Author: Broken Handmaid of the Lord

I’ve had a hard time writing on the blog recently, so that is why I have fewer posts lately. The recent conflict on my Facebook page has caused me much distress, not in the least because it revealed to me, again, the inevitable consequences of my writing publicly. It is so much easier to remain silent publicly, to refuse to give voice to that inner pressure except in the safe confines of my private journals. Still, I know it is no longer enough. Now that I am out in the open, I can’t stuff myself back into the shadows. If you’re still reading and haven’t been offended sufficiently, its unlikely anything else I say is going to distress you too much. If it does, I pray that the Lord will turn it to your benefit in the end.

I’m about half way through Jung’s autobiography which I have found incredibly interesting and at times profoundly disturbing. The truth is not a friendly, kind, soft thing. At times it pierces the heart and troubles the soul to no end. Jung found more of it than most people who live on this Earth. He reminds me of a maniacal cave digger, excavating endless tunnels into the impossible labyrinth of the human psyche, sharing his observations along the way in his autobiography like a strange reality T.V. show. He digs up all kinds of things, makes bizarre connections with remote areas of human culture and history, and then leaves them making only vague and unsettling hints about their meaning.

Unlike every other person I have ever met or studied, Jung is almost inhumanly comfortable with paradoxes, contradictions, and messy, vague answers. He stubbornly refused to make his theories and ideas dogmatic, sequential, or concrete. As such, his work creates more questions than answers. He, remained throughout his long life, undeterred by the certainty that he would never be understood by the vast majority of people and that he himself would, like an exponential curve becoming infinitely closer to a point but never quite making contact, never quite reach the knowledge he was seeking for. He could feel it. He could describe it. But he always knew that even he, with his formidable brain, would never make it his.

In studying Jung, I have gravitated toward the ideas he had about the duality of man that sometimes results in neurosis. I have sensed that dichotomy in myself and an important part of my recovery has been to find those schisms, those mental conflicts, those shadowy knots in my brain, and reason them out consciously that my mind can rest in peace. Today I was reading in Matthew chapter six which is the sermon on the mount. I came to the twenty-fourth verse and stopped to ponder on it for a while.

No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.

Matthew 6:24

The Savior emphasizes in this verse the impossibility of living in the divided state in which we simultaneously strive to please God and the world. We must prioritize the one or the other. We must worship at the altar of mammon, which mankind as a whole inevitably does; or forsake the world and its glitter and transitory taste and seek to please our creator, who seeks our immortality and eternal life. This is said in Jung’s terms, the individuation of the human soul.

I am reminded of a vision, or in Jung’s terms, a fantasy, I had many years ago. I saw a multitude of people separated into two groups. One of the groups surrounded an altar. It was the altar of mammon and it required the sacrifice of all things. In return, people could take certain treasures which were gruesomely covered in blood and human tissue, as though they had been taken from corpses on a battlefield. It occurred to me that those who sacrificed at this altar must be willing to sacrifice family relationships. Marriages neglected, children farmed out to care centers, elderly parents put in homes, and spiritual development stifled. In return, they were given these gruesome spoils which looked desirable from a distance, but on closer inspection, were revolting; covered in grime and crawling with vermin. Among these people, the children were destitute and angry while the elderly were alone and in shadow.

The other group was centered around a different altar. It was equally demanding in its requirement to sacrifice everything. Time, talents, resources, and even freedom. There were no tangible rewards for these offerings, and yet the personal connections between the people at the second altar were radiantly evident. Rather than appearing resentful and deprived, they seemed to want for nothing. There was a pile of sacrificed possessions at the second altar that was glorious like a horn of plenty. Food, drink, and resources were evident, but no one seemed to care much about them. The children especially seemed content and secure with parents nearby and responsive. The elderly were surrounded with light and company; respected and listened to.

It occurred to me that within these two groups, there were many who would try to sacrifice at both altars. They would go to the second one and offer part, but hold back some to sacrifice at the other. It occurred to me that these people would not prosper. There must be a choosing.

I feel like I have already chosen my altar, and yet it seems that I am still divided. I’m tortured with worries about what my neighbors think, what members of my ward think, what my friend thinks. Can I sacrifice my need to please others on the second altar? Can I allow my Savior to take the burden of the hurts I give to others while speaking my truth and walking my path? I trust that he will take the hurts others have given me and turn them to good. Can I believe that he can and will do it for the priceless souls I bruise in my broken?

It is at this point that I must turn blindly to my faith. I have faith that He has the power to save. I have hope that he will make of me his broken instrument. My charity compels me to speak openly of my inner journey. If you find yourself uncomfortable, please know that truth is a painful thing, but that there is healing. Seek after Him who has balm enough for you and for me. Blessed be His name!

“They just don’t care,” she said bleakly.  Her curly blonde hair and kind blue eyes in a young beautiful face helped to make her one of the most popular fourth grade teachers.  She was gifted and compassionate, but it is almost inhuman not to fall into the trap of cynicism and blame, even if only temporarily.  She explained for several minutes how there was no way for her to help her struggling students because they were simply too lazy.  They lacked the motivation.

I’ve thought many times about my experiences in the schools both as a student and as a teacher.  I can honestly say I never met a lazy student.  I’ve definitely seen students lack motivation.  Children are driven by a biological and instinctive need to please their adult care givers.  It is almost impossible to exhaust that drive, but it does happen with devastating frequency in the classroom.  Students who struggle to learn to read, have English as a second language, or have attention or behavioral deficits learn very quickly that to try is to fail, to try is to care; to try is to care about failing.  As a teacher, you must drive those children to fight against the natural urge to avoid pain.  We build the child up, we try to give him tools to succeed, we build relationships of trust to maximize their desire to please us.  Many times, too often, the child fails again and it will be that much harder to get them to try the next time.

