“Whenever Christians fail to give other believers the grace they claim for themselves, they fail to embody the love of Jesus Christ, giving purchase to hate.”– Bridget Eileen Rivera

On March 23, 1969, thirty thousand people, many of them teenagers, converged on the Orange Bowl for a “decency rally,” all thanks to Mike Levesque. A senior from Miami Springs High School, Mike was spurred into action by a very public and indecent act: the lead singer of the Doors, Jim Morrison, had exposed himself to 12,000 teenagers during a recent Miami concert.

Enlisting their pastor’s help, Mike and his friends got to work. In less than three weeks they had teens from all over the city cheering from the stands, tiny American flags waving wildly. Local clergy, famous athletes, celebrities, and entertainers inspired them to greatness. In the midst of the frenzy, an antique car drove out to center field and delivered one of the keynote luminaries.

Stepping out into the South Florida sunshine and the crowd’s adoration, Anita Bryant waltzed onto center stage.

Beauty queen, famous singer, and brand ambassador for the Florida Citrus Commission, she was quoted as saying, “I just know this decency movement is going to succeed.”

I was four years behind Mike Levesque at Miami Springs High School. It’s been over fifty years, and while I definitely remember hearing about the concert, I have no memory of the rally. But as for Anita Bryant: well, it would be hard to forget her. Her far-right views and strident efforts to deprive LGBTQ people of their civil rights reached their tentacles deep into American culture. In the 1970’s she fought tooth and nail to overturn a local Dade County ordinance that prohibited discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. She won.

The people she attacked and persecuted were my best friends.

We were kids. Three boys and two girls, we were each other’s people in a school of four thousand. We went to the beach. We went to the planetarium. We went to the movies. We hung out at each other’s houses. We listened to records, went to dances, and went out to eat. We had an awful lot of fun together, and we had each other’s backs.

And in our last year of high school, the four of them got together and told me they were gay.

The news stunned me. I always knew I was straight, and it never even occurred to me that any of them, much less all of them, were gay. All I knew about homosexuality was that Anita Bryant hated it. I didn’t even know why.

A couple of days after that awkward conversation, I realized that my friends hadn’t changed. All they did was trust me with their truth. Their gift opened my eyes and my heart.

I loved these people because I knew them. Anita Bryant didn’t know them at all, yet she berated and persecuted these kids who were funny and loyal and loving and creative and brilliant. Turns out America’s sweetheart was only sweet to her adoring fans. At the time, I chose to discount her  and went on living my life. This was easy for me to do, since I was straight.

Years passed, and we all moved on. One of us died from AIDS in the late eighties. Three of us got together for our twentieth high school reunion, went dancing, and had a blast. I moved to Colorado in 1977, eventually got married, and found Jesus. My first church was in Aspen, a liberal town comprised of folks running away from their real lives. We were a motley crew of drinkers, druggies, and dropouts; this was the first church most of us had ever set foot in. The idea of discriminating against anyone for their sexual choices was laughable. I was woefully ignorant of the Religious Right’s political movement under the auspices of the Evangelical Church. The people I found were loving and accepting, and they introduced me to Jesus. As time went on, I allowed the “busy decades” to swallow me. LGBTQ rights were not in my face, so I just didn’t give them much thought.

Then the Religious Right, through the Evangelical Church, put Donald Trump into the White House.

For three years I just prayed, assuming Christians would come to their senses. When that didn’t happen, I began to research their political movement, trying to understand what could have possibly motivated them to support this man. The further I read, the more it seemed Jesus was not part of their thought process. However, the Big Names in Evangelicalism were leaning hard into politics, fanning the flames of anti-LGBTQ sentiment. It was never about Christianity. It was all about power.

I’d never paid any attention to America’s blowhards of the faith, so I was ignorant of their decidedly hateful efforts. Turns out I should have been listening. These men aren’t just wealthy TV preachers; they are social influencers on an unimaginable scale. Their muscle lies in telling people what to believe and whom to hate because they insist that their God says so. But supposedly this is my God too.

And herein lies the crux of my sin, even if it is a sin of omission.

I was easily accepted into the church because I was straight and white. It’s where I found family and community. It’s where I found purpose. It’s where I found Jesus. And yet, these abuses of power and persecution of differently-identifying people have been going on the whole time I’ve been a Christian. I never heard anything, and I never saw anything, because those who are “different” never set foot in our sanctuary. And in my selfishness, I never gave it any thought.

Now that my little bubble has burst, I find myself back in the land of “everyone else.” No longer can I harbor the illusion that all are welcome in God’s house. What is a straight, white grandmother to do?

She can get educated.

READ: Life as a Lesbian Christian: This Is What I See

I read. I write. And in the wake of my breakup with the Evangelical Church, I created a platform to share my findings. Even though I am completely unqualified to open a conversation on the persecution of LGBTQ souls in Christianity, I found someone who is.

Bridget Eileen Rivera is a sociologist completing her PhD at City University of New York Graduate Center, as well as a gifted writer. Her book, Heavy Burdens: Seven Ways LGBTQ Christians Experience Harm in the Church, opened my eyes and blew my mind. Her work paints a series of pictures using real stories of precious souls created in the image of God who have been pulverized by the church.

Surely this grieves the heart of Jesus.

Even those of us who are horrified by the actions of anti-LGBTQ “Christians”  can feel powerless when it comes to refuting their arguments. Why?

I think we just don’t know how. The folks behind this juggernaut of extreme misunderstanding have their answers memorized. Rivera calls them “clobber verses.” Until now, learning how to discuss these Bible bullets with any confidence seemed overwhelming. But Bridget Eileen Rivera has done all the heavy lifting. Within the pages of Heavy Burdens I found a comprehensive foundational treatise explaining the history and cultural context from which these verses were drawn, and then weaponized. She sheds light through her exhaustive research in Biblical studies, biology, sociology, and a host of other resources. This creates room for discussion. In the best of all possible worlds, discussion can lead to shared knowledge; knowledge to wisdom; and wisdom to understanding. Ultimately, all of these can lead to hope.

Having hope is right up there with having faith. It takes all the courage I can muster. With all the changes taking place in modern Christianity, can there ever be a time when people who love the same gender or identify differently feel comfortable walking into church? Who knows? I don’t even know if I would ever feel comfortable walking into church again. It might feel like returning to Miami Springs. Neither would feel like home.

Or would they?

