gospel in these spaces, both in church and via the evangelical media complex.

So, there seem to be as many versions of the Gospel as there are versions of Jesus.

But there is one form of The Gospel that’s uniquely American. It has a long history: the Prosperity Gospel.

* * * * * * * * * *

My first real encounter with the Prosperity Gospel hit when (in the early 1980s) I got persuaded to become an Amway (The American Way) distributor. I was reluctant then, as certainly you would be. But my recruiters were relentless, and ultimately convincing. With a degree of reticence, I signed up.

My Bible School and Seminary training had been vigorous exercises in frugality. None of us imagined that it would be possible to build personal wealth in ministry. Our pastoral predecessors (our parents’ and grandparents’ generation) lived in parsonages (employer-provided housing). Their congregants often contributed food in addition to what little they had for tithing on Sunday morning. Many of those pastors gave heart-tugging “testimony” to the lucrative careers they “gave up” in order to pursue their calling to ministry. All that money, that filthy lucre, was a necessary sacrifice to become a true Servant of God. Some of those good clergymen (mostly men) were bi-vocational just to make ends meet.

We took on the mantle of their example. We didn’t expect much. Even if we could purchase a luxury car, we didn’t. Humble appearances must be maintained. Our meager salaries were published in the annual report. Any evidence of excess or conflict of interest would result in parking lot criticism, maybe even public complaints where a brave protester just might take to the microphone at the congregational meeting and unload his concerns about a greedy pastor and/or an out-of-control Board.

So, the invitation to become an Amway distributor came shortly after I left my role as pastor. Accepting it triggered a culture shock. The notion that wealth could be a good thing was, well, intoxicating.

That sign-up launched an intense program of training in American capitalism, free enterprise, financial independence, and winning through success. While conspicuous consumption would be professional suicide in my former career, the amassing of perpetual tidal waves of income became a worthy goal and a clear sign of God’s smiling approval.

When I got a look at the inside of “the business,” I was surprised to learn that it was, at its core, thoroughly evangelical Christian… complete with altar calls and Sunday worship.

From the start, we were coached to “fake it until we make it.” We were bombarded with training tapes (back then - cassettes), motivational reading, regular gatherings, conferences, and phone calls. We were de-programmed from “stinkin’ thinkin’,” the belief that we needed a J-O-B, and the lure of a world that tells us “you can’t do it.” Ignore the “nay-sayers,” the “dream-stealers,” the doubters. We were told not to associate with those outside the business, but only with those who modelled “success.” “Share the plan,” at every opportunity. We should celebrate the “No”s - because only by enduring rejection could we find success. The ultimate goal: Diamond Direct. Rags to riches. Horatio Alger, in the flesh. Happily ever after.

During those three or four years, I did, however, manage to get my Andy Warhol 15 minutes of fame. (Well, more like 5 minutes.)

One long weekend, we gathered in the Oakland Arena. I’m told there were over 10,000 of us wanna-be Diamonds in attendance - that is, distributors with the dream of reaching the pinnacle of success. There were only about eight of those actual Diamonds there, including two who had been active leaders in the church I pastored as a fresh seminary graduate. It was a multi-day training and motivational conference where all those Diamonds took to the stage to recount their journey from hopelessness to untold wealth. From survival mode to independence.

FREEDOM!

It was part inspiration, part pep rally, and full-on indoctrination. We were all there until after 1 AM… exhausted, but willing to stand up and with all ten thousand others to say out loud, “Whatever it takes!” We are “all in!” “No excuses!”

Of course, 9,992 of those in attendance would never make it.

Including me.

On Saturday afternoon, we changed the pace - taking about 45 minutes for an open “talent show.” It was an invitation to anyone in the audience willing to take the stage and perform. My friend, one of those Diamonds, cornered me and said, “Ken. You’ve gotta do it. This is your chance. Get up there and sing!”

“Excuse me?”

My friend insisted. He’s the same guy who convinced me to sign up. Let’s just say, he’s persuasive. I tried to decline. He wouldn’t listen.

“What in the world will I sing?” I asked, incredulously.

“You’ll figure it out. The band can play anything.”

Surprisingly, a song came to mind. Even so, every fiber of my being resisted.

What I haven’t shared with you ever before is this: As a Bible school kid, I sang in our men’s choir. All three years, I was the choir’s soloist. I took voice from our director, a classically trained baritone. We traveled all over the country. I was no stranger to the solo part. But many years had passed.

All that said, something familiar stirred up inside me.

“OK, man. What the heck. I’ll do it.”

My turn came. Let me remind you, this was Oakland Arena. Thousands of people were there. The lead band member asked, “What do you want to sing?”

“Impossible Dream,” I said.

“No problem. We’ve got it.” He turned to the band, and they all nodded. As I stepped to the mike, the guys strummed an introduction. The lead guy pointed to the microphone. All I had to do was step up and sing.

I looked out at that massive audience. My heart just about beat out of my chest. I took a deep breath. But the old days with the choir came back. I hit the first note, on key.

To dream… the impossible dream

To fight the unbeatable foe

To bear with unbearable sorrow

To run where the brave dare not go…

This is my quest… to follow that star

No matter how hopeless……

The audience, who had been distracted during the break, turned to listen. They smiled a collective smile of approval. Some nodded. The old voice came back. I hit the notes. I felt energized, composed. It was magic.

To fight for the right, without question or pause

To be willing to march into Hell for a Heavenly cause

And I know if I’ll only be true to this glorious quest

That my heart will lie peaceful and calm

when I’m laid to my rest

And the world will be better for this

That one man scorned and covered with scars

Still strove with his last ounce of courage

To reach the unreachable star.

I held that last line, a crescendo, as though that star was just beyond my reach.

Then, the applause. Like I had never known, before or since. I took a sheepish bow. It was my Diamond moment.

Backstage, as I moved stage left, I stumbled across the Number One Diamond, Bill Britt, the mega-charmer who later that night kept us into the wee hours to pledge our loyalty to the quest to “build the business” and relentlessly focus until we would achieve that coveted Diamond status.

“Hello, Mr. Britt,” I said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

He stopped, looked me in the eye, without shaking my hand, with furrowed brow, in a voice like General Patton said -

“I hate that song.”

I stood there, frozen.

“It’s NOT the impossible dream,” he declared. “It’s the POSSIBLE dream!”

He turned and walked off.

* * * * * * * * *

Of course, I would be one of the 99% with dreams of financial independence that never got there and then eventually got over it. While I cherished that moment on stage, my deep dive into Amway’s Prosperity Gospel left me disillusioned. Like Dorothy, who learned at the end of that Yellow Brick Road that the Wizard was not who he pretended to be. He never was. Those Diamonds were not Diamonds, either.

My Amway days did, however, prepare me for this MAGA era. Smoke and mirrors. The illusions of wealth. The abuse of privilege. The abuse of power. The distraction from home.

From the inside, I saw corruption, too. The exaggerated claims. Investor dollars lost. The exploitation. The misrepresentations. The false hopes. The shattered dreams. The lost time.

* * * * * * * * *

And now, as 2026 opens up with new possibilities, sadly, the Wizard remains in power. (For now.) Nearing age 80, he believes that he is the Master of the Universe, Master of the Art of the Deal. He doesn’t drink alcohol, but he is intoxicated. His drug of choice? Money and power. The exercise of immense, unprecedented (Presidential) power and ready access to inexhaustible supplies of cash. He controls the military, the National Guard, and ICE. He controls the Department of Justice. He controls Congress. He controls the Supreme Court. He controls the national budget. He wants to control the media, the universities, and the law firms. That 747 Air Force One sits on the tarmac at his command. He doesn’t sleep. He lives on a diet of Big Macs. He’s never read a book.

But folks who have been his loyal followers are beginning to exit the arena. They’ve looked behind the curtain. The smoke is clearing. The mirrors reflect back what is real.

It’s not too late.

That impossible dream, to follow that star, is still there with me. But the star is not Amway Diamond or MAGA America or a Christianized nation.

It’s a vision of this country that is bound up in the common good. Two hundred and fifty years later -

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all [of us] are created equal, that [we] are endowed by [our] Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Freedom and justice.

For all.

As we come to the end of another year, I have a long list of reasons to celebrate, express gratitude, and embrace all the wonders of the season.

It would not be difficult to enumerate them all for you. Many would be predictable. For example, our grandchildren are now approaching adulthood, each with their own story. We have budding musicians, health care professionals, engineers, educators, and athletes - all in the family. They fill this old grandfather with an inexpressible pride and irrepressible hope for a bright future that will unfold well after I’m gone - when I’m just a smiling face in the memory books. And then there’s this: we have a married grandson who tells me that he and his terrific spouse will bring us a great-grandchild next year. My my my. If you missed it, that’ll make me a GREAT-Grandfather. Wow.

While we regularly hear from long-time friends and peers about health challenges, some quite serious, Carolyn and I enjoy good health.

And then there’s my podcast, approaching 500 episodes over six years. The friends who have emerged from that little retirement project are cherished along with the many guests who have become friends. And there are those many good folks from our sphere - some going back to high school and college and beyond. And I haven’t mentioned our extended family.

Then, Substack - this gathering place for writers and readers. “Writers write,” my mentor told me long ago. (He was the author of some 50 books.) So that’s what I do. This would be Substack edition number sixty-one.