One of the most cognitively dissonant things I observed in the classroom was the disparity between the haves and the have nots when it came to academic ability.  I remember Austin.  He was one of my favorite students.  By the time I had the assignment passed out and was beginning to circulate the room to assist students, he was half way finished with his work.  Within five or ten minutes, he had turned it in and he was off exploring, reading, and engaging in self-directed learning.  An hour later, I was still trying to help some students to find their pencils or correctly read the questions.  I would have them put their half-completed assignments in their folder to work on during their “free time.”  Then I would go on to the next subject.  This pattern would repeat with Austin and the other successful students happy, self-directed, able to easily complete their work and enrich their educational experiences; and the struggling students, sitting miserably at their desks, barely able to function academically, reminded every day that they would have to work three times harder, three times longer, with little hope of any recognition or meaningful success as long as they were in school.

Sometimes I was able to connect with a struggling student.  Bradley and Jordan were two little boys that I convinced that they were something special.  Bradley was born to a mother addicted to crack.  He lived with his father in a very difficult home environment.  He had learning disabilities and always looked a little unkempt.  He wore a big blue coat all the time that hid his very thin frame.  He spoke softly and with an impediment.  He was remarkably kind and gentle and my mother heart made him my son.  He loved the Lord of the Rings movies, and I gave him a copy of the book, Fellowship of the Ring even though I knew it was far above his reading level.  Something told me that it wouldn’t matter to Bradley.  He would read it anyway.  He loved that book.  He carried it with him everywhere.  Whenever I had time, I was working as an aide at the time, I would read aloud to him from the book.  I wrote him notes and he kept them all.  He loved me and I loved him.  I believed in him and I helped him with his work.  My favorite memory of him was seeing him at the grocery store outside of school.  He said hi to me and I looked up in surprise.  He ran up to me and gave me a big hug with his big squishy coat.  I wish I could have told him how special he was.  How much of a difference he made in my life.

Jordan had ADHD and a class clown persona.  I connected with him right away appreciating his ability to connect with his peers and his obvious intelligence.  The classroom had been a punitive place for him, but I was determined that my students would have a different experience, and for him, it was.  I can’t take total credit for Jordan’s transformation.  His parents put him in Karate that year, which helped him with his confidence and focus.  Still, they said that he was a different kid when he left my classroom.  He had come into his own and become a leader with focus and vision for his life.  He went from having lots of missing work and poor grades, to being one of the top students, getting A’s and B’s easily.  He went from having to stay in from recess in study hall regularly to almost never.  He went from defiant and defensive, to responsible and self-directed.  I couldn’t have been more proud of his progress.

The classroom is a microcosm of life.  Some people in the world seem to glide through life like Austin did, easily completing tasks and able to pursue their interests and goals without much opposition.  Then there are people like Bradley and Jordan that find hope through meaningful connections and even achievement in spite of opposition.  Then there are the people who succumb to discouragement, give up on societal expectations, and live lives of anger and resentment far beneath their potential.  At some points in life, we probably all fit in each of these categories.  Sometimes our strengths are suited to our roles and we are on top of the world, then circumstances change and things become difficult. 

Depression and despair are not always optional.  It’s impossible to fairly judge someone’s life from the outside and say they are to blame for these things.  Still, as a society we do judge, and our jails, prisons, homeless shelters, and half-way houses are full of those whom society judges unfit. 

I’m not the type to advocate taxes and spending to solve these problems.  I don’t see government as the solution because government is only a reflection of the values and judgements of the people who control it.  If we are to change our society and make it more compassionate, we must start as individuals to do that.  Perhaps it is easier to think in global or national terms when it comes to compassion.  It is easy to consider the refugee in the Middle East, or the single mother trying to make a better life for her child in the ghetto, or the child hauling water to her hut in Africa.  These cardboard cutout people make easy targets for our compassion which is produced like a fast-food hamburger; cheap, easy, and gone within a few minutes.  In today’s troubled times, I think we need to do something much harder.  There is within us, both light and darkness, both good and evil, both demon and saint.  Can we love all of ourselves?  Can we find compassion within, that we may have it without?

God commands us to first love Him.  How do we know Him?  The only evidence we have of God is our own minds and hearts.  The reality of our soul is evidence of His divine design.  No Earthly source could create consciousness; only greater intelligence can comprehend and design lesser intelligence.  The only way to know God is to know ourselves.  Our core self is his creation; the light and the dark.  He loves us with perfect love, withholding judgement until the all things return to their eternal state.  Can we do the same?  Can we love the flawed and broken parts of ourselves?

The faith of my childhood was a works based faith.  I believed that I needed to be saved or changed in order to be loved.  I thought that God would love me I after he had fixed me.  It wasn’t until I had children of my own that I could understand the way God loves a temporal person.  He sees all of me in all stages of my development and loves all of me the way I love my children.  I don’t think, “I will love my son after he is potty trained,” I know that his potty training is a part of his development.  I don’t like the accidents and the hassle of potty training, but it is worth it because he is worth it.  I love him the same before he is potty trained as I do afterward.  The same with my older son as he has gone through the repentance process for sins he has committed.  I don’t love him any less for committing the sins.  The fact that he sinned and had to suffer the consequences of that was painful, but I saw the sins and the repentance as part of his growth and development, not as evidence that he was unworthy of my love.  God’s love is just like this.  He loves us and he is deeply invested in our growth and development as his children.  He is not ashamed of our flaws, he created them indirectly.  He does not turn away from our soiled potty chair in disgust, but with compassion and understanding.  He demonstrates in the human soul, his own complexity and capacity for contradiction while still abiding by the immutable laws of nature.

Compassion for self, charity for self, acceptance of self, is a pre-requisite to hope.  First, we develop faith in God.  That requires that we know Him through examining ourselves and learning to see Him within us.  Then, we find hope through the atonement of the Savior.  Finally, we are able to have charity for the other creatures like us on this planet.  We can see the good and the evil within them, and understand that they too are creations of God with divine design and potential. 