There are only two of us left from the original gang. Josie recently texted me a picture of Miami Springs High School while she was down there visiting family. Things have changed. Security fences and locked gates surround the campus. But photos I found online show young people still laughing, and still carrying on in the courtyard. My heart aches, in a good way, remembering my friends who were funny and loyal and loving and creative and brilliant; who faced hatred with courage, even at a young age. In their honor, I’ll keep trying too.

You can order Heavy Burdens here.

Heavy Burdens– Seven Ways LGBTQ Christians Experience Harm in the Church, ©2021 by Bridget Eileen Rivera. Published by Brazos Press, a division of Baker Publishing Company, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287.

In the vintage Denver neighborhood of Capitol Hill we wedged the van into the only empty space for blocks—a zone clearly marked “no parking.” Fortunately, their twenty-something friends hustled all the heavy boxes out of the building and loaded us up in short order. We were ready for the road. In the midst of this somewhat controlled chaos, I asked my son for directions since we would be leaving before they did.

I wish I had listened better. It wasn’t his fault. He and his wife had driven this route countless times. All we had to do was stay on the same road for 208 miles before making our first turn.

And it could have been simple. After breaking free of the city, we climbed through the almost total wilderness for about two hours, finally reaching the tiny town of Fairplay. At around 10,000 feet in elevation, Fairplay lies atop a grassland basin in a windswept no-man’s land.  Once you leave town, there’s nothing for miles. No people. No cell service. No internet. No buildings. There aren’t even any trees. And unlike civilized areas, very few signs. We came upon what looked like a fork in the road. And for probably the first time in my hyper-vigilant life, I had missed the only sign.

“Bear left,” I said confidently.

Since I’ve been navigating our travels for forty years, Kevin just went ahead and turned left. Compulsively over-prepared and occasionally accused of ‘overthinking’ things, rarely have I pointed us in the wrong direction.

So we continued to cruise through the middle of nowhere for about twenty minutes, seeing only the occasional car.

Finally, we saw a tiny blue sign that said, “9.” Just “9.” If only it had said, “Eventually you are going to end up in Colorado Springs, you nitwit”- that would have been helpful.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Kevin asked.

“I don’t know what 9 means. Let me look.”

I reached into the glove box for a map.

“Where are your maps?’”

“This is my work truck. I don’t need any maps.”

They were all in our car, tucked safely away in our garage back home. I fired up my phone and tried to pull up directions. No signal. I tried to call my son. No service. Meanwhile, the occasional tumbleweed somersaulted across the road ahead of us as the miles rolled by.

“Should we turn around?”

READ: Money and Activism: Faith-Fueled Investing to Fight Climate Change

“I don’t know. What if we’re going in the right direction? It’s quite a ways back to Fairplay. Let’s keep going for a while. We’re bound to run into someone eventually. A gas station. Something.”

So we kept our eyes open for signs of civilization, possibly hidden in the tall grass that sways perpetually in the endless wind.

Do you know what maps do? They take the guesswork out of travel. One of the things I loved about the Evangelical life was the structure; it seemed like a map to wholeness. I was raised in chaos. My father was an abusive, bipolar alcoholic and my mother worked two jobs to support us all. There was no reliable structure to our lives. Each morning brought a fresh dread that kept us ever-vigilant. Over time, my brothers and I fell into patterns of self-destruction. Finding marijuana at fifteen actually saved my sanity for a few years.  Predictably though, better living through anesthesia leads to addled living through addiction. And no one hates addiction more than the addict herself.

Addiction eventually dead-ends in hopelessness, no matter which map you follow.

By the grace of God and a miracle of God’s power, Jesus reached out to me through a friend. For seven years, she prayed. Occasionally, she told me about her savior. Not often, not overbearingly, not threateningly, not shaming me. Just loving me. And one day, thirty-five years ago, I said yes.

I fell into Jesus’ arms through the folks at an Evangelical Church. They taught me how to love the Bible. They taught me that I could trust God. And they did this by inviting me to join them in the living structure that is the church: getting involved. Participating in Bible studies. Volunteering to serve others. Showing up on Sunday mornings. And on one of those Sundays, I heard the voice of God thunder through my chest telling me that this day, January 15, 1989, was the day God wanted me to get sober. God said that on this day, the Spirit would help me. And if I didn’t, God would have to get my attention.

I may not have been sure of much, but I was dead-on certain that I did not want to force God to get my attention.

So I found an additional community of kind souls, and their road map for recovery was even clearer than the church’s opportunities for spiritual growth. Between the two of them, I started to get well. Life got better. And I learned how to live without the dread of abuse, without the need for hyper-vigilance, and without the soul-deadening anesthesia of drugs and alcohol.

I found freedom within the healthy boundaries of a community; I found a roadmap for life. And it worked so very well until November 8, 2016.

I’ve written quite a lot about that day. My own people, Evangelical Christians, voted Donald Trump into office. It’s been five years, and I think I’ve finally grasped the depth of my loss from that event. Rather than rehash the pain, I’ve begun to think about the path ahead. I’ve just been reacting to the loss. Now it’s time to proactively start charting a course for the future.

There’s only one problem. No map.

For someone who thrives on order and stability, drawing my own map is more than navigating uncharted territory. It’s calling me to trust myself, trust God, and believe that the journey towards my own healing is worth the effort.

That I am worth the effort.

That I will eventually find my way.

Long into the afternoon of moving day,  Kevin and I came upon a log cabin/gas station/hunting supply store, all by itself in the middle of nowhere. With a smile (possibly a smirk), the proprietor pointed us toward Podunk Cutoff, saving us further embarrassment and even more miles headed in the wrong direction. When we finally arrived in Creede, our kids were relieved to see us, and even more relieved that we hadn’t absconded with their belongings.

As I search for a new direction in this post-evangelical world, I don’t have to be afraid of making mistakes. I do have to rely on the lessons I’ve already learned. I do have to continue to read the Gospels, pray, and trust God.

But I’ve got a big sketch pad, my tattered old Bible, an abundance of resources, a collection of colored markers,a handful of like-minded Ex-vangelical friends online, a database of organizations devoted to following the teachings of Jesus, a terrific family, an amazing Savior, a lot of faith, a soft heart, and the ability to write. I’m going to draw my own map.

Predictably, all the teens bolted from the pews, following my husband down the hall to yet more food and some youth-relevant conversation. The younger kids fell into line behind their teachers, and I brought up the rear, pretending this happened every week. In fact, I had just lost my mind. Grabbing my purse and my Bible, I waded through the preschoolers and caught up to Kevin.

“I’ll pick you up after the service.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t stay.”