Christmas brings me back to the beautiful Nativity Story, celebrated in earnest since my childhood. That music. Those familiar lyrics. But also, it’s the Winter Solstice - the shortest day of the year. The dark comes early. The night long. So our neighbors put out the colored lights, along the eaves and around the windows and doors. We do, too. The lights are up. Candles flicker. The fall leaves are long gone; the trees are bare. So we put a green tree in the living room, adorn it with ornaments and bright lights, and a star to shine from the peak.

Here in Southern California, we hope for snow to collect high on the surrounding mountain tops as our friends and relatives up North shovel to clear their sidewalks and driveways. All this activity staves off what would otherwise be the “winter blues” or Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) - seasonal depression. A common ailment this time of year.

So, in the dead of winter, we celebrate the light. The warmth of the fire. The love of caring and giving folks within our reach.

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I’ve heard about churches that gather for what they call a “blue Christmas.”

Not everyone can post happy family photos on Facebook or Instagram. For some, Christmas is a stark reminder of loss. The untimely death of a loved one. A dissolution of the family. A debilitating illness. An estranged, alienated child. A job lost. Income gone. Living with the consequences of calamity. A blue Christmas service opens the door for community and mutual care - shared grief; tears are ok. Hugs abound.

In a prior Substack, we talked about Advent. It is both the anticipation of hope, but also a deep longing for resolution - the eradication of injustice, the end of abuse, corruption, and cruelty.

So this year, I have reason to celebrate. But there is also considerable cause for lament. Both exist for me - at the same time.

It’s not only a time to name our blessings, but it’s also a time to call out the harm.

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As we anticipate Christmas day, we are hammered with news of mass shootings - Brown University, the Bondi Beach Massacre, the murder of Rob and Michelle Reiner, and more. A comprehensive list of open, murderous, egregious gun violence would take up this entire Substack.

Another grievous cause for my lament is the state of our nation. I hardly recognize the country I love. This past year has given us a laundry list of causes for deep grief.

Some hail our President as the greatest ever. They think he should win the Nobel Peace Prize, that his likeness be added to the immortal faces on Mount Rushmore. They celebrate his takeover of the Kennedy Center. The Department of War. The Gulf of America. Those attacks on the university and law firms. His decimation of federal agencies, including humanitarian aid. His ripping up agreements on climate change. His cancellation of guarantees to support our European allies and his disdain for NATO. They revel in his fond affection for Putin and his derisive scorn for Zelenskyy. They believe he has solved the problem of open borders by growing ICE into his own, militaristic (highly paid) private police force, arresting and deporting brown and black folks with little or no evidence and no regard for due process. They celebrate the blowing up of fishing boats off the coast of Venezuela without a warrant or providing proof of drug smuggling. They cheer his hatred of “the left” (confession: I’m left-handed). They have no regard for a Gaza in ruins. They admire his hot-shot cabinet members for their lack of qualification, their unfeigned loyalty to their leader, and their smug contempt for the media, the Democrats, and anyone who might dare criticize the President. And many of these supporters believe the President and his administration’s cast of characters are on a mission from their Christian God - with his blessing.

I’m not one of those people.

I lament all of the above. And more. (The list of atrocities above is not a complete list.)

Thankfully, my grandkids know that I did not vote for this man. Ever.

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I heard Carolyn in the next room say, “Oh… no!”

“What?” I asked.

“Rob Reiner has been killed!” she said, shocked and dismayed.

I was, too.

I knew immediately that the world would be talking about this one. Here was a beloved National Treasure. A good man. Dead. Murdered in his own bed. And his wife, too? How? Who?

And now we know. We have learned the tragic story of a prodigal son losing all perspective. It’s mental illness on full display; in full, murderous manifestation - horrible, heartbreaking news.

Within minutes, every media outlet began a rehearsal of the many gifts given to us all by Rob Reiner. I first knew and admired him as Meathead on “All In The Family.” (We watched a live production of the show back in the 70’s, saw him live, and met Sally Struthers on stage.) And then Princess Bride, Harry Met Sally, A Few Good Men, and so many more. Just last year, he produced a searing documentary with several people I’ve interviewed on my podcast - a film about Christian Nationalism called God and Country.

Whenever I saw Rob Reiner with his best friend, Billy Crystal, they made me laugh.

Early on, I stumbled across Donald Trump’s response to the murder posted on his Truth Social. I thought, “Oh my God, this is the President of the United States.” I read it and felt sick to my stomach.

You’ve already read it, too. (I won’t post it here.) It’s repugnant. Discusting. Sadly, it’s a reflection of this man’s remorseless heart. It’s not unlike him. It’s in character.

I love my country. I lament what it has become under his leadership.

I pray that it will end. Soon.

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So this Christmas, I put up those Govee lights around the house. Each evening, I choose a different pattern of flashing reds and greens to dance happily around our house, lighting up the dark. YouTube has these great screen savers that loop Christmas scenes and play instrumental Christmas music, pre-empting the repetitive news that just can’t help but focus on that man in the White House and all his antics - over and over, ad infinitum.

Give me Silent Night, Joy to the World, I’ll be Home for Christmas, Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire, and All I Want for Christmas Is You - any day of the week.

I‘ll open my laptop, click on the word processor. Just let me write.

So, as the lights glow outside and YouTube gives me those holiday scenes, I’m thinking of you as I write and you read. I’m hoping that you can relate to this very real tension - living between the Joy and the Lament is what this season is all about.

Let’s tell the truth. And at the same time, let’s embrace the joy and the love and the light.

We have each other.

And this Christmas, 2025, that is enough.

The irony of it all didn’t get past me.

Now screening at The Sphere is the spectacular remake of the G-rated 1939 film - The Wizard of Oz. The classic movie, themed to highlight intelligence, heart, courage, home, and the hazards of chasing after an illusion, is making a major impact in - of all places - Las Vegas.

Twice per day, the two-hour extravaganza draws a massive audience willing to pay a hefty premium for a seat. That now includes Carolyn and me.

In my last Substack piece, I unpacked the classic story.

As of this writing, we’ve experienced it. The Sphere.

Wow.

Yes, “Sin City” (as my Grandfather called it) emerged out of the desert as a gambling and entertainment Mecca. Every hotel on The Strip has an over-the-top ploy to attract customers - New York’s Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower, the Strat’s X-Scream (dangling you over the edge, 866’ above ground), the Pyramid, the High Roller (the highest [well, now the 2nd highest] Ferris wheel in the world), Bellagio’s Dancing Waters, and in December, Christmas on steroids - everywhere. But the grand-daddy of them all is - The Sphere.

It’s a massive globe. The entire surface is a colossal video (LED) screen they call the Exosphere. It’s perfectly round, 366’ tall and over 500’ in diameter. It seats over 18,000, and the interior globe is nearly all a seamless 16K high-resolution video display. Before this, I considered IMAX to be the pinnacle of cinematic awe. But I hadn’t yet experienced The Sphere.

On the outside, it can be the Moon. Or planet Earth. Or splash art in motion. Or flying dragons. Or candy canes and bright ornaments flashing in red and green. Or a promotion for the Wizard of Oz. Visible for miles. In motion. All day. All night.

Inside, it’s like the heavens that were once considered to be a celestial dome. You are surrounded - left/right and up/down; the sound, too - big rattling boom woofers and piercing trumpet highs. The voices are full and rich and clear. The haptic seats rattle, too, in synch with the thunder and the blast of an explosion or the shaking of hurricane-force winds. So when Dorothy is hit by a tornado, that torrent of wind blows on you, too. It’s as though you are caught up with her in the eye of the storm then finally, when it all ends, you set down in the magical world of Oz.

Words can’t explain it. Maybe it’s because I really am an old guy. But throughout the film, I felt strong emotion - a hot choking up in the throat and warm tears forming on the edge of my eyes. That first moment when the heavens filled with light, the image of a Kansas farm, all in sepia; the matching swell of sound and the wonder of it all, well, it got me. That’s before Dorothy stepped into the Technicolor world of Munchkinland. When she did, well, that got me, too.

We looked around that massive audience in the theater right there in Las Vegas. The absence of people of color became conspicuous. Most all of us were white. And the clear majority would quite easily qualify for those senior discounts. No questions asked. Watching the film, the cast matched our audience. Not one person of color from beginning to end. Hmmm.

I won’t rehearse the story again, but I will say this. The connection I made between the Wizard (who turns out to be a frightened little man with a microphone behind a green curtain) and our current President was only confirmed. I did a little research, thinking that the movie makers in 1939 may have seen the connection between the Wizard and the Fuhrer, taking Germany into a disastrous World War. I found no evidence of that. But I did learn that Frank Baum, when he crafted the Novel in 1900, wrote in the Yellow Brick Road and the magical Silver Slippers (red in the movie) as a symbol of William Jennings Bryan’s argument over the dollar. He preached that the government’s guarantee of the U.S. currency by the gold standard (Yellow Brick Road) should be enhanced by an additional “silver (slippers) standard.” (See his “Cross of Gold” speech.)

For Baum, the Wizard did, in fact, represent politicians and business barons who had an inflated view of their own power and influence. For me, as the Wizard presented himself as this larger-than-life, intimidating, fire-breathing, threatening, fear-inducing, brute of an ogre - I couldn’t help but think that his actual identity as a frightened little pretender matched my view of our man in the gilded White House.

But I did miss one thing, now that I’ve seen the movie again. I’d forgotten that the Wizard, after he’s exposed as the guy from Omaha, transforms into a kind of power-of-positive-thinking preacher - identifying the brain in the Scarecrow, recognizing the heart in the Tin Man, and calling out the courage in the Lion. He gave them symbols to represent this acknowledgment - but mainly, it was the power of suggestion. Each of them already possessed the quality they sought; they just didn’t know it. No magic required.