It is no wonder that Paul rightly said that without charity we are nothing!  It is the only path to salvation.

Last night I was driving down the road to Wesley’s basketball practice.  I was late and very frustrated with myself.  I had actually tried very hard to be on time, and as I explained before; to try is to fail, to care is to try; to try is to care if you fail.  Because I cared so much and tried so much, the pain of failure was overwhelming.  Despair came over my mind like a black cloud of darkness.  Tears stung my eyes and I struggled against the urge to turn the van into oncoming traffic.  Satan’s sharp talons raked across my soul, torturing me and I felt helpless against it.  “It doesn’t matter how much you care and how hard you try, it will only make it worse when you fail.  Your blog, your therapy, your parenting, your efforts to develop yourself, are doomed to failure. Give in to despair because sin, death, and darkness are your fate,” his message bored into my brain. All this effort going to therapy, reading Jung, journalling, blogging, reaching out to other people with vulnerability, trying and failing, and picking myself up and trying again, believing that somehow it will all be worth the pain…..that’s a lot of trying and caring. That raises the stakes. It makes the thought of failure indescribably painful.

Last night I fought a hard, long battle against Satan.  This morning I commanded Satan in the name of my Lord to depart from me and torture my soul no more.  I return again to my blog. I choose faith, hope, and charity.  The enemy I fight may be in my head, that makes him no less real.  Discouragement and despair are the inevitable byproducts of opposition, but I refuse to give in to them.  I have faith that there is a God.  He created my soul and he sees the good and evil in me and loves me.  I have hope that my Savior has the power to save me.  I have charity for all my fellow travelers, the other demigods who walk this mortal path with me.  I choose the path of Bradley and Jordan because I know that even though there is opposition, my Savior believes there is something special about me. With his help, I can overcome and find success. May my faith and my testimony strengthen each person who reads my words.  You are not alone.  Your faith is not in vain.  He is Mighty to Save!

I’ve been thinking a lot about my post where I decried what I saw as the twin evils of our time, Trumpism and Progressivism. I thought about how my voice on this blog is loud, usually the only perspective that is heard. God has given me a voice, and I am accountable for the way I use it. I’m afraid that in my zeal to condemn all the angry hateful voices that perhaps I inadvertently became one of the hateful voices. I have seen such things happen often on Twitter.

A dear friend of mine shared her feelings of betrayal with me. My views had come as a shock and surprise to her. She had shared her perspective with me hoping to find understanding and friendship, instead I used her words against her and others who think like her. In this way, I feel I owe her and others an apology. Trump supporters have known my position on Trumpism all along and are likely unsurprised by my rejection of the movement. My progressive friends likely feel stabbed in the back because I have been largely in a receptive position. I was born and raised as a “conservative,” with a straw man view of liberal/progressive positions. The rise of Trump has given me the invaluable opportunity to explore the progressive movement more completely, but I have far from a thorough understanding of them or their political views.

My progressive friends have risked a great deal in confiding their views with me. I still reject progressivism, as I see it today, as a solution for the future of our country, but I very much respect and admire my friends that have offered me a view into their world. They deserve to be heard and they deserve to be respected, especially in my church where they have had to live in silence in the shadows for far too long. We are a global church with a shrinking number of members overall who identify as “Republican Americans.” It is past time for us to decouple the church with the Republican Party, especially since the rise of Trump who has shown contempt for so many of our core values as Christ’s disciples. I’m sorry to my Progressive friends for my sharp words. I hope you will still allow me to benefit from your perspective.

So, I make a judgement in apologizing to my friends who identify as Progressives, while not to my friends who identify as Trump supporters. As I have given up on the vain hope of appealing to either side, I choose to do what I think is best and I have my reasons. As much as I dislike Trump and his movement, Trump supporters have a right to hold their opinions, vote their minds, and participate in society like everyone else. If a group of liberal/progressives were bullying a Trump supporter, I would be as likely to come to their aide as if the situation were reversed. I am on no one’s side. I don’t fit in either camp and the no-man’s land I inhabit gets hit with the arrows from both sides. I also have friends on both sides. My efforts to pave a path that is unpopular and out of step is well intentioned, even if it is the height of folly. My Lord judges by my heart and I hope that you, the reader will as well whatever your orientation in the political universe.

I have thought much on Martin Luther King Jr. in the last few days. I have mixed feelings about the Civil Rights Movement, as I have expressed on this blog. I might explore my views on the movement as a whole more completely on another post.

Martin Luther King Jr. lived and taught at a time of division and anger just as we have today. He likely felt pulled to the extreme views of the Nation of Islam. Men like Malcolm X had large numbers of angry followers intent to destroy the government of the white man. He sought to unite minorities against the majority which he saw as white usurpers. He said, “We have a common enemy – we have this in common – a common discriminator, so once we realize we have this common enemy we unite on the basis of what we have in common and what we have foremost in common is that enemy – the white man.” Later he broke ties with the Nation of Islam and took more moderate positions which he thought were better for the country and the promotion of African Americans. He was killed by members of the Nation of Islam. See note 1.

What many people don’t know about the Civil Rights Movement is that it was fueled and amplified in part by Communist covert disinformation and amplification campaigns. The Communist USSR was actively working to foment racial divisions in the United States by stirring up racial minorities to rebellion. See note 2. This had so many benefits for our enemies. The images of black oppression and racial conflict discredited the U.S. among the African nations we were trying to woo toward capitalism, the gross injustices displayed undermined America as an example of human rights and freedom, and it provided the fertile soil in which they hoped to sow the seeds of communist revolution. They were hoping to take advantage of the violence and instability to inject their own ideology as the solution. They would use our division to weaken and possibly destroy their Cold War enemy. For those likely to dismiss this as Red Scare lunacy, these kinds of communist revolutions were successful in countries like Czechoslovakia. They tried to undermine France and Italy, but Western powers united together against the threat of communism.