With that I waved goodbye to him and his motley crew, walking out into the Colorado sunshine.

Just so you know how desperate this move was, the parking lot was in full view of the entire congregation. To the right of the pulpit, enormous picture windows showcased the rugged South San Juan Range of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. Keeping their eyes on the preacher was tough enough without one of their own going AWOL. In a church that small, everyone knew everything about everybody. And they all saw me.

Taking a deep breath, I inhaled some pure mountain air and exhaled the tension I’d been holding. I went home, peeled out of the dress, washed off the makeup, and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. I kept my eye on the clock so I didn’t leave my husband stranded and fielding inquiries as to where his wife had gone, and why. He had no idea.

Neither had I. Had I known I was going to make a very public break for it, I would have just stayed home, without the trappings and the strappings and makeup applied for the crowd.

That was over a year ago. Until recently, I had no clue why something in me snapped. Then a couple of months ago, I picked up Brian McLaren’s book Faith After Doubt. I had seen the hype and read a couple of reviews but didn’t think it would apply to me.

Why? Because I didn’t think I had any doubt.

Sure, I had raised rabble with the church leadership, questioning their support of all things Trump. I had asked some pointed questions, with solid backup arguments, about why the women in our church were limited to cooking food, cleaning, and teaching children. To me, my arguments made perfect sense. We all believed the same things, right? Couldn’t we gently coax the congregation into the twenty-first century?

Little did I realize my ‘doubt’ had begun in earnest on Tuesday, November 8, 2016: the day Evangelical Christians voted Donald Trump into office as President of the United States. A nuclear explosion couldn’t have rocked my world harder. I spent the next three years praying, assuming their eyes would be opened as they listened to his words and watched him in action. When my prayers failed, I launched a website for Ex-vangelicals, more an effort to find answers for myself than provide explanations to others.

Still, I kept going to church. I met Jesus through an Evangelical Christian, and in the body of Christ, I found the love, acceptance, and healing I had always wanted and needed. I couldn’t imagine life without church for a number of reasons, and being new to our community, these were the only people I knew.

I don’t know what set me off the day I walked out of the building and into the light. But thanks to Brian McLaren, I now know why.

READ: Brian McLaren, Doubt, and Decoding

A war had been raging within me, of which I was completely oblivious. Within the first few pages of Faith After Doubt, I learned that my brain is actually composed of these three modules:

The Heart

The part of me that longed for connection with others; to be part of a community. Most of the folks here had been super nice, and I felt loved and accepted. I was also deathly afraid of leaving a support system. This part of me struggled against leaving the church.

The Head

This is the part of me that screamed out against being part of a congregation that supported Donald Trump, whose policies and actions clearly violated the teachings of Jesus Christ. I tried to rationalize it in many ways- that they were nice, that I was open about my convictions, and was it really necessary to take a stand? Unbeknownst to me, my silence was costing me my sanity.

The Gut

So, because of this, the gut took over. The instinctive brain, the first module that operates after birth, controls (among other things) a vast network of unconscious reflexes and responses. Anxiety, fear, and panic evoke a threat to survival. When the heart and the head are duking it out, the gut takes over and says, “Enough already!” And for me, that moment came on Sunday, May 31, 2020.

It was my gut that grabbed my purse, slung my Bible under my arm, and almost sent the four-year-olds flying in my haste to exit the building. It was my gut that gave me the courage to cross the parking lot in full view of the crowd, climb in my car, and drive away. And it was my gut that said, “I’m not going to let you sell your soul for the security of a congregation and your people-pleasing tendencies.”

McLaren’s Faith After Doubt is a monumental work of research, woven with threads of the author’s personal experience as a long-time pastor, writer, speaker, and follower of Jesus Christ. Before even reading the preface, I was pretty sure I didn’t need to deconstruct anything. After all, I was a mature Christian. The last thing I wanted to do was tear my belief system apart; I just wanted my family of faith to realize that Trump is pretty much the opposite of Jesus Christ. I wanted them to actually read Gospels and say, “Wow, maybe we were wrong about Donnie.”

Is that so much to ask?

It seemed to me that those who held the keys to the Kingdom had changed the locks. But Faith After Doubt gently reveals a structure of belief systems within church organizations and explains the reasoning each follows. What looked to me like narrow-mindedness could instead be a commitment to uphold the tenets and traditions of their faith. And moving on down the line, I learned that we all fall within a ‘stage’ of belief and development, none being ‘better or worse’ than the last. Moving forward is a challenging process. Until now, I didn’t realize I had even been doing it, and I daresay most of us don’t. And honestly, there are times it’s so confusing and discouraging I find myself wondering: Is it worth it?

Our new neighbors probably wonder the same thing. Kevin and I live in a rapidly expanding neighborhood where multiple homes are being built simultaneously. Just behind our back fence, a young couple is doing the vast majority of construction on their first house themselves. They work from before the sun comes up until it goes down, rarely taking a day off. At this rate, it’s going to take them quite some time. I’m certain there are days they just want to throw in the bandana and call it quits. But one day, they will have a home. And on that day, I imagine they will say, “It was worth it.”

That’s what Reconstruction will probably look like. McLaren doesn’t leave us hanging. Already, there are folks hard at work in this brave new world that I want to be a part of. Just like constructing a house, working through grief, getting in shape, raising children, building a marriage, or any other endeavor worth doing, there’s no road around it.

The only way is through.

In his ‘Afterward,’ Brian McLaren says this:

“I don’t want to be better than anyone. I don’t want to win in a way that makes others lose . . . Faith after Doubt is faith after supremacy. Instead of standing over others as judges or ruling over others as commanders, we want to join with one another in a circle dance of love and joy . . . instead of analyzing others, showing their logical inconsistencies and exposing their hidden agendas, we want to join with them as co-creators of a better world and a new day, as part of a community of all creation.”

Sounds like something worth working for.

My heart sank.

These kids had slashed our tires. We didn’t know exactly who the offenders were, but we had a pretty good idea. They belonged to a gang of ninth-graders who were tormenting our son. 

Jesse had taken an unpopular stand at his high school. The language teacher implemented a lesson plan that consisted entirely of showing the kids rental movies with Spanish subtitles in lieu of actually teaching. Our boy raised a stink for a couple of reasons: these R-rated films showed more skin than Ft. Lauderdale during Spring Break, and he really wanted to learn Spanish. The blowback came when this teacher, Mr. Movie Buff, handed worksheets to each student in class the next day with the following explanation:

“Well, I’m afraid we’re done with movies. Jesse complained, so now you’ll have written work to do.”