And Dorothy, well, she makes her way home. Turns out, Oz was only a dream. An intensely vivid dream.

Watching it again, there in The Sphere, filled me with gratitude, too. For intelligence. For heart. For courage.

For home.

* * * * * * * *

I’m not the first to notice the whiteness of the 1939 movie. In 1975, Broadway introduced an all-black version called The Wiz, a celebration of black culture and creativity with the hit song, “Ease on Down the Road.” Then in 2003, Wicked appeared on Broadway at the Gershwin Theater. For twenty years, it’s been one of the longest-running plays in Broadway history. Over 70 million people have seen the play worldwide, including Carolyn and me.

After more than a decade of planning, the film version of Wicked was produced and released in 2024 under Director John M. Chu - in two parts. Last week, in anticipation of our visit to The Sphere, we took in part two - Wicked for Good.

Both the Broadway play and the film are explorations of the significant dynamics of social and cultural “othering.” The 1939 film had little to do with the challenges of race. But the exploration of Oz’s backstory takes a deep dive into the background of the characters. It’s a social and political commentary. The entire cast is wildly diverse. And it all started with the 1995 innovative novel by Gregory Maguire - Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West.

The story is a retrospective, a prequel to The Wizard of Oz. It imagines origins - the Witches (Elphaba and Glinda), Munchkinland, the Wizard, the Emerald City, the flying monkeys, the Enchanted Forest, and all.

In Wicked for Good, the Wizard (played brilliantly by Jeff Goldberg) is a dead ringer for Donald Trump. He is a powerful and corrupt dictator. His power derives from his bold lies, stirring up fears and producing propaganda to keep Munchkinland subservient to his every whim. Elphaba (The green Witch) is a scapegoat - the Wizard blames her for all the ills of Munchkinland.

Glinda, the Good Witch, is perky, energetic, and very white, usually dressed in pink. She’s obsessed with appearances and popularity, a product of Shiz University. She represents the drive for perfection. But in this version of the story, unlike the two-dimensional characters of the 1939 movie, she is complicated. Most every character is complex - conflicted, torn between the pressure to conform and the need to be true to one’s self. All of the cast, including Glinda, have a shadow side.

Perhaps the most human of them all is Elphaba, embodied with unparalleled talent by Cynthia Erivo. To underscore the director’s commitment to diversity, under Elphaba’s green skin, the actor, Cynthia, is a black woman. She defies gravity.

If you’ve only seen the 1939 movie, you would not imagine that the relationship between Glinda and Elphaba would be the primary storyline for Wicked. But it is.

When Elphaba arrives at Shiz, she is immediately “othered.” She doesn’t fit. She’s green. Glinda takes her on as a project. The premise would be that Glinda would teach Elphaba how to assimilate seamlessly into the life of Shiz and then Munchkinland and Oz. But in time, it’s Elphaba who exposes Glinda’s shallowness and her disguised unhappiness. Glinda’s efforts to exude perfection are a cover for a young woman who just doesn’t know herself. The Prince, Fiyero, sees it. At first engaged to Glinda, he comes to prefer the honesty, independence, and confidence of Elphaba. Madam Morrible sees it, too. Elphaba’s candor and self-awareness make her a candidate for training in magic. Glinda is dismissed as second string.

The Wizard and his assistant, Madam Morrible, combine forces to keep Munchkinland pure and separate from any influence that would diminish their power and control. They imprison the animals because they are different and represent a threat. They are also scapegoats, blamed for the nation’s problems. The professor, Dr. Dillamon the goat, was a free-thinker who challenged the assumptions of the Wizard’s propaganda and lies. Deemed the enemy of Oz, he, too, was jailed and assigned to hard labor.

The Wizard may just have well worn a bright red cap: Make Oz Great Again. Oz First.

In the end, Glinda realizes that Elphaba is the best thing that’s happened to her. She thought she would be Elphaba’s teacher, but she had it backwards. And in the end, it’s Elphaba who schools Glinda.

Finally, they sing beautifully together - “because I knew you, I have been changed… for good.”

* * * * * * * * *

Art can change us. There’s magic in the cinema. The collaboration of technology, artistry, color, orchestration, movement, and surprise can move me. It certainly did at the Sphere and on stage, and in the theater with Wicked.

I was reminded of the beauty of friendship. How the dark shadow of power and control and ambition and corruption and abuse can infect us all and rob us of the most meaningful of all relationships.

Overcoming all that, seeing past it, embracing what is right here and right now, is what made me so emotional as I witnessed these films; these performances. They got me.

No place like home.

Because I knew you.

It made me think of you… those of you who track my writing. Check in to my podcast. Engage in conversation. Share your stories. Drop your guard.

Because of you, I am moved when I contemplate these words, this sentiment, this Christmas season…

I do believe I have been changed for the better

And because I knew you…

I have been changed

For good.

-----END----

My friend Diana Butler Bass preached a sermon this week entitled, “When? When? When? Longing for the End of Empire.” She turned to one of the three gospels that recounts Jesus’ prediction that the spectacular, spare-no-expense Temple refurbished by Herod on that conspicuous hilltop in Jerusalem just a few decades earlier would be totally, irreparably destroyed. “Not one stone would be left upon the other,”1 he declared.

The disciples wanted to know, “When?”

Well, now we know.

In the year 70 C.E., some forty years later, Rome would storm Jerusalem and bring Herod’s masterpiece, built to display his wealth and power, to ruins. It was a bloodbath. The historian, Josephus, detailed the utter annihilation. The ruins of the Temple were sold off to assist in funding the Colosseum. Jewish men were rounded up and shipped to Rome, enslaved. They would work on the construction of that massive arena - the largest of its kind.

Diana tapped into the disciple’s question. When? When?

While the many factions of Judaism ultimately took pride in the magnificent temple, they considered Herod to be a monstrous, ruthless politician. They questioned his motives. They despised his immoral personal life, his self-aggrandisement, his self-serving corruption, his manipulative ways, his brutality and cruelty, and his need for fame, power, and conspicuous consumption. The Temple was as much his as it was the center of Judaism. It was Herod’s Temple.

To his disciples, Jesus’ prediction of the fate of the Temple spelled an end to Empire and an end to Herod’s excesses. The Romans were a political and economic threat. They occupied the territory with military migh. Crucifixions lined the highways. Resistance and rebellions were extinguished with brutality. Religious elites were cruel as well. Not only was Jesus executed, but his followers were the targets of hate. Common folks, like the disciples, longed for it all to end. For a new world to emerge.

That longing envisioned a world of peace and justice and plenty. It went deep. The prophets proclaimed it. When Jesus predicted the Temple’s demolition, the disciples could imagine an end to everything that held them captive - the suppression, the exploitation, the erasure, the powerlessness, and exclusion.

It was that longing that prompted the question - when?

* * * * * * *

That longing for something more - for the end of hardship and tragedy, for the elimination of cruelty and exploitation - is powerful and real. For us, too. It permeates our storytelling, our films and novels, our poetry and our music. Our hopes and dreams keep us alive. They keep us going even when all the signs point to calamity.

That’s me in this Advent Season - longing for an end. For over ten years, one name has dominated the headlines. Every day.

When will it end?

When will the MAGA Temple fall?

* * * * * * *

We have our tickets. We’ve reserved our seats. This year, we’ll celebrate Carolyn’s birthday in Las Vegas. We’re taking in what many are calling the most advanced, immersive, technologically stunning cinematic experiences ever.

The Sphere.

The 1939 classic, The Wizard of Oz. More than IMAX - it’s projected from the inside on a massive, surround-sound video globe. We’ll be there.

I love this movie.

Yes, it’s a throwback to Hollywood backlots and over-the-top sets, a cast of thousands, outlandish costuming, and brilliant color (in 1939, a jaw-dropping effect). That said, the premise of the film (based on the 1900 novel by L. Frank Baum) contains a message that has stayed with me since the first time I watched it.

Dorothy dreams of a place beyond her bland, black and white world of boredom, there in Mid-West rural Kansas - the ramshakled house, the predictable, dull, cranky family and neighbors, the smelly farm animals and pens, the weeds in the garden, and the endless chores. One night, a massive cyclone lifts the house off its foundation and carries it twirling and swirling far away as Dorothy and her little dog Toto, terrified, hang on to her bedposts.

Finally, the house lands in the magical Land of Oz.

As Dorothy wanders outside her displaced house, a technicolor world opens up to her (as the theater audience gasps in wonder). She says, “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

You know the rest. The visitation of the Good Witch of the North, Glinda, who explains that if she wants to get back home, she must follow the Yellow Brick Road to Emerald City. There, she’ll find the wonderful Wizard of Oz, who will show her the way. Along the way, there are the Munchkins, the Wicked Witch, the Red Shoes, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion. She imagines the Wizard. He’s larger than life. He has the answers she seeks. There’s nothing more important for her than to find him and speak to him. It’s her new life’s mission.

Her three friends want to see him, too. They’ve got their own agendas. The Tin Man wants a brain. The Scarecrow wants a heart. The Lion wants courage. Dorothy assures them - the Wizard is the one who can deliver.

The closer they get, the more fearful the Wizard becomes. In Emerald City, he is the master of all. In total control, possessing powers and wealth beyond description. He wins through intimidation. The booming voice. The illusion of power. The pretense of domination.