The Civil Rights movement may have been started by the USSR, but they could not control it. Instead of destroying and weakening America, we became stronger. The Civil Rights movement ended up improving America, stimulating needed changes to our society to make it more equitable. Minority voices were given an avenue for lawful change to improve their lives which defused the racial tensions and ushered in an era of relative racial tolerance that we have benefited from for decades. It showed the world that although America has it’s warts, at least we have a free press to expose them, and a free people to fix them. The former slaves seemed much more willing to work with their former masters to create a free country, than be re-enslaved by communist overlords. This article reveals some of the interplay of communist operatives and Civil Rights groups. See note 3 for my response to the article. See note 4 for an excellent article comparing and contrasting Russian propaganda efforts of the past verses today. See note 5 for information about the communist coup d’etat in Czechoslovakia and communist efforts to sabotage and infiltrate France and Italy.

How did America manage to take a violent movement conceived by our enemies, and turn it to good? We can thank Martin Luther King Jr. and others like him. Although viewed with suspicion and fear by the white people of his time, he has a revered place today in mainstream American culture. In the American psyche, Martin Luther King Jr. became the Civil Rights Movement. His  I Have a Dream speech encapsulated the philosophy he espoused not from the communists, but from Mahatma Gandhi of non-violent resistance. King’s ideas caught fire in a way that Malcom X’s angry vengeance never did. Rather than the violent revolution that the Soviets were gaming for, King was interested in actually improving the racial relations in America. His message resonated with whites and blacks in America who didn’t want to throw away representative government and embrace communist oppression, but make a society more responsive to people who were feeling marginalized. Basically, he offered a vision for the future, one that didn’t involve conflict and hatred, but compassion and understanding on both sides.

You can imagine how his soft approach was taken at first by those who were angry and vengeful. Dr. King was likely seen as cowardly traitor to his black brothers. He was too soft on the enemy; to quick to reach out and forgive. King had experienced racism. He understood their hatred and anger. He could have fed it and used it to give him power and influence. They would have loved him for it. Instead, he turned away. Like Washington, he refused their crown and chose instead to appeal to the better natures of the warring sides, and showed them that there was another path forward; a path of peace and brotherhood.

When enemy positions are fixed and war seems inevitable, sometimes men like Dr. King are needed who will choose love over hate, compassion over retribution, and friendship over demonisation. It is not an easy path. There will be angry people on both sides who want war and not peace. Still, even if it ends like King’s life did, in a pool of blood and an assassin’s bullet, it is still worth it to be that voice. Words of peace, love, and brotherhood are vitally needed, and I am grateful to Dr. King for choosing the harder right and rejecting the easier wrong.

The Russians are up to their old tricks, and in the internet age, they are using their misinformation strategies to achieve gains that would have been unthought of a few years ago. Americans are more divided than I have ever seen in my lifetime. This week a video was circulating on Twitter that showed a young white teenaged boy wearing a MAGA hat, staring down a Native American elder in traditional dress who was beating a drum. I made assumptions about that boy and his motivations just as most people did who watched that short video. It wasn’t until a day later that the entire complex situation came into the light and I had to reexamine my initial impressions. There are two sides that have emerged that see two different narratives equally emotionally charged.

One side sees a child exercising his freedom of speech on a school trip, subjected to hours of cruel racist taunts by adults who malign and misunderstand him. He is singled out as a target, and then demonized by progressives for being in the wrong place at the wrong time wearing the wrong cap on his head, doing nothing but standing and smiling. The other side sees a privileged gang of white racists intimidating an old man and a handful of black protesters. Now they are being defended as being blameless for a situation that they created; befriended by the President of the United States who is the embodiment of white privilege. This is the ultimate evidence of systemic racism. Each side condemns the other for being solely to blame for the conflict. Also, notice the timing of the video clips. At first, we see doctored footage made to send one enraging message. That spreads for a day. Then later, the rest of the footage shows the opposite narrative which fuels an outraged backlash. Maximum damage.

Could the Russians have cooked up a more perfect scenario for creating maximum division and discord? You have symbols; the red hat and the Native American garb. You have age; vulnerable child and aggressive adult, or if you prefer, belligerent young man and vulnerable elder. You have race, not two but three! You have numbers, a large group verses two small groups; or if you prefer, two groups against one. It’s a wonder that the situation was as uneventful as it was. It could have been total mayhem with bodies, hospital visits, and arrests. As it was, everyone walked away. Next time, we may not be so fortunate. Our society cannot sustain this level of hatred and animus forever. We must learn to temper our judgments or we play into the hands of our enemies.

One reporter at CNN is pursuing a story about how the first video clips went viral. Apparently a Twitter user who was using a fake profile pic, tweeting 130 tweets per day, had 40,000 followers, and was supposedly a school teacher in California was the one largely responsible for disseminating the video. It has been deleted. So far the account was said to be based in the United States. No word if there is any connection to Russian disinformation, but I would not be at all surprised if there were. See note 6. We must play the Russians and turn the tide away from our destruction as Dr. King helped us to do. We can do it by fostering love and understanding. We can put the good of mankind over the country, and the country over the party.

In a culture of outrage, I choose to use a gentle voice. In an age of being right, I choose to admit I’m wrong. In a generation of the blameless, I choose to accept responsibility. In a world of accumulating hatred, I choose to love. It is the path my Master taught. It is the harder right path that hopes for a better world where kindness is not a liability, where voices of pain are heard and tended to, and where the rights of all are acknowledged and defended. It is the dream of Dr. King, a dream of hope and peace and brotherhood.