And so it began. Taunts in the hallways. Food missiles in the cafeteria. Threats, insults, and cruelty. I knew there was more, but he wouldn’t tell us. Our appeals to school authorities only made matters worse. 

I felt sick. And powerless. And furious. And terrified. I wanted to fix it, but my son insisted he could handle it. After dropping him off every morning, I had to practically reach down my throat to squash the fear that rose in my chest. I’d drive home, fall to my knees, and plead with God to protect my son. My memory might not be spot-on, but I’m pretty sure I also called down some fire and brimstone on Mr. Movie Buff and those nasty little twerps. While I knew that God heard my prayers and understood my pain, I probably could have been a little more . . . 

Positive . . . 

Courageous . . . 

Encouraging . . .

Merciful . . .

Understanding . . .

Farsighted . . .

Hopeful . . .

Empathetic . . .

Peaceful . . .

Yeah, those things. And if this were happening today, you can bet I’d be standing in line for help with better words, a lighter load, and Scripture-based hope in everyday English I could pour out to God.

Kayla Craig, a writer, podcast producer, former journalist, and mother of four is the author of To Light Their Way- A Collection of Prayers & Liturgies for Parents. While I prayed earnestly, passionately, faithfully, and honestly for my children, a resource like this would have been tucked into my purse, dog-eared, well-worn, and used on a daily basis. In the fatigue of parenting, I could have used this gentle guide to ease the burden of trying to find the right words.

To be honest, I was skeptical of yet another prayer guide. I received an advance copy, and while I looked forward to reading it, I’m 65. I’ve read a lot of books. When I was a young mother, friends and relatives gifted me similar resources. While some were certainly worthy of my extremely limited reading time, I generally fell back on my go-to prayer: “Lord Jesus, please help!” The prayer that never fails.

READ: The Morning After Ida Makes Landfall, a Prayer

We have precious promises from the Bible that we are loved, we are heard, and that the Holy Spirit intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express (Romans 8:26). So what difference might another book make? 

Would different words in our petitions change His answers? Have times changed so much since I was a young mother? What’s so different about the here and now? How is Kayla Craig’s script different from prayer guides of the past?

More than beautifully formatted words on a page, I see To Light Their Way becoming a loving member of our support community. Prayer may or may not change God’s mind, but I know prayer changes me. When I can better express my fear, my pain, my joy, and my longings, I feel a deeper peace come over my soul. Giving it all to God, in the best way I know how, helps me relax and trust that somehow, God has everything under control. 

For those worried about their kids in these days of active shooter drills and other unsettling events, Kayla Craig fearlessly opens doors into frightening scenarios. How do we pray about gun violence in schools? How do we talk to our kids about racism? Frightening headlines? Media consumption? Adoption? Divorce? Job Loss? Self-worth? Being bullied?

What if our child is the bully?

One of my personal favorites is “A Prayer for Learning to Drive.” I probably could have saved considerable shoe leather, not to mention wear and tear on my passenger-side brake pedal, if I’d had this resource.  

Clearly, the author has done her homework. There’s no way one parent could possibly have the wisdom and perspective imparted on each of the circumstances addressed. In her Acknowledgments, she recognizes the loving contributions from a community of experience, suffering, and pain. 

“I’m grateful to every mother and father who shared their deepest joys and sorrows with me—their fingerprints and heartbeats are woven into every prayer in this book.” 

I am grateful, too. There are times that sorrow is too deep for words. When Jesse’s sister, Catherine, died on her church’s youth group snowmobile trip, we survived because the saints were interceding for us. “A Prayer for the Death of a Child” rings true because someone else has lived this nightmare, survived it, and shared their experience with Kayla. 

Lastly, there are prayers for parents. For you saints who are still deep in the forest of day-to-day, hands-on parenting, God bless you. I know you’re too tired to pray for yourselves and so does the author. The last chapter is “Breath Prayers.” If you can still breathe and can focus through 2-4 lines, you can inhale hope and exhale rest. You deserve it. 

I’m a grandmother now. From this distance, I can see that the Lord did intervene in Jesse’s high school situation in a wonderful way none of us could have imagined. Fifteen years down the road and far from the pizza projectiles of yesteryear’s cafeteria, now he’s challenged by two children under the age of five. He and Brooke are lucky if they get to read cereal box labels. Buying them another book will probably be met with a wan and weary, “Thanks, Mom.”

I’m sending it anyway. I’m keeping mine. There’s never been a time my child needed prayer more than he does now, and I’m privileged to include my daughter-in-law and the grands. In this world that is not our home, my serenity depends on casting my cares upon the Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer. 

Our God is the God that never fails. 

If William Styron’s definition is correct, then I found Jesus and John Wayne to be one for the ages. Not for its escapism, nor glorious transportation to another place and time. Rather, it lifted a layer of secrecy off of the history I’ve lived through, leaving me feeling as though I’d been punched in the gut and needed a shower. Not exactly a glowing recommendation. It did, however, finally answer a question that’s been dogging me for five years.

Aside from the quest for social and political power, why did Evangelicals betray the teachings of Jesus to endorse Donald Trump for president?

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know I’ve been actively searching for the answer since September of 2019. My book page lists several resources that detail the rise of the Religious Right, far more of a political juggernaut than a movement of the faithful.  But at the core of my discontent was my longing to understand the betrayal of our faith. These had been my people. They introduced me to Jesus Christ. Through the Evangelical Church I learned how to love, and I blindly assumed that we all shared a devotion to our Savior as He is revealed in the Gospels.  I never found a satisfactory answer. Until now.

The short answer, according to Dr. Kristin Kobes Du Mez, is that a man like Donald Trump is exactly whom they were expecting. Nothing like Jesus. But a lot like John Wayne.

He was the one-and-only Duke. White America’s hero of the silver screen strutted across our collective cinematic consciousness for over forty years. He was larger than life in every way. At 6’4, chiseled and arguably handsome, people wanted him or wanted to be him. Almost every role he played cast him as a champion of our times; Superman versus all of America’s perceived enemies.

And just like the rest of us, he was a mixed bag. Most biographers tend to treat him kindly, giving him the benefit of the doubt since he inevitably played the good guy. He passed away in 1979, long before there was any accountability for his less-than-stellar personal behaviors. His politics were solidly conservative, but taken to public extremes in matters of anti-Communism, white supremacy, aggressive militarism, and utter contempt for non-heterosexual identities.