As the four sojourners make their way into the Wizard’s inner sanctum, little Toto pulls back a green curtain to the side, revealing the real Wizard. He’s a frail, gray-haired little man behind a microphone. Exposed for who he really is, his powers disappear. He confesses that he’s a guy from Omaha who accidentally landed in Oz. The people thought him to be some sort of Wizard. He could only play the role and create an image that the people of Oz wanted - a Master. A Great Benefactor. An Answer Man. A Wizard.

Dorothy and her friends learn a powerful lesson. The fearful Wizard is not what everyone thought. Oz is a fantasy. An illusion. He acknowledges that they don’t need him to find what they seek. It’s all there. Just embrace it. Intelligence. Heart. Courage. Home.

So Glinda, the Good Witch, explains. Just three clicks of the red shoes will take Dorothy back home. And like magic, the shoes click, and she is transported back to Kansas.

And when she gets there, she embraces her family - who now look a whole lot like her friends. A Tin Man with a brain. A Scarecrow with heart. A Lion with courage.

“There’s no place like home,” Dorothy says.

* * * * * * *

Long ago, when I first unpacked the meaning of the classic story, I couldn’t help but think about the identity of the Wizard of Oz in my own life. Back then, I didn’t know about literary allegory, Jungian archetypes, or Joseph Campbell’s Power of Myth. But I knew the Yellow Brick Road and the Emerald City and Dorothy’s three friends conveyed a meaning, a truth, that went beyond the extravagant sets on that Hollywood backlot. I understand now that these are the central elements that make a novel, a film, a poem, an essay - a classic.

Because I was fully immersed in religion since I was a boy, I connected those symbols with that fundamentalist worldview they taught me. Dorothy imagined a world beyond her own, as I did mine. In church, it was the world that existed in the heavenly realms, where Jesus and Paul and Peter and Moses and Noah all waited for my arrival someday, as they did for Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Ronnie, who was killed in a tragic car crash at the age of nineteen. I was told about “The Way” that would take me there - the Yellow Brick Road. “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take…” It’s the prayer my Momma taught me to repeat as she tucked me in for the night.

There are Streets of Gold there, they said. And a Mansion, too. I would need to open my heart. Use my brain. “Be strong, and of a good courage.” God himself would be there to rehearse my sins. He would remind me of my rebellious, self-centered ways. But Jesus would argue my case, and I’d be welcomed in. So, at the end of the Yellow Brick Road, right there in the celestial (Emerald) city, I would come face to face with that ominous figure of the God of the Universe, with a deep, terrifying bass voice resonating from the Throne - those weighty words echoing off the massive walls of the heavenly cathedral.

Even then, I wasn’t sure. I wondered if it was all just my overactive, fertile imagination.

And I thought, maybe, just maybe, the Wizard was just a frightened little man from Omaha behind the curtain. Pretending. That the whole thing was just a story. A scary story.

Finally, I got over that.

But the story still resonates.

Now the Wizard of Oz occupies the White House. He’s creating a Ball Room in the tradition of the Emerald City and Herod’s Temple. He demands absolute loyalty. He promises health, wealth, and happiness. Just follow the Yellow Brick (MAGA) Road. If not, a fearful, dreadful doom awaits.

But Toto is drawing the curtain back. With each passing day, the suspicion is growing. He’s just a frightened little man. He knows who he is. He knows what he’s done. The protective veneer is cracking.

* * * * * * *

Hans Christian Anderson wanted his little readers to know something about the power of peer pressure. The need to speak truth to power. To question authority. In 1837, he wrote a little story he called “The Emperor’s New Clothes.”

The Emperor, paranoid that there were traitors in the ranks of those closest to him, hires two clothiers who claim to have created a fabric that will become invisible when worn by anyone who is traitorous, unfit, or incompetent. When the Emperor appears in a massive, public parade, he remains oblivious to the fact that his outfit was produced by the two swindlers’ loom.

The townspeople see it. But they are afraid to say anything at all for fear that the Emperor will turn on them in cruelty and destroy their meager lives.

Finally, one brave little boy cries out, “But he has nothing on at all!”

The Emperor ignores the charge. He sees the commotion all along the parade route. But he carries on, waving, as though nothing is amiss. Acknowledging the crowd.

Naked.

Exposed.

* * * * * * *

And that’s the power of story.

Herod’s Temple - obliterated.

The Wizard - exposed as a frightened little man.

The Emperor has no clothes.

* * * * * * *

It’s Advent.

We long for it all to end. We light a candle.

We embrace hope. We ask…

When? When? When?

----END----

For most of us, the word propaganda has a negative connotation. But it wasn’t always so.

These days, “propaganda” is right in there with brainwashing, mind-control, manipulation, and coercion. It’s a tool utilized by the powerful to persuade us, to ensure our loyalty, engage our sympathies, and extract our resources. It taps into our hopes and fears and dreams; our deep emotion. While we may not be fully convinced, we are drawn in by the sheer pressure to conform, to nod in agreement, and to sign up, especially when almost everyone around us buys in.

“Propaganda” got a bad wrap at the end of World War II.

Before that, it simply meant the dissemination of information to promote a cause. The root word is “to propagate,” as in “the propagation of the Gospel.” Or as the Catholic Church employed it for centuries, “the propagation of the faith.”

We soured on the word largely thanks to Joseph Goebbels and his Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. Back in the 1930s, as the National Socialists came to power, enormous resources were allocated to the production of dramatic motion pictures that portrayed the emerging economy and perceived staggering success of Germany as a fantastical wonderland.

Admittedly, the United States also utilized cinema to rally the nation behind the war effort. The Office of War Information (OWI) posted its mission statement: to manage information and propaganda. Frank Capra’s Why We Fight series was funded as “U.S. Army Propaganda.”

As the war ended, leaving much of Europe in ruins, those spectacular German films gave propaganda a bad name.

* * * * * * * *

A few months ago, I heard that a new documentary1 would be released in mid-October. As a movie buff, I’ve long been fascinated by the subject. So I set a reminder to go to Amazon Prime to rent and watch it the day it was released.

It’s about a young woman who grew up in Germany, fascinated by the silent movies she watched wide-eyed with her Lutheran parents in the 1920s. Among her favorites were adventure films directed by the daredevil thrill-seeker, Arnold Fanck, who filmed in the high-altitude, snow-covered Alps and the ice fields of Greenland. Her father pressed her to achieve and take risks. He often remarked, “You should have been born a boy.” At about age 12, to teach her to swim, he put a life jacket around her waist and tossed her off a dock into a freshwater lake. She nearly drowned; but the strategy worked. She became a strong, competitive swimmer. Her mother aspired to be an actress and dancer and dreamed that little Leni would do the same. The mother’s dreams came true as she watched her young adult daughter grace the silver screen.

Cinematography advanced rapidly. Silent motion pictures added sound about the time the German director Arnold Fanck’s films mesmerized young Leni. She got herself to his shooting locations to watch him work. Before long, she became the featured star of his productions. He became her coach, teacher, and mentor. She learned how the cameras worked, how to frame, to utilize lighting, to capture the action, the daring and the high risks of avalanches, the deep crevasse, floating icebergs, and dangerously steep ski slopes, skiers jumping in slo-motion (a first). As those feature films gained international attention and high critical acclaim, she became as famous as Arnold Fanck.

As the National Socialists gained power, cinema became a powerful tool to create mass enthusiasm and support. The Party encouraged the entire film industry to join in the campaign to advance progress in every sphere. Goebbels got the assignment to meet personally with Arnold Fanck to invite/pressure him to join in the crusade. But Fanck turned him down. He refused to join the Party.

Leni Riefenstahl did not share his reticence. While she later claimed that she never officially joined the party, a personal meeting with Hitler was arranged. Leni’s combination of physical attractiveness, professionalism, wicked wit, and intelligence, ready knowledge of cinema’s technical processes, and personal charm won Hitler over. He immediately recognized her from the Fanck films. He named her as Director and secured generously funded contracts to write, direct, and produce a series of films to serve the Third Reich.

The first film, Triumph of the Will, captured the 1934 Nuremberg Rally. The Führer comes out of the clouds in a TriMotor Aircraft to cheering, adoring crowds. Riefenstahl utilizes every cinematic technique she’d learned from Fanck - camera in motion, aerial shots, long lenses, and wide spans capturing the massive crowds, uniformed in perfect lines, snapping to attention, singing praises, and stretching in Nazi salute. The dramatic speeches met with rousing applause.

The next project featured the 1936 Olympic Games. Olympia employed some forty camera operators, all eager to replicate Riefenstahl’s innovative technique to capture the spectacle. Many of us have those moments seared in our memories - Jesse Owens, the lighting of the torch, and Hitler at the center of it all, basking in the adoration of the masses. Even to this day, many consider Olympia to be one of the greatest films ever made.

Leni’s ambition brought her to the pinnacle of success as Olympia premiered in cities around the world in 1937-38. Leni was the honored guest at almost every location.

Then came the war. A World War.

By 1945, Europe lay in ruins. The Führer, dead. A self-inflicted gunshot.

* * * * * * * *

Leni’s association with Adolph Hitler made her an international pariah. Many considered her complicit in the atrocities that came to light. She had glamorized and popularized a regime that destroyed a continent, shattered lives, and engaged in unthinkable atrocities. The portrait of prosperity and progress was a tragic illusion. Her cinematic work would be Exhibit A.

Then the denials began.