1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malcolm_X
2. It is important to note that the USSR enlarged and amplified the racial issues, they did not create them. The USSR did not enslave the Africans, force slavery upon us, or compel us to discriminate and marginalize people. They did look for the weaknesses and moral failings among us, and they used those in their efforts to divide and weaken us, and to create propaganda worldwide to discredit and humiliate us. Our society has moral failings today just as we did back then. We have divisions and marginalized people. We have an increasingly unmoored national identity that is composed of people who engage in transactional relationships of convenience devoid of real human connection that would bind us together. We crave good leadership, but are smothered by complex layers of bureaucracy and political gridlock. In Trump we have mistaken foolish simplicity for honest authenticity. We are progressively abandoning a clear sense that truth can be defined and agreed upon. We need to look at these national challenges as well as the Russian efforts to exploit them and fight against both. A word of caution. As our enemies hold up a mirror to the worst that is within us, there is a temptation to despair. There is a difference between healthy self-scrutiny and demoralizing self-hatred in individuals as well as in nations. We can recognize our failings without allowing them to completely define our national reality. We paved a better future last time when the USSR showed us our dark side. We must do so again today.
3. This article casts the communists as grassroots reformers motivated by altruism. In context of communism worldwide, I think that assessment is highly unlikely. Communist infiltration and destabilization during the Cold War was rampant even in the United States. It was part of their strategy for world domination. There are two differences between the attacks today and the ones during the Cold War. First is that Russia is no longer Communist in their ideology. They are more aligned with right wing totalitarian nationalism. Because of this, they changed their selection of targets. They have chosen disaffected white people as the primary group to support. They champion the free market and demonize socialism while trying to achieve the exact same ends as their communist predecessors; to destabilize and weaken the country they see as the greatest threat to their continued expansion. As Americans we must never forget that our enemies do not want a more equitable society for us. They do not seek to help anyone in our country. Their efforts are solely to divide and destabilize. If the Russians want to help you, be sure they will only do so at the country’s expense. Putin is no better than Stalin and totalitarian nationalism is no better than communism. They are two sides of the same ugly coin; two extremes that mimic one another in their cruelty and their subjugation of the human mind to the will of the state. For those on the left who are so shocked at the traitorous attitude of the right and their willingness to ally themselves with a foreign power and a corrupt ideology, you might take another look at the red scare of the 1950s. In light of current events, you might see things differently. Now the shoe is on the other foot and the traitors are on the other side. I wonder how NPR will write about the communist election meddling in the future? Hopefully they won’t be so complimentary of Russian machinations.
4. https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2017/10/russia-facebook-race/542796/
5. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1948_Czechoslovak_coup_d%27%C3%A9tat
6. https://www.cnn.com/2019/01/23/tech/twitter-account-covington-protest/index.html

“A BIG, BIG Scarey Cloud! And wind was yellow, red, and po-poe, and it was waining,” Austin explained while gesticulating wildly with his little arms, his luminous eyes framed with dark lashes. I assumed he was telling me about his dream, so I listened curiously.

“Sounds like a bad storm,” I prodded. “Yup,” he confirmed and then quieted as he considered this new addition to his lexicon. Storm. It was a big storm. Later he explained the the yellow, red, and purple wind was actually a rainbow, and then it was a rainbow house, and then it was grandma’s house.

I have been asking my children regularly about their dreams. Wesley had a bad dream the night before last, but he couldn’t remember it. Austin had this dramatic dream about storm clouds and rainbows. The more I read from Jung, the more I realize how much my dreams are a part of me and how learning the language of my subconscious has taught me so much about myself. I hope that somehow amid the blizzard of school papers, extracurricular activities, video games, and report cards, that I can instill the values of mindfulness, meditation, and self-reflection.

As if to reinforce the Herculean task before me, Austin found my special blessings jar. I had kept it safely up on the high shelf until a couple of days ago, I thought I could sneak it down to the accent table in my room. He tossed it up on the bed, and together we read a few of the cards. I should have taken it away and put it on the high shelf, but I was feeling adventurous and decided to watch him remove the jewel handled jar lid and his eyes light up as he discovered a new treasure inside. He took the jar off the bed, toddled a few steps, tripped over a pillow, and the jar went down.

I didn’t scream or shout or make a scene. That’s for rookies. I have long since exhausted my ration of tears over broken objects…..maybe once I gave birth to boy number three. I just sadly picked up the pieces as I always do, to assess whether to repair or throw away my broken things.

“It broken,” Austin stated factually.

“Yes, it’s broken. That’s so sad,” I said vaguely. “But I think Momma can fix it.”

I took the superglue off the dresser that I had just been using to repair the last thing Austin broke. “Good,” I thought, “It hasn’t dried in the nozzle yet.” I went to work gluing the pieces back together. It went quickly and before Austin had even begun climbing my leg to see what had my attention, I had the jar reassembled.

As Austin and I gathered the cards to put in the jar, I read the blessings that had sat ignored on the high shelf for the past three years. Sometimes you need a little blessing, a little stormcloud blessing, to tear into your life and break your blessing jar and remind you to be grateful.

He’s at preschool today, and I don’t miss him yet. I know I will and by the time I go to pick him up, my heart will jump when our eyes meet and he runs to me to tell me, “I eat my LUNCH!!” I’m grateful for my crazy boy mom life of broken blessings and broken blessing jars. I’m so humbled to think that God has trusted me to nurture them to become the men that he created them to be. I know I will fail because I was never intended to succeed. That doesn’t mean it won’t be worth the effort. In God’s grand design, I will play my part, my broken part, and it will be enough. Blessed be His name!

I am about half way through Man and His Symbols which is essentially an instruction manual for laymen, like me, on Jungian psychological methods and ideas. It is, to me, a strange hybrid of modern psychological theory, Eastern mysticism, and LDS church doctrine. It has opened my eyes to a bold new vision of a the shape of a fully restored church.