He also won an absurd number of awards, including (but hardly limited to) the Oscar for Best Actor, the Congressional Gold Medal, and the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Whether on or off-screen, when the Big Man spoke, American’s enemies were cued to quiver in fear.

So how did this character- part real person, part Hollywood creation- become the blueprint for the Republican candidate for President of the United States? Not to mention the poster boy for the Religious Right’s quest for the throne?

That, my friends, is the sordid story researched and reported by Dr. Du Mez in Jesus and John Wayne. At this point, you alone must decide if you want to read the book.  My purpose here is not promotion but to share what I have learned and decide what I will do with the information. Far more than a history lesson, Professor Du Mez discovered the design for the Evangelical Church’s patriarchal stranglehold on their members.

I have faith in her process. Kristin Kobes Du Mez received her PhD in History from Notre Dame University and currently serves as a professor at Calvin University. She spent years painstakingly researching and documenting her findings. This well-written book weaves a spell-binding narrative that introduces a seemingly innocent precept: “There’s more to Evangelicalism than theology.” But that ‘more’ sprawls across decades of abuse: of power, money, position, fame, and sexual domination by a staggering number of famous names in modern Christianity. Any connection to Jesus Christ is a very long stretch of the imagination.  But finally, we have an explanation for the meteoric rise of Donald Trump.

Evangelical names that you would recognize used John Wayne’s influence and persona, beginning the process of creating a white American male prototype in order to secure and maintain social and political power. It worked for them then, and it’s working for them still.

READ: Come to Me All You Who Are Angry

Trump wasn’t a long-awaited spiritual savior, as some Evangelicals still believe. He was the fulfillment of their machinations. This excerpt from page 253 of 356 in Jesus and John Wayne captures the essence of their cause:

“But in truth, Evangelical leaders had been perfecting this pitch for nearly fifty years. Evangelicals were looking for a protector, an aggressive, heroic, manly man, someone who wasn’t restrained by political correctness or feminine virtues, someone who would break the rules for the right cause. Try as they might- and they did- no other candidate could stand up to Donald Trump when it comes to flaunting an aggressive, militant masculinity. He became, in the words of religious biographers, “the ultimate fighting champion for evangelicals.”

So for four years the entire planet suffered through the reign of Donald Trump, culminating when he tried everything in his power to throw the election. When that failed, the world watched on January 6, 2021, as Trump’s “aggressive, militant masculinity” resulted in an attempted coup to overthrow the government of the United States.

Thankfully, he failed. But the movement continues. Some Evangelicals still subscribe to the false conspiracy theories that surround him like a razor-wire fortress. Many prominent pastors still straddle that divide, trying to keep one foot on each side of the fence. Sounds painful. And therein lies the sorrow of this entire debacle: Ex-vangelicals like myself face a fork in the road as we decide what to do with this newfound and disturbing information.

A recent Gallup Poll revealed that, for the first time since they started keeping records in 1937, church membership in the United States has fallen below 50% of the population. Further examination of this data reveals several possible causes. But we who walked away from Evangelical Christianity are not at all surprised. At first we were adrift, almost certain we were alone in an isolation compounded by the COVID epidemic. Slowly but surely, however, we are finding each other.

So again I ask the question that comes up on a regular basis: where do we go from here? For me, Jesus and John Wayne only seems to affirm my decision to change my religious affiliation from Christian to Jesus-follower, from Evangelical to Ex-vangelical. Rather than tackling any ecumenical challenges, I’ve chosen to focus on my website and provide resources to those of us who wander in the wilderness. I encourage all of us who call Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior to prayerfully consider how we will use our resources and gifts, whether within the sanctuary walls or without. Despite the heartache this betrayal has brought, we are not here to waste away. In paraphrasing Ephesians 2:10, we are STILL God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

Even John Wayne couldn’t do better than that.

Those were the days before cell phones, but still, Kevin should have known better. After all, this was his family. Had I known more about their history, I would have at least put some clothes on.

And I wouldn’t have been shocked when the car pulled up out front, encrusted in frozen slush and honking the horn at 10:00 am sharp. Nothing says embarrassment like being caught in your nightgown by your new in-laws. Never in their lives were they late to church on Easter, and they weren’t about to start now.

My husband was raised in a rather strict Protestant sect, and their lives revolved around church. By the time we met, he had walked away from the church and his faith, with good reason. I was raised with no belief system whatsoever. In our lives as young marrieds, church was not something we did. Easter, maybe. Christmas Eve: absolutely. After all, we weren’t heathens! Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that church would become the loving family I never had. With all its ups and downs, personalities and peculiarities, weaknesses and strengths, I loved being part of a church. We changed a few times due to our kids’ needs and the seasons of our lives, but I always felt as though I had a home as long as we were part of The Body of Christ.

READ: Choosing Love at Belonging’s Expense and Wondering What Now

Easter was no longer about the bunny, or baskets with plastic green grass and marshmallow eggs. When I asked Jesus into my heart, the most sacred of seasons filled me with a joy I had never known. The tragedy of Good Friday was transcended by the joy of Resurrection Sunday. Now we had friends with whom to celebrate, and for the first time in my life sacrifice had meaning and passion had purpose. And I-the real me- was loved, and I knew it. Even with the stresses of parenting young children and trying to make ends meet, I had found a level of peace that transcended understanding.

We never intended to become as involved in church as we did; it just happened. We wanted to raise our children to know Jesus. We wanted to be part of a community. Far from our families of origin, we needed love and support to wrap their arms around us and our kids. We found friendships with other parents when we volunteered to teach Sunday School. We created bonds with all kinds of folks when we hosted Bible Studies. No longer did we have to eat holiday meals alone- there was always someone willing to come over.  Many kind people hosted us as well. Together we raised our children, figured out how to stay married to our spouses, prayed for each other’s families, shared cribs and bikes and baby clothes, and grieved when the worst happened. No matter what, we were never alone.

I’ve written quite a lot about my despair over the Evangelical Church’s devotion to Donald Trump. There’s no point in rehashing the heartache. Sadly, most of the people we have known over the years have fallen prey to the Religious Right’s political movement. That, in and of itself, is tragedy enough. But add in false conspiracy theorists who now occupy the pews on Sunday morning, and we no longer trust what we always believed to be true: that the primary mission we share as a church is obeying the teachings of Jesus Christ.