The United States and the French arrested her, interrogating her for her association with Hitler and the Party. She denied that she had any awareness of the atrocities uncovered after the war, even though she had been close to Hitler, Goebbels, Albert Speer, and other high-ranking Nazi officials. At the end of the war, she married a Nazi officer - the marriage lasted less than three years. The International Tribune labeled her a “sympathizer.” In other words, she supported the party but had no known connection to their crimes. They bought her denials.

Leni lived more than 100 years, dying in 2003. For all those years, she remained resolute. For decades up until her death, her assistant, Horst Kettner, kept her company. (He married her just before she died at age 101.) At the time of Horst’s death in 2016, her estate released all of her personal records to the public. They included cassette tapes, her handwritten memoir, letters, film reels, and recorded phone calls - over 7,000 items.

Up until this most recent documentary, researchers were unable to prove that Leni had been lying all those years about her ignorance. Director and Producer, Andres Veiel and Sandra Maischberger, took on the task - to organize and research the entire collection. Their primary motivation would be to answer the question once and for all: was there proof that Leni Riefenstahl knew about the dark side of the Party’s atrocities? That she was lying all along?

They found it. An abundance of it.

Watch the documentary, and you will see.

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s become commonplace now for supporters of the President to complain about his opponents who make comparisons between the Trump administration and Hitler’s Nazi party. If we would just take the time to learn the history, many of those comparisons are hard to miss. It’s almost creepy.

But there are differences, too. For example: military parades.

If you take time to watch Triumph of the Will and the epic parades of the Nuremberg Rally and compare them to Trump’s 250th June 2025 military parade, you’ll notice a stark contrast.

Leni Riefenstahl caught my attention because she became so deeply invested in the apparent flourishing of her post-World War I Germany. She utilized her considerable cinematic skills to amplify and embellish the positive aspects while ignoring the atrocities. We now know she was fully, intimately aware of those atrocities. Her defensiveness, her denials, her callous disregard, her presumption of privilege, her cover-up, her self-indulgence, her proximity to power, her stubborn will were all a camouflage to the truth.

In the documentary, we see clearly that the masses sided with her. They bought her denials - largely because they were their own.

Sound familiar?

------END------

As our food came to the table, he claimed not to know much about the Society, which is a huge, powerful, under-the-radar association of conservative attorneys, like him. To this day, I remain a bit suspicious about that claim of ignorance. That said, my question did open up a lively conversation about “originalism” - a concept developed and advanced by the Federalist Society.

I explained my reason for asking. “This popular conversation around originalism and the Constitution sounds a lot like the discussion I had in seminary and Bible school around the infallibility/inerrancy of the Bible.”

“No,” he responded with an air of certainty, “that is not correct. There’s no connection at all.”

“Oh,” I said with a shrug.

Today, years later, I believe I was right. The dots connect.

Even back then, nearly a decade ago, the momentum was building toward the possible overturning of Roe v. Wade. Much of the rationale came from the Federalist Society, though the society claims that it does not take official political positions. It is “politically neutral,” according to the website. They only wish to advance the public discussion, they say. Frankly, that sounds a lot like Turning Point’s spurious claim to be an advocate of “civil discourse.”

“Originalism” is the assertion that the Constitution should not be seen as a living, breathing document, but rather a fixed text that should be interpreted only as the founding fathers “originally” imagined it. The Federalists complain about “activist judges” who, they say, read their personal opinions and prejudices into our founding document and issue rulings that would cause those good white Christian men who drafted and signed the Constitution to shake their heads in stunned horror.

Roe v. Wade would be a case in point.

In 1973, the Supreme Court, according to members of the Federalist Society, just made up a woman’s “right to an abortion” out of thin air. The “right to privacy” supposedly found in the 4th Amendment certainly had nothing to do with abortion. Abortion is not addressed anywhere in the Constitution. The Founding Father’s never imagined or considered what to do about abortion, much less affirming such a “right.” Therefore, the faulty decision of the court back then should be overturned.

And thanks to a Court majority made up of members of the Federalist Society (thanks to our current President), it was.

* * * * * * * *

The theories of Constitutional authority and Biblical authority are cut from the same cloth.

* * * * * * * *

Robert Bork, the failed Reagan nominee for the Supreme Court, launched the Federalist Society in 1982 with his judicial philosophy of originalism. His views at the time were at odds with the majority of the judges serving in federal courts. During the hearings, his take on Roe and “activist judges” was soundly attacked. Conservative backlash to his defeat made his name into a verb: he had been “Borked.” The Society took off.

Notable Society members include justices Antonin Scalia and Samuel Alito. Leonard Leo launched the Society to extraordinary heights and massive growth. In 2019, Leo told the Washington Post, “Our goal was never to pressure judges on outcomes, but to ensure that the people chosen for the bench share a coherent judicial philosophy—one rooted in textualism and originalism.” 1 (Italics mine)

When Donald Trump became the nominee in 2016, he published a list of judges that he would appoint to the Supreme Court if elected. Every name on the list was a member of the Federalist Society - the names had been provided by Federalist Society Co-Chair, Leonard Leo. Trump’s commitment gave Leo reason to celebrate and call all the Society members (today estimated at 70,000) to vote enthusiastically for Trump. In retrospect, we know the result: SCOTUS is now ruled by a conservative majority. Justices Roberts, Alito, Gorsuch, Kavanaugh, and Barrett are all Federalist Society members - and champions. Add Clarence Thomas to that list. John Roberts claims that he is not a member, but he is a frequent, friendly speaker at Federal Society events.

The Federalist Society does not publish demographic data on its membership. But it is no secret that members are mostly conservative Catholics or Evangelical Christians with a smattering of non-religious libertarians. There are some members of color, but a clear majority is white. Publicly, the society claims to be non-denominational and publishes no articles of faith. But the Christian orientation is apparent to anyone who takes a close look.

* * * * * * * *

This administration’s pre-occupation with “biblical Christianity” is hard to miss. They target the “seven mountains2.” The goal: total control.

In earlier substacks, I’ve written about Biblical Authority. In brief, my conclusion asserts that those who make a claim to biblical authority may sound harmless enough. But in reality, they declare that God is on their side; that their theological and political agenda is God-approved, God-sanctioned, and God-empowered. In other words, their version of religion trumps everyone else’s. (Pun intended.)

If you are not aligned with that agenda, for any reason, you are the enemy. The enemy of the agenda. The enemy of all that is good and true and right. And most egregious of all, the enemy of God.

Today, this version of Evangelical Christianity has become the official religion of the Trumpian Empire. Christian Nationalism.

Supposedly, the centerpiece of this version is The Bible. It is inerrant. Infallible. Authoritative. To understand it, you must be an originalist. A textualist. Your role is to get into the mind of the authors. Focus on the text. It is fixed. Immovable. The source of Absolute Truth. If you do, God is on your side.

Liberal theologians, progressive Christians, and Bible scholars are like those activist judges, denying the fundamental truths that are not matters of debate.

If you need evidence for all this, watch the Charlie Kirk memorial. Check out Pete Hegseth’s address to the generals. Listen in on Speaker Mike Johnson’s caricature of the Democrats. Hear J.D. Vance talk about Jesus, er, Jesus Christ. I suppose there are folks who sigh in tearful affirmation. All this God-talk - an answer to prayer.

Then there are the rest of us who view it as a cringeworthy distortion of everything we were taught back when we sat passively in the pews, singing from the hymnal, and marking up our open Bibles as we listened to that voice of authority from the pulpit.

* * * * * * * * *

Constitutional originalism and Biblical literalism are intertwined in Christian nationalism. They share a common agenda: the demise of liberal democracy. The discard of human rights. The silencing of protest. Demonizing the opposition. The elimination of taxes. Abortion: murder. Health care: for the privileged. Withdrawal from the global economy. Cancelling regulation. Deporting the foreigner. Close down public education. Revive Western Civilization. Abolish gender studies, diversity initiatives, and affirmative action in the university. Strengthen the traditional family. Quash the “persecution” of Christians. Revive the (white Evangelical) church.

This is not the America I love.

It is liberal democracy that has made this nation flourish. Human rights, too. Healthy, peaceful protest is a necessary corrective. Taxation funds needed services and a safety net for all. Abortion is complicated - it’s up to the woman and her doctor to decide. Health care ought to be accessible to all Americans. The global economy has enriched us and lifted other nations, too. Regulation protects our environment. Immigrants have contributed to our flourishing economy in countless ways. Robust public education raises every generation of Americans. Gender studies, diversity initiatives, and affirmative action have fueled equal opportunity, achievement, and access to an increased standard of living. The family exists in many forms, and should be celebrated. White Christians’ complaint around “persecution” is spurious - misplaced. The church ought to be and often is the beloved community, serving the common good.

This is the America I love.

When I show up on the street corner for the NO KINGS (peaceful) protest, it’s because I love this country.

Only privileged, self-centered, panicky, angry MAGA Republicans dare call it a gathering of misfits who “hate” America.

----END----

Additional Resource: See my podcast interview with Dr. Randall Balmer on his book: America’s Best Idea: Separation of Church and State

2

Seven Mountains - a reference to the New Apostolic Reformation that aspires to control the “seven spheres of influence” which are -

1. Religion – Churches, faith institutions, and spiritual life.

2. Family – Marriage, parenting, sexuality, and home life.

3. Education – Schools, universities, and the shaping of young minds.

4. Government – Politics, law, and public policy at all levels.

5. Media – News, journalism, social media, and information flow.

6. Arts & Entertainment – Music, film, television, sports, and culture.

7. Business (Economy) – Commerce, technology, finance, and wealth creation.

It’s so hard to believe that the season has come to an end for the Phillies - and for you. Know that Aunt Carolyn and I were there for most every game you played in - watching with considerable pride.