It was always clear to me from Joseph Smith’s revelations that the gospel must be preached to all nations, kindreds, and tongues. It was always an obvious one way street in my mind. We would go to the ignorant masses of unsaved people, give them the fullness of the gospel and then; bam! They would turn into “Mormons.” This simplistic nonsensical view is now safely in the rubbish bin where it always belonged, and it is somewhat embarrassing to admit that it ever possessed real estate in my brain.

The journey to truth is often littered with doubt, and so has my journey been. The doubts relevant to this post came early on in my teenage years as I saw my young friends enter the “mission field” to knock on doors, solicitor style, to sell people on the church. It always seemed so commercial and scripted, almost like a Kirby salesman. I pondered if it would not be a better use of these young people’s time and money to go dig wells for poor African villages, build homes at a refugee camp, or other humanitarian service. Having never actually served a mission, I failed to realize the remarkable thing that was taking place not just in the lives of the people these missionaries served, but even more in the boys and girls themselves.

Consider my husband. He grew up as a boy in rural Idaho, in a very culturally monochromatic landscape. The only churches were LDS, the only ethnicity white, the only language English. Imagine his experience when, at the age of nineteen, he was immersed in the culture of Campinas, Brazil! He spent a few dumbfounded months speaking stilted phrases of Portuguese, while spending most of his time in stunned silence, absorbing every detail like a newborn baby. By the time his two years were complete, he was speaking and writing the language fluently; was familiar with the customs, dress, and traditions of the people; and had many many dear friends of the local population. To this day, my husband has a bin full of mission memorabilia. This is significant because he is not a very sentimental person and lives a rather minimalist existence. (Especially compared to his wife who is an insufferable packrat.) At one point he worked with a few Brazilians and he hung up his Brazilian flag in his cube. He follows their soccer team every world cup. Brazil is a part of him, almost as significantly as if he were born and raised there.

Contrast that with what we are seeing in the world right now; a fracturing of mankind. Globalism, with it’s vast wealth and opportunities, is being shunned in favor of tribalism and nationalism. My husband and I are inoculated from such destructive tendencies, in part because of our connection to other cultures. That pluralism is due in part to my husband’s missionary service. I also spent a summer tutoring little “illegal immigrants” in Utah. I consider teaching those children to read English to be one of my highest achievements in life. I loved those children. To think that they could be trying to evade capture and deportation right now is unthinkable to me. We have also spent considerable time overseas. Ben has spent a lot of time in India, and I have practiced yoga for almost a decade now. We have benefited much from our connection to people from all walks of global life.

Tribalism and nationalism are the natural man. They are telestial. The urge to put oneself above another on the basis of race, birth, or culture is prideful and sinful. This sin and pride is infecting the world and has the potential to create a humanitarian crisis of epic proportions. The lessons we learned after the last world war are being set aside and our global stage is being set for another great war. Could it be that the immediate humanitarian concerns of my lifetime thus far are insignificant in comparison with the importance of combating Satan’s larger goals? Could it be that in sending out missionaries to unite cultures and build bridges among the nations of the Earth was the main goal of Lord’s missionary program all along?

What is the fundamental goal of missionaries who go out from our church? It is to flood the Earth with the Book of Mormon! Why is that? Because every nation, kindred, tongue, and people need that sacred record. The missionaries don’t go out to convert people into Mormons, they do it to give an important message to them about prophets, apostles, and new scripture. The idea is pluralistic at it’s heart. We have been given, therefore we give to others. God visited a prophet in America, but we know that it wasn’t just for us. It isn’t an “American religion” because not all of God’s children are American. It is for all mankind. Missionaries offer a humble gift to the nations of the Earth that is designed by the creator not to replace, but to restore the culture of the recipient. The culture is enriched and perfected through a better understanding of the God-King Jesus Christ, known by many names and worshiped by all people everywhere.

One of the most beloved apostles of our church is Elder Deiter Utchdorf. He gives the best talks in the most charming German accent, because he is German. He has been unabashedly claimed by our church and sits on the highest counsels with some members who actually fought against Germany in World War II. Consider that! The gospel of Jesus Christ unites. The charity given to His true disciples is recognizable and distinctive. It is not judgmental, or condescending, it seeks not to exploit or dominate, it seeks only to enrich, to expand, and to give of it’s self.

Now our prophet tells us that the restoration of the gospel is just beginning. I have had more dreams in the last year than I have had in my lifetime previous. Visions, dreams, and revelation are exploding in my head. I can’t help but think that others must be going through similar transformations. There is great evil in the world and the signs of the times are becoming more difficult to ignore. God is preparing to meet it with a flood of his power given to those who seek to follow him in humility. There is no more exciting period of time to be alive! I am no one important in the world or in the church, and yet my Lord has seen fit to pour out his knowledge upon my head that there is not room enough to receive it! My cup truly runneth over.

The vision of a restoration of all things, the gathering of Israel in the latter days, is so much larger than I ever saw before. It is not just a gathering of people, but of cultures and traditions. The people who read the Book of Mormon in foreign lands and are baptized do not become cultural Mormons. They are themselves, and they bring the richness of their traditions and cultures with them. A fitting metaphor might be that they are bilingual. Learning one language makes them able to benefit from the vocabulary and concepts of both cultures. This knowledge enriches the intellect. Like a person with two eyes is able to see depth and dimension, the non-cultural member of the faith can see what someone like I, cannot. At least not without great effort and study.

And what have I been studying? Jungian psychology; the study of the unconscious man/woman. I’ve learned extraordinary things about the commonalities among the people’s of the world. Even seemingly inconsequential Native American tribes, African tribes, Eastern dynasties long extinct, and obscure villages in places I’ve never heard of, have similar themes. They have a “Great Man” who symbolizes the ideal harmonious relationship between God and Man, the God-man who lives within us, whose responsibility all of us have to find within ourselves.