This will be the first Easter for just the two of us. Our kids have gone on ahead- one to Heaven; the other, with his wife and kids, to teach in Norway. We moved to a small town three years ago that is overwhelmingly Christian and overwhelmingly MAGA. We did join a church when we arrived, only to find out the leadership was very partial to Donald. Though the congregation welcomed us with open arms, it was absolutely assumed everyone was Republican. The Stars and Stripes onstage spoke silently but clearly about American nationalism. We  communicated our concerns to the leadership, and they politely blew us off. Then COVID hit town, and we were able to make a graceful exit.

There’s probably a church out there somewhere waiting for us; a place where they stand up to MAGA thinking and white supremacy. Where the teachings of Jesus are not just preached but acted upon. Where the LGBTQ children of God are as welcome as everyone else. Where women are not relegated solely to the kitchen and the nursery, but also encouraged to use the gifts given them by the Holy Spirit for teaching and preaching. Where the congregation believes that Black Lives actually do Matter, and are willing to take a public stand to that effect. I’ve got to say, it’s probably not in this little town, but I’m not going to let that take Easter from my heart.

The tragedy of Good Friday has still been transcended by the joy of Resurrection Sunday. Christ’s sacrifice still holds the ultimate meaning of love,  and his passion’s purpose saved me. I am still loved by God, and I know it.  Even with the stresses of politics, the COVID pandemic,  the betrayal of the Religious Right, Evangelical leaders selling their souls for presidential favor, and QAnons occupying the pews, I can at least aim for a level of peace that transcends understanding. “Christ The Lord is Risen Today” will surely be available on YouTube. The Gospel accounts of that first Easter morning will still bring tears to my eyes. I may have to cook up a ham dinner with scalloped potatoes and asparagus, and hustle down to the supermarket for a bunny cake. While the expression of our Christian faith may not look exactly like my husband’s childhood experience, we endeavor to live the life Christ called us to. We still pray without ceasing. We do our best to love our neighbors. When it comes to forgiveness, we give it our best shot, we thank God for forgiving us, and we trust God will make all things beautiful in time.

Happy Easter to all, especially to the spiritually homeless. This present darkness will not last forever.

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”- ‘Joliet’ Jake Blues

You might be one of us. We love Jesus. We have at least a passing familiarity with what he told us to do. Therefore, we can’t wrap our heads around what has happened to our church. We are dumbstruck by the QAnon false conspiracy theory- not so much that it fooled Trump supporters, but that it fooled millions of Christians. We’ve pleaded with our communities ’til we’re blue in the face. Many of us have left our churches. Now it’s time to move on.

This is so much more difficult than it sounds.

I’m not having a hard time leaving church; I grieved that loss last year. But I still feel the need to speak out so non-Christians don’t think we all stand by the same values. The events of January 6, 2021 carved a bloody cavity in our nation’s soul, and tragically, Evangelical Christians are largely to blame. Though I’ve tried to distance myself from those who supported Trump in the name of our Savior, I am ashamed of my people. Because, like it or not, we still have our faith in common.

Interestingly, I’m finding that some of them just want to hit the “reset” button, as if everything in Evangelical land is still hunky-dory. Since the insurrection, I’ve been fairly shocked that I’m encountering an uptick in resistance to my message. From what I can gather, many Trump devotees just want to gloss over what has happened. Here’s a sampling of what’s recently come my way:

“Stop watching the news.”

“Trump’s not so bad. Stop talking and just come over for dinner.”

“There are no QAnons in my church.”

“Just stop talking.”

“You are not like the rest of us.”

All of these came from fellow believers, folks I’ve respected and even loved. Some just dumped me. Others called me up and read me the riot act. I can completely understand those who unfriended me on social media- I encouraged them to do just that. But one person, without meaning to, succinctly summed up what they all alluded to.

“Trump is gone. It’s time to move forward. Don’t dwell on the past.”

READ: The Idolatry of Christian Nationalism

Oh, that this was possible: that white, straight, financially secure people could go back to our happy lives.

Here’s the rub: we still have millions of false conspiracy theorists in the pews of our churches. Allowing a falsehood to just ‘slide’- not to stand up to evil- allows it to become ingrained in the people and in the society.

The other issue for some of us is that the Religious Right promotes Christianity as a conservative political movement, intent on closing our borders and limiting financial aid to the poor. That’s kind of a hoot, considering the Son of God was born a brown-skinned Middle-Eastern refugee and grew up to be a homeless, itinerant rabbi. He preached feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, treating the sick, and sheltering the stranger.  You can understand why this presents a problem for us.

I’ve known enough preachers personally to have compassion for their plight. Pastoring a church well is an extremely tough job. But some of us who have watched the ascent of Trumpism in the precious name of Jesus Christ have a hard time trusting people who failed to speak out against these evils.

Joliet Jake said,  “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” Is it true that we can’t go home?

This is a decision that can only be reached by each individual as they seek direction from the Holy Spirit. Some of us might see the necessary changes in our churches, enough to shine a light of hope through the crack of an open door. Others may find that the last four years have only exposed what our churches believed all along, and it’s not a faith we can live with.

For those of us who can’t go home, what’s next?

The great news is that God knows. We ask, and God will show us. I’m going to ask for the right doors to be opened and closed. I’ll do my best to listen to the Holy Spirit through prayer and God’s Word. And I’ll try to remember that “following” is an active verb. Joliet Jake was right- I can’t stay here forever.

This piece first appeared on thechristianresistance.com.

“Hope has two beautiful daughters; their names are Anger and Courage. Anger at the way things are, and Courage to see that they do not remain as they are.” -Augustine of Hippo 

Donald Trump may have lost the election, but it looks like Trumpism is here to stay. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined a well-defined ideology characterized by nativism, white supremacy, and conspiracy theories, embraced by American Evangelical leaders. Now “Patriot Churches” are a thing. In reading their propaganda, I see no Jesus. Their platform is just an extension of the Religious Right’s crusade to condemn the LGBTQ community and maintain the power of the status quo. Hate didn’t disappear with the election results; it’s just flexing its muscles within the sanctuary walls.

“You can’t go home again,” is the sad reality for many Ex-vangelicals like me.

In these past few weeks, I’ve been giving a lot of thought and prayer into what comes next. Like most Americans, living through 2020 has left me exhausted. Almost seventeen million Americans have been infected with COVID-19, and over 300,000 have died. Black people continue to be disproportionately murdered without consequence. Poor children continue to go hungry. The rich continue to grow richer, and with the spread of COVID out of control, the number of “less fortunate” Americans is increasing exponentially.

So what’s a Christian to do?