You were at bat nearly 200 times as a Major League Baseball player. You appeared in legendary stadiums across the country filled with fans, many of them part of the raucous Ottoman Kempire. You performed next to some of this year’s most celebrated players in the game. You faced some of the most fearsome pitchers MLB put out there on the mound. On defense, you covered 3rd base, 1st base, 2nd base, and the outfield, proving your speed and skill. 46 hits. 26 runs. 28 RBIs. And OMG, 8 home runs.

What’s next? Whatever it is, it’s gonna be good. Know this, you’ve made us proud of the family name. You’ve worked very hard, and everyone knows, including your team-mates, your managers, coaches, and the City of Philadelphia, not to mention your many friends at PLNU.

You now have a long line of people who just want to shake your hand, take a selfie, give you a high-five and a hug, and tell you what an inspiration you’ve been. Your Uncle Ken and Aunt Carolyn are right there in the front of that line.

Enjoy your well-earned rest. Go for long walks with Lilly and your Goldie. Take it in. 2025 is a year for the Otto Kemp history books. I’m so grateful that we were here to witness it.

- Uncle Ken

A couple of weeks back, the web host that houses the six websites I’ve built and maintained crashed on me. It’s too long a story to tell you in detail, just to say that I was forced to transfer all of my sites (three of which I manage for clients) to a new host. It took nearly two solid weeks of focused, intense effort.

And in the process, I stumbled across some old work, stored somewhere out there in the Cloud. In two phases, from 2003 to 2005 and then from 2007 to 2012, I wrote a weekly essay and posted it on my blog site. I had faithful readers who commented regularly. When I realized that I had nearly lost many of those posts in the transfer, I went to work to recover each essay (usually about 1,000-1,500 words each). It enabled me to rescue them from digital oblivion.

And now, I’m rediscovering myself. They were written two decades ago - my comments on politics, theology, books, movies, travel, and family, too.

There are over five hundred of them in all.

If you’ve been reading my Substack, you know about that “deconstruction” era of mine. Some of what I wrote back then is pre-deconstruction; then, in phase two, more of them during deconstruction.

Early on, I had sensed this irresistible call to return to pastoral ministry. Between the lines, you’ll find evidence of a spiritual focus there. In the second phase, I had crashed and burned. You might not know it in a casual reading, but it’s there. Later, my podcast and my Substack brought it all into full bloom.

I called my blog site LeaderFOCUS.

Many years ago, someone told me, “Writers write.” Sounds simple enough. But it’s true. Seems like most everyone has a “book in my head.” But few get around to putting those words on a page - or more likely, the word processor.

For many years, I knew that I was drawn to the discipline of getting those words out and down. There were spurts and starts. Raising a family and building a career took precedence until I could hold it in no longer. Now, looking back, there are hundreds of thousands of words out there. Several books. All those essays. Today, over fifty Substack entries. And forgive me for saying it, but some of the prose in those collections is, well, pretty darn good.

Writing is something I can’t not do. (That sentence will never make it through grammar check.)

One of those five hundred LeaderFOCUS entries jumped off the page.

“It’s my next Substack,” I told myself. So here goes.

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I wrote this one in April of 2009. It’s called “Post Christian America.”

The prompt was a Newsweek cover story written by Jon Meacham. As a regular TIME subscriber, I wasn’t that familiar with Newsweek. But Carolyn, at the time, an admin for the history and political science departments at Biola University, distributed a stack of current Newsweek magazines to students and professors every week. Knowing that I would find this issue interesting, she brought a copy home for me.

Here’s some of what I wrote Easter week of 2009, just a few months after the nation inaugurated Barack Obama as President of the United States -

In an era of troubled times for print media, NEWSWEEK Magazine published a cover they hoped might stir up the same sort of ruckus TIME provoked back in April of 1966. Time’s jet-black cover back then posed an incendiary question: “Is God Dead?”

Newsweek’s cover last week was also jet black. Rather than posing a question, on the weekend that Christians around the world celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, it makes a flat declaration. With text in the shape of a cross, the popular weekly magazine announces The Decline and Fall of Christian America.

The author of the cover story was then Chief Editor at Newsweek, Jon Meacham. It’s a long article - over 4,000 words - and it draws on the research that documents a clear trend. Christianity, for the first time in decades, is in decline. Beginning with Jimmie Carter, Evangelical Christianity became recognized as a potent political force. Newsweek called 1976 “The Year of the Evangelical.” The movement took a quantum leap forward when it abandoned Carter and elected Ronald Reagan. The article traces the growth through the decades until Barack Obama won decisively.

Christianity ran out of steam, it seemed.

Apparently, I was skeptical that the cover was an accurate representation of reality in 2009. Decline? Sure. Fall? Not necessarily. I wondered if the cover was more a marketing ploy than a prophetic word about the future of evangelicalism.

Newsweek’s timing may well be the last gasp of a print magazine anxious more for survival than illumination. It’s not that I question their research. There are some interesting numbers here. The two that seem to drive the story have to do with, first, the number of Americans who identify themselves as Christians (down from 86% to 76% since 1990). And the second, the number of people who say they have no religious affiliation (up from 5% to 12% since 1988). In addition, the number who label themselves as “atheist” or “agnostic” has increased from one million to three point six million. According to NEWSWEEK, Dr. R. Albert Mohler Jr., president of the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, fears that “the historic foundation of America’s religious culture [is] cracking.”

Looking back, 2009 is when we noticed the “nones,” those who claim no religious affiliation. And then, the corresponding decline of those Americans who identify as “Christians.” Meacham, curiously, relies heavily on his conversation with Albert Mohler throughout the piece. Mohler, the Southern Baptist leader who was hired in 1993 to clear the Southern Baptist seminaries of “liberals,” an era that many call “the fundamentalist takeover” of the largest protestant denomination in America. Mohler confesses that he is horrified by the trend uncovered by the American Religious Identification Survey (confirmed by PEW) that documents the decline. Mohler sounded the alarm - morality will go. Western civilization will be lost, he declared.

That was sixteen years ago. Some of my conclusions show just how far I’ve come since then -

I, for one, do not share the alarm that triggers [the Newsweek] cover that once again attempts to put the Christian faith into a coffin box, pound in the nails, and bury it in the nearest available cemetery.

That is not to say that I believe God somehow needs religion in America to hold his own. To the contrary, I’ve always felt that American Civil Religion, which has given a genial tip of the hat to Christian tradition since the beginning, falls far short of biblical Christianity. It’s comforting to think that we live in a religion-friendly country, but that’s a far cry from an understanding of true discipleship.

The president of the Southern Baptists is certainly a thoughtful fellow, but to think that eighty-six percent of Americans claiming to be Christians back in 1990 is some sort of triumph is to miss a fundamental point completely. And then to lament the increase in folks in America who claim no religious affiliation from five percent to twelve percent over the past thirty years as a tragic calamity is a similar missing of the point.

To me, it was a stunning thing to imagine seventy, eighty percent of this country’s citizens claiming Christian faith. I have no idea what that means. All over the world, religion is cultural, ethnic. I just got back from India. I’m told that eighty percent of that nation is Hindu. What does that tell us?

The secular city has been around for a long time. Nominal religion has historic roots. The mythology of religious tradition is a pleasant pastime. But discipleship is something else. Those of us who’ve decided to follow Jesus don’t have a lot of time for or interest in civil religion.

To this day, it remains stupifying to me that Christianity has become what it is in our country. We didn’t call it “Christian Nationalism” then, but we do now. And Albert Mohler (who is still at the Southern Baptist helm) and his friends have served up a President on their version of a silver platter. His ascendancy and his shameless attack on liberal democracy is celebrated by this band of “Christians” as “rescuing the country.”

My reference to following Jesus and “biblical discipleship,” even then, is a stark contrast to what we now call American Christianity. Uh… fifteen years ago.

But I was a newbie in these things then.

It’s clear today that Meacham and Newsweek got it wrong in 2009. By 2016, the white evangelical backlash against the first African American President was strong enough to hand Donald Trump a victory. And thanks largely to them, he’s still with us.

It leaves me to wonder, what if Meacham had been right? What if, as the Newsweek cover declares, Christianity had declined, then fell?

Where might we be?

My Bible is divided in two parts: The Old Testament and The New Testament. The first books of the New Testament to be written down and circulated were Paul’s. Not the four Gospels or the Book of Acts. They came later.

After Paul.

The Book of Acts, written well after Paul’s letters, tells us that Saul was interrupted by the resurrected Jesus on the Road to Damascus as he traveled to exact his single-handed first-century ICE raid on that city. He then spent time with Ananias, recovering from the blindness caused by the light and the shocking change in plans. Saul became Paul. In Acts, he goes directly to Jerusalem.

But in his letter to the Galatians, we learn that he took a three-year side-trip to “Arabia,” before he went to Jerusalem. Historians note that his idea of Arabia is not ours. It references the massive desert region south of Jerusalem. Also in that book, he connects Arabia to Mt. Sinai, where Moses received the Law and Elijah heard that “still, small voice.”