This “Great Man” whom I know as my Lord and Savior, whose image I am beginning to find within my own sacred center, is known to all of his children! What a glorious message! And there are records of him all over the world. The Book of Mormon is extraordinarily well written, plain to understand, and concentrated, but other cultures witness of him too. He is known by many names. Purusha in India, Gayomart in Persia, Adam in Judaism and Islam, P’an Ku in China. There are glimpses of him in Hermes, Mithras, Orpheus, and Leviathan. The God-Man who saves, who builds a bridge from the divine, who sacrifices himself to enrich and bless all mankind.

It is only as I view him through the lens of many peoples that I see him more clearly. He is not knowable to the carnal mind. The manifestation of Him to the Jewish people as recorded in the New Testament is only one manifestation. We know that he visited the Americas and we have a record of his visit. What other people have had such visitations? What do their records say? His power and influence are vast and have enriched the cultures of the children of men throughout time as they have dreamed dreams, prayed, and reached for him within the realms of their own sacred centers; as they have striven to improve the conditions of their own lives and the lives of their people, they have found him. Of course they have. He comes to all those who seek after him.

One of the most iconic characters in the Book of Mormon is that of Ammon, the great warrior missionary of the Nephites. The story goes that he is one of four brothers who live sinful lives until they are visited by an angel, Paul style, and change their course. They choose to give up the throne of their father; they are all princes and in line for the throne. They choose instead to live simple lives among their enemies, the Lamanites, in the hopes that they can somehow bless them and change them the way the angel changed them. Ammon is brought before a king of the Lamanites and questioned. Ammon asks to be made a servant. As a servant of the King, Ammon shows his value by executing all his commands and preserving his flocks from robbers with superhuman strength. The astonished King sees in Ammon the characteristics of “the Great Spirit,” and he is very afraid of Ammon. Ammon explains to him that he is not “the Great Spirit” but that he knows of Him. He imparts the teachings of his own faith to the Lamanite king, making meaningful references to the King’s own understanding of “the Great Spirit.” A powerful change is wrought upon the King. He no longer sees Ammon and his people as enemies, but as powerful friends. He embraces the new truths he is given, teaches them to his people, and they are all changed from enemies of the Nephites to their friends and allies. They do not become Nephites, as is manifest by the strange title they give themselves, the “Anti-Nephi Lehi’s,” as if determined to avoid assimilation. They keep their own distinct culture, but add the teachings of Ammon and build a bridge between the nations.

This story becomes a type and model of the missionary work in the latter days. We as servants of the Lord bare our witness of Him in the tongue and culture of the people while immersing ourselves and learning from the people we witness to. It is an exchange of information which enriches both. In the end, after the exchange, we are now no more strangers, but fellow citizens with the Saints. It is a great and powerful uniting! Never before have all people who have ever sought after the God-King had the opportunity to share with one another our own personal experiences with Him! Never before have we been able to see, in all the wonder of divine design, the ways in which God has witnessed of himself to all people!

He is the God-King to whom all men who seek will find. He is the great beneficent leader to whom all men swear allegiance. He fills the nations, the stone that is cut without hands, the power that sweeps the Earth not to dominate or destroy, but to restore, to perfect, and to save. To make all things beautiful and new in preparation for the ushering in of his reign on the Earth. He unites us, and blesses us, he protects and preserves us. He is the Great Spirit, the Great Man, the Lamb of God, the Savior of all the Earth. Blessed be his name, for in his divine refuge, we shall accomplish the mandate of our nation, E Pluribus Unum, of many we are one.

There is an odious character in C.S. Lewis’s book The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. He combines all the worst characteristics of childhood and even the shadow of the darkness of adult pridefulness. He is so repulsive, it makes the book difficult to read. You have to slog through his diary entries and listen to his whiny drivel in order to get to the more rewarding parts of the novel. His name is Eustace Scrubb, and his personality is worse than his name.

At one part in the story the Dawn Treader, the adventure ship of Lucy, Edmond, and the crew lands on an island. Eustace, after antagonizing everyone, goes exploring and enters a dragon’s cave. Through some magic, he becomes a dragon. When he was still a boy, he put on a gold cuff, which was still there when he grew to be a dragon, and the cuff cut into his arm painfully. The pain and humiliation of his condition changes Eustace, and in his dragon form, he is much kinder and more helpful. When the ship is ready to leave, Eustace can’t go with them. Aslan appears and offers to help. He takes Eustace the dragon to a spring which soothes his aching leg, but Aslan insists that the cure lies in being “undressed.” Eustace claws at his dragon scales and makes some progress removing the dead scaly armor from his body. Eventually Eustace turns to Aslan and asks for his help. Aslan uses his sharp claws to do the job.

The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. . . .

Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off — just as I thought I’d done it myself the other three times, only they hadn’t hurt — and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobbly-looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me — I didn’t like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I’d no skin on — and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I’d turned into a boy again. . . .

After a bit the lion took me out and dressed me . . . in new clothes.

Lewis, C.S. Voyage of the Dawn Treader

To the relief of the reader, Eustace is a changed person. By the end of the book, I even started getting used to his name. In the following books of the series, he is one of the heroes.

Yesterday I wrote about what I saw as the twin evils of our time; Trumpism and extreme Progressivism. I thought I did a great job of expressing my views of each and why I felt they were not the future of the America I envision; how each one appearing to be opposites, is really the same. I believed, and still do believe, that they pose a clear and present danger to the country I love. Looking back on my post after much reflection, my feelings toward the post are complicated. A large part of me wishes I could take it back.