That’s what I will be exploring in the next few weeks. Certainly, the election results are eliciting  reactions from both sides. But as a follower of Jesus Christ, I should have a default behavior. Hope used to be my baseline response. I wore my innocence and trust in Christianity like a sparkly garment, woven from the shimmering threads of my relationship with Jesus and life as part of a church. After three years of believing the Evangelicals would come to their senses, Hope’s daughter Anger blew in from out of town. She surprised me with her power, ripping the fabric of my beautiful cloak away and exposing the reality of politics and religion. She and I left the shredded remnant hanging by the sanctuary door.

Months later, my former church family is still married to Donald; together, they’re birthing Patriot Churches. I’m afraid the massive damage to the Evangelical establishment cannot be undone. The wreckage of relationships smokes in the ruins. Sunday mornings are now spent at the supermarket. With COVID running rampant, it’s hard to form new social groups, and the loneliness is exacerbated by isolation. It’s tempting to throw in the towel on finding a new Jesus-based community.

However, I haven’t given up just yet. Recently I was listening to a podcast from a fellow Christian outcast, and he shared the Augustine quote about Hope’s daughters. 

Without meaning to, I had invited Anger to spend the last year helping me cope with this tragedy. Her power helped me reach beyond my technological limits and find ways to fight on a national level. She coaxed me out of my comfort zone as well as my tiny little town. I am grateful for the time we spent together, but I believe I have learned everything she had to teach me.

Now I’m inviting her sister, Courage, to come stay for a while.

Courage’s broad following is nothing new, but she’s breaking fresh ground among Ex-vangelicals. Many former believers have given up on Christianity, but we must fight devolving into sofa spuds.  We who are still on firm footing with Jesus Christ must pray without ceasing for new direction. Young people are this disaster’s greatest casualties. My husband and I hear from them all time: kids from our Sunday School classes, now in their twenties and thirties, who watch in disbelief as their parents continue to follow the pillars of Evangelicalism-turned-Trumpism. All we can tell them is this:

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.”- Hebrews 13:8 NIV

“The Son is the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of his being, sustaining all things through his powerful word.”- Hebrews 1:3 NIV

We ask them to keep talking to God. We urge them to keep reading the Gospel accounts of Jesus’s life and teachings. We pray for them. And if we don’t give up, hopefully they won’t either.

READ: True Prophecy in an Age of Deception

Leaving Anger for Courage

I want to spend more time learning from people who lived out real courage. In searching for a quote, I discovered Mary MacLeod Bethune (1875-1955). Mrs. Bethune was an American stateswoman, educator, philanthropist, humanitarian, womanist, civil rights activist, and a national adviser to President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Known as “The First Lady of the Struggle,” this daughter of slaves changed the world in a time when women of color had no voice and, seemingly, no power.

She said, “We have a powerful potential in our youth, and we must have the courage to change old ideas and practices so that we may direct their power toward good ends.”

I suspect Mary MacLeod Bethune spent time in Anger’s company but used what she learned with Courage against what must have appeared to be impossible odds. I, on the other hand, am a white middle-class American. To give up the fight, no matter how dark the forecast, would be a self-centered and lazy waste of my God-given gifts and an insult to the brave warriors who have gone before me. The American Evangelical landscape appears littered with broken relationships, and our leaders have revealed their all-too-human quests for power. But Jesus is still King. His Word still stands. His glory still shines. His power still conquers. And most importantly, His grace still covers us—me, Religious Right leaders, Trump-supporting neighbors, estranged family members, all of us who have lost something in the fight.

As we approach winter’s coldest days, I have sewn a new cloak to wear. This one’s not sparkly with the naïveté of 2016. Instead, she’s heavier; woven with a fresher awareness of racism, threaded with dark strands of rebellion I wear in solidarity. Her rainbow buttons serve to remind me that all of God’s children deserve equal rights and to be part of a family. The collar is ratty and torn, stained with the blood of the desperate and ripped by razor wire. This isn’t a coat I would have worn to church four years ago.

But I should have. Jesus would love this coat, and his opinion is all that matters.

Then I went to my friend Linda’s house and saw her dad mowing the lawn without his shirt. Typical pale suburban dad back, but no scar.

So I asked my mom about it.

“Shush!! We don’t talk about that. Don’t say anything to Dad. Just ignore it.”

It was years before I discovered the truth. I knew my father had served in Europe during WWII. What I didn’t know was that he had been captured by the Nazis and tortured. That particular scar was the only one visible on the outside of the man they had broken. It was the internal scars that never healed; they were the ones that twisted him into a father who, in turn, broke his children.

I don’t write much about my father. Now that I am older than he was when he died, I think I can finally see him with some clarity and detachment. The best of him instilled in me an unshakable set of ethics. From him I inherited the knowledge of right and wrong, a profound devotion to the truth, a kick-ass work ethic, an unflagging honesty, a decided aversion to bullshit, a lifelong dedication to standing up for what’s right, and the absolute unwillingness to tolerate racism. When Miami schools were desegregated in the late 1960’s, the local PTA dads were sure they could count on my father’s support to protest the disruption in our little white bread neighborhood.  My father had fought the Nazis, authors of white supremacy, so he clearly declined their invitation.  Furious with his lack of enthusiasm for their plan, these local racists threatened harm to me and my brother Matthew.

Big, big mistake.

These men had a secret sign among them as a signal of their white supremacist leanings. Each of their porch lights glowed green in the night.

My father, who had been a sharpshooter, took out each of those green bulbs. One shot per bulb. That’s all it took.

READ: The Evangelical Gaze

Nobody bothered me or Matt after that. The other dads yanked their kids out of public school and put them in Christian school. Matt was bused to Brownsville, and my school (which was mostly Cuban) welcomed hundreds of Black students from Brownsville. And honestly, I never thought anything about it. This was Miami. We were a spicy gumbo of Cuban, Caribbean, South American, Black, and other miscellaneous influences. Folks like my parents had moved from the Midwest, and we were the minority. To me this was just life, and I was quite comfortable in this melting pot of humanity.

The long-term effects of my father’s brokenness played out in my life, as well as my brother Matt’s (1958-2007). I’ve spent  a lot of time sorting the bad from the good. By the grace of God, and the healing that has come from my relationship with Jesus Christ, I believe I’ve been able to let go of much of the darkness that came from my childhood. Instead, I’ve allowed and encouraged myself to cling to the positive aspects of my upbringing. Above all else, I appreciate and celebrate the gifts my father gave me from an unbroken place in his soul:

The knowledge of right and wrong, a profound devotion to the truth, a kick-ass work ethic, an unflagging honesty, a decided aversion to bullshit, a lifelong dedication to standing up for what’s right, and the absolute unwillingness to tolerate racism.