Carolyn and I have been to St. Catherine’s Monastery, located at the foot of what tradition (not necessarily history) considers Mt. Sinai - in Egypt, at the center of the Sinai peninsula. We wandered through the ancient halls (from the fourth century) to see the library and the icons - the oldest extant on the planet. Very early in the morning, we joined hundreds of pilgrims who climbed the well-worn trail that day to watch the sun rise on top of the Mountain that many believe Moses climbed to meet God. I knew about Moses and the “Ten Commandments,” and the burning bush, and Elijah’s moment with God.

But I hadn’t considered that Paul had been there, too. For three years of contemplation and soul-searching.

After his life-shattering awakening back on the Damascus Road, Paul took time to process his own journey out there in the desert, maybe right here, at the foot of the fabled mountain where St. Catherine’s now stands.

For him, it was an intense process of deconstruction.

Everything he believed, up until that moment, would be called into question. He had been schooled in the Torah. He knew the languages - Greek (his first language), Aramaic, and Hebrew, too. He may also have studied Latin. He was introduced to Greek Philosophy - Plato and Socrates.

It all made me wonder if maybe he knew of Plato’s parable of the Cave. If so, it would have been a powerful metaphor of what happened to him on that Damascus Road.

Everything he had been taught would have become like those shadows on the wall. Jesus unshackled his mind and heart, new eyes, too. He brought Saul out of the cave into a whole new world and renamed him Paul. For those three years in the region of Mt. Sinai, Paul would work to integrate everything he had learned - from the Scriptures, from the Greeks, from the philosophers, from the Rabbis - into a whole new system of thought. He contemplated what little he knew about the life of Jesus (he didn’t have the written Gospels) and developed a whole new systematic worldview.

From his letters, we see what he came up with: justification by faith. Not the works of the Law. He focused not so much on Jesus, but “Christ.” Christ as the new Adam. Christ was the sacrificial lamb. He existed from the beginning of time and participated as the creator and sustainer of all things. Christ - the Second Adam. Christ was the sacrificial lamb. The Church is the Body of Christ - in mystical union. The resurrected Christ did not occupy a body of flesh and blood, but a spiritual body. In Christ, we are a new creation. The Lord’s supper (the Eucharist) is participation in the life and death of Christ. Baptism joins us together with Christ. We are free from the Law - and the Gentile world is welcomed apart from that Law. We are “elected” and “predestined” into the life of Christ. The glorious return of Christ will happen during Paul’s lifetime, of that he was certain. (Until his life came to the end.)

It’s all Pauline theology. The Christianity of Paul.

And three hundred years later, when the Bishops of Constantine’s Empire decided which books of the New Testament would be included in “the Canon,” Paul’s work was given priority. Scholars who know Paul look at the Gospels and the Book of Acts, written after Paul, and see his influence, his ideas, all over it.

When Christianity became the religion of the Empire, it was St. Paul’s theology that took precedence. The plethora of other gospels, epistles, and apocalypses were cast aside as heretical. Banished and destroyed. Not to be found until 1945 in a cave at Nag Hammadi, in Egypt near the Nile.

When Christianity formalized into a single religion, Paul won the day.

And so it has been with the “Church Fathers.” Augustine. Luther. Calvin. Piper. McArthur. My Bible school. My church.

It’s all about Paul.

What about Jesus?

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I’m left to wonder what Paul would think.

Did he ever imagine that just a few hundred years later, his letters would be bundled with the Torah and the prophets, the history books and the wisdom literature, and those four gospels and included in what would become the Holy Scriptures? Did he imagine that his work would be codified as the rigid and fixed theology of the Roman Empire? That his message would become Orthodoxy, the measuring rod by which those who questioned the propositions that emerged from his writings would be judged and banished as heretics? Did he imagine the bloody religious wars fought over his teachings about law and grace? That his religion would become the justification for colonization and manifest destiny? That his writings would be employed to justify slavery, the subjugation of women, and the denial of science? That his concept of spiritual warfare would become the battle cry of the eternal, perpetual culture wars?

All of this in the name of “biblical authority.”

I’m guessing that if Paul and Jesus were here today, they would want to take to the microphone and offer a corrective.

For many, Paul’s appeal is the apparent justification to view the world as a cosmic Us versus Them. This simplistic “we’re the good guys/you are the enemy” thing has alienated many of us from the religion of Christianity. That includes me.

And today, that “us against them” has captured the White House and with it the levers of the massive powers of the most powerful nation on Earth.

The Jesus way is not us/them, it is I/Thou. It’s what got to Paul that day on the Damascus Road. He realized that those Jesus followers were not the enemy. He abandoned the mission to eliminate them from society. They were on to something good.

He wanted in.

Those followers of Jesus were about redemption. Reconciliation. Forgiveness. Mutual respect. Care. Selfless giving. Understanding. Community. Awe and wonder at the created world. God’s eye on the sparrow. Healing. On earth as it is in heaven. More than you can ask or think.

Paul’s deconstruction took him from Mt. Sinai to cities and villages all over the Mediterranean world, prompting those who had been marginalized by Roman occupation to form little communities to eat and share and sing and care for one another in love. Agape love.

“Love is patient. Love is kind…” he liked to say.

He learned it from Jesus.

In an earlier Substack,1 I shared an insight from Elaine Pagels on Saul’s Damascus Road moment. I contemplated the aggressive, oppressive, self-appointed mission of Saul of Tarsus. Just after witnessing the stoning of Stephen, he secured the paperwork that authorized him to launch a brutal campaign: to capture, imprison, and even execute Jesus' followers.

Then came the light.

It occurred to me that the pre-conversion Saul and the President’s I.C.E. Czar, Tom Homan, had a whole lot in common. Homan seems to relish the well-paid, high-profile mission he’s been given. As did Saul. But Saul’s transformation to the Apostle Paul was shockingly dramatic. It was a complete 180.

I imagined what might happen if Homan, Stephen Miller and/or Steve Bannon might be blinded by a flash of light on their own Damascus Road - transforming them from self-righteous immigrant hunters to a posture of “welcoming the stranger,” “loving their enemies,” “caring for ‘the least of these,’” seeking truth, justice, and mercy. You know, like Jesus.

Well, a guy can dream, right?

So, Paul’s conversion is a model of the utterly transformed life. But there’s more.

Paul’s theology.

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I’ve wondered for many years why it is that in all that Bible training - Bible school, seminary, sermons, and all - that Paul got so much more attention than Jesus. We’d venture into what we called the “Old Testament” now and then. But we spent most of our time in the letters of Paul. Why?

So I found and read another book.2 It speaks directly to my question.

The author, a historian and New Testament scholar, presented some new ideas (at least to me) regarding the reasons behind this phenomenon.

Before I read the book, I had some ideas of my own. They came into focus as so many folks I knew abandoned the church, questioning many of the doctrines that just could not be defended. The Christians we knew had become “conservative.” They believe they have a corner on absolute truth, and everyone else is deceived. As conservatives, they were separatists - setting up their own schools, publishing houses, media networks, colleges, and institutions. When the civil rights legislation was passed, they resisted. When LGBTQ groups won legal protection against discrimination, they called it a crime against God. When the military, corporations, law enforcement, and unions pressed for diversity, equity, and inclusion, they claimed that their freedom had been violated. Their vision of the future was Apocalyptic, which made things like Earth care, international co-operation, the United Nations, and the global economy irrelevant. It’s all coming to an End - soon. So why bother? The church pursued its mission to “own the libs.” Women, too, were expected to remain subservient to their men. The church’s convictions were centered on what they called “biblical authority.”

Many of these beliefs are rooted in the letters of Paul.

So, a whole collection of former regulars would be done with the church.

Done with Paul. Done with religion.

But not done with Jesus.

Hmmm.

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The Christianity we know is inextricably linked to the adoption of the church by the Empire of Rome, thanks largely to the Emperor Constantine. They codified the essential doctrines. They specified which books would be included in the Bible. The fourth Emperor, Theodosis, made all other religions illegal. That was nearly 400 years after Jesus. Most all of those convictions can be attributed to Paul. Not Jesus.

My author points out that before the church became identified with the Empire, in the first century (from Jesus’ death in about 33 C.E. to the turn of the century in 100 C.E.), there were many versions of what later became known as Christianity that emerged. He uses the term “Christianity,” even though it would be a curious, unknown label to Jesus, his disciples, and to Paul. The term “Christianity” is useful just to make a point.

He posits that there were three primary versions of Christianity in that 1st century. 1) Jesus’ Christianity, 2) Jerusalem Christianity (led by Jesus’ brother James), and 3) Paul’s Christianity. What would surprise many is how different all three actually are.

As I look back on my evangelical Bible education, our primary task was to comprehend and embrace the unity of the Bible message - from Genesis to Revelation. The suggestion that there might be contradictions or differences or conflicts or inconsistencies would be an attack from those godless so-called scholars, determined to destroy our precious faith. No, there are only apparent contradictions: the Bible is a perfect, inerrant, and infallible account of history, our human condition, and our need of a Savior. That’s what we were told, expected to believe, and then promote.

So I went for it. I tried. But the biggest problem came when I immersed myself in the text itself. For myself. That’s when the cognitive dissonance hit like a freight train plowing through an intersection occupied by a stalled bus.

As I unpacked this thesis in this most recent book, I could see it clearly. Jesus did not write any of the four gospels. Paul never met Jesus in person. He didn’t meet his disciples until after Jesus was executed, and then, only briefly. The church in Jerusalem didn’t know much at all about Paul’s theology, except that he was on mission to convert “the Gentiles.”

Jesus’ message was anti-establishment. He took on religious leaders. He embraced the marginalized. He brought healing and a message of forgiveness and hope. He imagined a Kingdom where the poor would be cared for, debts would be forgiven, and justice would reign. He didn’t say anything about penal substitutionary atonement, the Trinity, transubstantiation, or the perpetual virginity of Mary. The stories and legends that emerged around his legacy would have taken him by complete surprise. He would have denied many, maybe most of them.

James (“James the Just”) clearly led the church in Jerusalem. It maintained strong ties to Jesus as a Jew and a keenly insightful Rabbi. They continued in strict adherence to The Torah - the Mosaic Law. The Epistle of James, traditionally attributed to Jesus’ brother, is a good representation of how the Jerusalem church operated. The central concern was not ‘justification by faith alone,’ but rather that genuine faith would be demonstrated through a transformed way of life.

Paul brought a whole collection of teachings that neither James nor Jesus knew.

Everyone who followed Jesus was permanently traumatized by that brutal crucifixion. After his death, they collectively and individually worked to sort out what had happened. What was the purpose? Why did the people of Jerusalem turn on him with such a vengeance? How do we understand those miracles? Those stories (parables)? Can we collect those teachings and get them written down? Who remembers what he said? What might the Scriptures (the Torah, the prophets, the wisdom literature) tell us? What is God’s plan?

My Bible school assumed that we had the answers to all those questions right there in our King James Version of the Bible (Schofield Reference Edition).

History tells a different story.

(To be continued. Watch for Part 2.)

By now, you know that the film starring Spencer Tracy, based on the hit 1955 Broadway play, is a fictional version of the Scopes Trial of 1925. Inherit the Wind influenced the way most of us Americans know the trial.

The creators of the play, Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee (not to be confused with the Civil War general), were incensed at the cruel, oppressive antics of Senator Joseph McCarthy, who chaired the widely publicized Senate hearings that ran parallel to the similarly abusive House Un-American Activities Committee of the late 1940s and early 1950s. The playwrights considered the Senator from Wisconsin to be a dangerous buffoon who recklessly ruined the lives of politicians, actors, journalists, professors, artists, and fellow playwrights, all in the name of his relentless anti-Communist crusade.

They knew that if they wrote a play that was too thinly veiled a critique of Joseph McCarthy, they too would be targeted as Communists. Their careers would be destroyed.

So they opted for metaphor. Allegory. They believed that the buffoonery of the Scopes trial of 1925 would be a perfect analogy to the buffoonery of the national obsession with “Communist influence” in post-war America. To them, William Jennings Bryan was a buffoon, too, with his anti-communist rants, his exclusive claim to patriotism, and his anti-intellectual defense of the Holy Bible.

It worked. Inherit the Wind won Tony Awards, critical acclaim, and an unusually long run on Broadway. It also made Lawrence and Lee wealthy. It has been remade as a film for the cinema and television many times over, starring some of the biggest names in Hollywood.

In this final installment of my Scope series, I must say, I’ve learned a whole lot about the actual trial. The historians I’ve read (Edward J. Larson,1 Randall Balmer,2 and Brenda Wineapple3) all make note of the distortions of the fictional version over actual events in 1925.

Inherit the Wind is cartoonish. The opening scene has the town marching in parade to welcome the trial singing “Give Me The Old Time Religion”… it’s good enough for me. The play sensationalizes an already sensational courtroom drama. Henry Drummund (Clarence Darrow) is our hero. Matthew Harrison Brady (William Jennings Bryan) is the buffoon who suffers a public breakdown at the end of the trial.

Historians like to point out that William Jennings Bryan was no buffoon. The folks at Bryan University (formerly Bryan College, founded in Dayton, Tennessee, shortly after the trial, named after the defender of the faith) also portray their namesake as the statesman he once was. The town of Dayton annually hosts a community theater remake of the trial, which presents Bryan as something of a folk hero.

Bryan had been a candidate for President of the United States three times. Had he survived in the aftermath of the trial, many say he may well have run a fourth time. It’s a matter of record that Darrow supported Bryan’s 1896 campaign. Bryan was known for his conservative economic commitment (his famous Cross of Gold speech), his progressive pro-labor and pro-farmer views and campaign to increase wages for the working poor. He supported women’s suffrage and battled against out-of-control wealth disparity, arguing on behalf of the “Common Man.”

After the First World War, his problem with Darwinian socialism became a major focus of his speeches. Darwinianism eliminated God from the social order. He blamed the excesses of war, the decline in morality, and high crime rates on the absence of respect for the Bible and the Christian religion.

So Bryan took the stand at Darrow’s invitation to defend the Bible and the State’s right to prohibit the teaching of evolution in the classroom. Darrow went on the attack.

In the stage play and the film version, the Bryan character (Brady) descends into a public breakdown in the closing scenes. He becomes incoherent. Sweaty. Defiant. Defensive. Shouting, calling his audience to listen. But the people are done. They walk out of the courtroom.

In the 1996 television version, starring Kirk Douglas, he collapses and dies right there on the courtroom floor.

In 1925 Dayton, the famous confrontation between Darrow and Bryan actually took place outside the courtroom. The judge, recognizing the intense heat and humidity in the overcrowded courtroom, moved the proceedings outdoors on a platform that became something of a stage. Bryan did not collapse when the trial came to an end. Remember, he won the case. John Scopes was convicted of the crime of teaching evolution in the classroom (evolution actually was included in the text of the state-approved biology textbook). And he was fined $100.

Bryan was indeed angered that Darrow’s tactics eliminated the presentation of his carefully prepared and lengthy closing argument, but he did not have a public, emotional, ignominious breakdown on the public stage.

But five days later, after preaching in a local church, he died in his sleep during his afternoon nap. He suffered a severe stroke, the complications of diabetes and sheer exhaustion.

The nation mourned. His death was reported in papers all across the country. Eulogies were filled with affection, respect, and the honor due a fallen hero.

He was buried with full honors at Arlington National Cemetery.

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H.L. Mencken, the Baltimore Sun’s acid-witted journalist, made famous by the trial, submitted daily reports as the courtroom drama proceeded. A close friend of Darrow’s, Mencken had little time for the pomposity of Bryan’s eager defense of the State’s attitude toward science (evolution). Mencken coined several phrases during the ordeal, credited for naming it the “Monkey Trial.” The townsfolk who supported Bryan, he called the “Booboisie” (a play on Bourgeoisie) and “uncultured ignoramuses.” He believed that Bryan didn’t operate out of a sense of personal conviction, but an unbridled quest for power and influence. For Mencken, opposition to evolution was a "pathological hatred of all learning."

When it was announced that Bryan died, eulogies poured in from all corners of the nation. But not from Mencken. Rather than a composition of praise for a beloved, fallen politician, he fashioned a scathing critique of the man’s final hour in the public arena.

I managed to get a copy of the complete obituary published across America and later in Mencken’s book. Bryan’s supporters were outraged by Mencken’s essay. Others considered it to have profound literary merit. It was personal.

Frankly, it’s hard for me not to accept his observations as generally accurate, though seen through the filter of an atheist who held Bryan’s version of Christianity in utter contempt.

He began -

It was plain to everyone, when Bryan came to Dayton, that his great days were behind him -- that he was now definitely an old man, and headed at last for silence…

From my place in the court-room, standing upon a table, I looked directly down upon him, sweating horribly and pumping his palm-leaf fan. His eyes fascinated me: I watched them all day long. They were blazing points of hatred. They glittered like occult and sinister gems. Now and then they wandered to me, and I got my share. It was like coming under fire…

One day it dawned on me that Bryan, after all, was an evangelical Christian only by sort of afterthought -- that his career in this world, and the glories thereof, had actually come to an end before he ever began whooping for Genesis. So I came to this conclusion: that what really moved him was a lust for revenge…

But what of his life? Did he accomplish any useful thing? Was he, in his day, of any dignity as a man, and of any value to his fellow-men? I doubt it. Bryan, at his best, was simply a magnificent job-seeker…

He seemed only a poor clod like those around him, deluded by a childish theology, full of an almost pathological hatred of all learning, all human dignity, all beauty, all fine and noble things… Imagine a gentleman, and you have imagined everything that he was not…

The job before democracy is to get rid of such canaille.4

If it fails, they will devour it.5

It’s true. Bryan did not have a complete breakdown at the end of the trial. But he clearly aged out. He was exhausted. Depleted. Bloated. Irritable. Defensive.

Shakespeare’s King Lear once knew absolute power as Monarch. But as he aged, the self-dealing, the contempt for his own family and courtiers, the damage done as his control and popularity waned, he became irrelevant, desperately clinging to power. His angry, outrageous orders and demands all came back at him as his pathetic final days came to a tragic end.

Some are predicting that these are the final days for our aging current President, a Shakespearian King Lear? His health is fading. His swollen eyes betray years of hatred and grievance and an obsession for revenge. He is incapable of empathy. His smile is forced. He has been given the levers of concentrated power he never could have dreamed of, and he is shamelessly employing them to exact retribution on his perceived enemies.

As I read Mencken’s final portrait of the man who would shut down evolution, force his narrow religious convictions on all of society, exploit the fears and ignorance and bigotry of the electorate and use the government to advance his notion of absolute truth, I couldn’t help but see the portrait of the man who has been given the keys to the White House, along with his feckless appointees.

In Mencken’s potent words: The job before democracy is to get rid of such rabble…

If that fails, they will devour it.

———END——