My father taught me what is worth dying for. His many-times-great paternal grandfather Elijah was decorated for heroism in the American Revolution. His mother’s family home was a stop along the Underground Railroad. My family has stood up for independence from England, for civil rights, and against fascism. I come from people who fight for what we believe to be right.

Now honestly, I never thought I would have to stand up against my own people. I thought I was in with the good guys. But Donald Trump is not a good guy. He’s not even a decent guy. He is the epitome of everything my family fought to protect us from. Sadly, the crowd I was hanging with (Evangelical Christians) largely support him. Of course I had to go.

Consequently, many of my relationships with friends, family, and community members have become strained. Or worse. Yeah, mostly worse. Because I was conditioned, from an early age, to speak up when I see injustice, dishonesty, and racism. Recently I was mocked for writing that I would “fight against Donald Trump with my dying breath.” Clearly, the author doesn’t know me.

I have grandchildren. Would I give my life so they can have a future free of Trump’s legacy? I’d rather not, but if necessary, I will.

I wear a scar on my soul. It’s the price of being raised by a broken warrior; a man who gave his all for his country to fight the evil of fascism. It’s a battle scar that, for a long time, plagued me with the phantom pain of torture in Nazi Germany. Now I wear it with pride. The man who raised me would deserve to see it used to defeat evil once again.

I know what I stand for, and I’m ready.

“I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky.”- John Denver, Rocky Mountain High

Every August, for as long as I can remember, we’ve invited friends to join us in watching the Perseids Meteor Shower. Living high in Rockies, far from city lights, we enjoy amazingly dark skies. Sometimes clouds block the view; sometimes the moon is too bright. But every once in a while, we get a year like this one.

We were camping between the peaks in a meadow at 8300 feet in the middle of nowhere. The moon wouldn’t rise until almost midnight. We had a great site overlooking the lake with an expansive view of the sky. All we had to do was stay awake. I was a little sad that, unlike years previous, we had no one with whom to share the evening. We’ve only lived here two years. All the friends we made so far were at the church we just left. Only one stuck around.

Like most visitors in national forest campgrounds, our next-door neighbors waved politely but kept to themselves. These days, it seems like we are all a little more wary of speaking to strangers. Are they Trumpers? Liberals? The quality of their outdoor toys told me they were far above our socioeconomic level; Texas license plates told me they were more than likely Republicans. Back in civilization, we’d never sit down to lunch together.

But here’s what I did know: a glorious display of natural beauty and God’s majesty was about to unfold, and they didn’t even know to look for it.  I just could not keep this information to myself. Late in the afternoon, as they were sitting out and enjoying the view, I air-knocked in the forest and walked into their camp. They waved me on in.

“I just want to make sure you two know about tonight’s meteor shower. You have a perfect site to watch the show.”

As my words sunk in, their demeanor leapt from cordial/reserved to unbridled excitement in about two seconds flat.

“A meteor shower! Tell us more.”

So I did. Pointing toward a peak in the northeastern sky, my finger traced out where they would probably originate, and which way they might fly. As I hiked through the brush back to our campfire, I remembered other extraordinary encounters with strangers. The first time I saw a whale breach in Hawaii, jumping up and down with a woman who was similarly gobsmacked by the sight. The rays of a setting sun exploding through a crack between canyon walls, bathing worshipers in an other-worldly glow. These, and other times, live in my memory as golden moments; extraordinary events to be treasured for their sanctity.

The overwhelming beauty and majesty of God’s creation made them memorable, but to me, sharing them with other human souls made them sacred.

READ: Environmental Racism & COVID-19

Eventually the sun set and dusk gave way to darkness. Stars came out one by one; then stars by tens, and stars by hundreds. The night grew so dark that the Milky Way glowed a faint green, something I’d never seen before. And finally, like quicksilver, they began to whisk out of the night, darting here and there- bright and faint, short-lived and long-tailed, arcing across the sky above the lake. Out of the corners of our eyes we’d catch movement and try to turn our heads in time. Every once in a while we’d be looking in just the right direction, straight on, and watch in amazement as they streaked along the peaks to the east. The sky would quiet for a while, with stationary points of light studding the darkness with diamonds. And we would wait.

Finally, Kevin and I could stay up no longer, so we put the fire out and turned in for the evening. The neighbors were still out there, still watching, with the occasional “ooh!” and “ahh!” whispered through the cold night air.

As we were packing up to leave the next morning, guess who came “air-knocking” through the forest?

“Eddie woke me up at 2:30am to come back outside!”  She was just tickled, and surprised. Tickled that she and Eddie (each in their seventies) would do something so spontaneous; surprised by the unforeseen extravaganza orchestrated by God and shared with a stranger.

I never learned her name; I wouldn’t recognize her if I saw her on the street. I don’t know if she was a Republican, a Trumper, or an Evangelical Christian. These three categories of people have broken my heart and support a regime that threatens the very democracy my family has fought to protect. It’s all I can do to be polite to them, and I’m guessing they feel the same way. And therein lies the problem.

Our country is at the boiling point in the divide between these two people groups. We listen to different news sources and make up our minds accordingly. There is a great evil that perpetrates false conspiracy theories with the intent to divide us. Foreign leaders use high-ranking officials as puppets, also with the intent to divide us. Personally, I feel betrayed by the very people I trusted most, and powerless to stop the evil. It’s so tempting to take the low road.  Fortunately, the words of Michelle Obama ring my ears: “When they go low, we go high.”

But ultimately, it’s the words of my Savior that are written on my heart. “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.” “Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you.” The list goes on and on. Even though so much of the Evangelical Church has betrayed the teachings of Jesus Christ, his word stands forever. One of his own disciples betrayed him. His closest friends turned their backs, and his own church murdered him. Still he loved them, and gave his life for us all.

As hard as it seems at the moment, this time in history will pass. What now seems apocalyptic will, at some point, have scholars scratching their heads and saying, “What the heck was that about?” I’m old enough to remember the assassinations of JFK, RFK, and MLK. I remember Vietnam and Watergate and riots and Kent State. Throughout history we’ve been infiltrated by evil. This is the only instance in my lifetime where the church was blatantly responsible, but it’s far from the only time in history.

And still, God loves us. And God instructs us to do the same.

 If our country is to survive, we will all have to forgive eventually. The least I can do today is try to resist the urge to go low, and to see the person rather than the policy.

If I succeed, that will be quite enough to accomplish for one day. Whether I do or not, I will try again tomorrow.