The biggest danger of writing something is that you can’t take it back. It becomes its own reality once written, especially online. In choosing to express myself on here, I am taking a great risk. Everytime I tap on the publish button, I am sending off a piece of myself that I may greatly regret not just putting into words, but thinking at all. The Savior wisely taught, “It is not what goeth into a man that defileth him, but what cometh out.” Also, “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.”

First thing I have done is examine my own motivations. I want to be clear that I had no intention of attacking any individual. Even Trump himself is not really a person to me, but a symbol of the ruin and corruption of the Republican Party. They have lusted after Trump for his wealth and power, they have adopted his cruelty and his craving for dominance. As a person, I can have compassion on him, but as a symbol and as a leader, my hatred is fixed and my opposition unwavering. Like Thomas Jefferson, I say, “Rebellion against tyrants is obedience to God.” Any attempts to shame me for hating Trump are not effective because I know that my hatred is not of a person, but the evil I see in and around him. After sincere prayer and reflection, I can say that I have no malice toward Donald Trump the man or his supporters.

As far as Progressivism, I have never been a progressive. I have known very few progressives. As such I am unqualified to make a convincing case of the merits of the movement. So why did I speak out in my ignorance against it? Shouldn’t I avail myself of more information? In answer to that I would say, one does not need to be a geologist to see that a torrent of lava moving down a mountain is a threat to all living things in it’s path. I am not a geologist. I can’t tell you the chemical makeup of the lava, give you it’s classification, or make any predictions about the speed of it’s movement or the merits of the minerals that it brings with it that will enrich the soil in the future. I am the ignorant villager, running down the hill yelling, “Lava!! Run!!” I claim to be nothing more.

Layne and I were having an interesting discussion on Sunday on the way home from church. I was explaining some of the things I had been reading about the ideas of Carl Jung and the unconscious; how it is vast and unknowable. I compared it to outer space, theoretical physics, and the movement of galaxies across space and time.

He said, “Mom, it’s like it gets blacker and blacker. The more you know, you move out into it, and there is more you don’t know.” His skin was creased between his eyes like mine gets when my brain travels too far into the unknown.

I replied, “Yes, it does. It’s like Socrates said, ‘True wisdom is in knowing that you know nothing.'”

When I started posting my naked self on Facebook last year, I realized that I would never post perfect things. There would be mistakes. I would hurt people. Like Eve, I saw the path before me as sin and death. Living my life out loud and speaking my mind, I was destined to fail, just as she knew she would as she took the bite out of that piece of forbidden fruit. She broke the taboo. She rejected the easy path. She ate, and she was right.

Sometimes wisdom is foolishness. Sometimes doing what’s right looks very wrong. Sometimes courage and faith look evil and weak. Sometimes you have to dive into the blackness of outer space not knowing anything, certain that with your mortal understanding you never will, but that it’s okay because it’s the right thing to do. You can’t say why or how, but you know it is.

Eustace Scrubb had to let the Savior tear the scaly skin off of his body to heal him. That’s what I feel he has done to me. I used to be a Republican conservative. I had built up layers of scars and scaly armor defending myself against the evil liberal socialist/communist ideology that was of the Devil. The liberals were wrong about me and my friends. We were not racists. We were not reactionary. We were the good guys fighting the corrupting influence of creeping socialism. I saw the racists among us, but I quickly turned my eyes away. That wasn’t me. Everyone has a few weird ideas, a few cookoos in the tribe. Overall, we were the good guys. We defended the constitution that was ordained of God. That was the truth, and we were the defenders of truth.

The illusions I clung to about the righteousness of my tribe were obliterated. The rise of Donald Trump has born in my soul a devastating and painful realization that I had been closing my eyes to the reality; the real danger was not from the Democrats, liberals, and progressives, it was from my own side. We were the ones the Russians targeted. We were the weak ones who had been imbibing deeply of the lies and propaganda of talk radio. We were the ones who turned a blind eye to those among us who trafficked in conspiracy theories. We were the ones that would destroy America.

And so I began the excruciating and painful journey of rebirth; of unlearning what I thought was true and seeing reality for the first time. First I stripped myself of the Republican identity. I stood outside the party in the cold and dark, waiting for the prodigals to come to themselves. I have clung to the identity of conservative in the hope that I could keep it pure and preserve it when it was ready to be embraced again by a repentant Republican Party. Now I am gradually seeing that the term conservative no longer means what it used to mean. The Trump supporters continually accuse me on Twitter, “You are no conservative!”

This morning it seemed to all come together for me. I am not a conservative. All movements are born of ideas. At first the ideas are alive and beneficial. They grow and live until, like a fingernail, they gradually become brittle and dead. We cling to them, wishing to return to the time when they were noble and new, refusing to see the dead shell of what they have become. Conservatism as it lived in me, is dead. As Americans we must see the awful truth before it is too late. Our nation is falling. The evidence is clear and the signs are lit up in neon letters. There is only one path forward. Whether we accept it now, and avoid our doom, or we will be forced to do it later. It is excruciatingly painful and awkwardly vulnerable. We must shed dead things, like Eustace did.

I refuse all labels. My wise husband observed last night as we discussed the dangers of labels and tribes, “After the Savior came, there were no more tribes among them.”

We are in an age of labels and divisions. I choose to shed them. I have no tribe. I am not an adherent of Mormonism, conservatism, or any other -ism. I am myself, a living, breathing, child of God. I have no tribe. I own my own complicity in the evils of my time. I accept responsibility for the choices I make including owning my own ignorance. I own the words that I wrote yesterday and the consequences that have come as a result.

I am weak, I am ignorant, I am fallen. There is no comforting “us” to which I can claim a shelter. I stand before you and my Savior naked. Judge me as you will, but His judgement only will I seek. Him only will I serve. Only He can look into my soul and judge the righteous judgement.

I pray to my Savior, show unto me my sin! Reveal unto me the darkness of my hidden places! Show me the folly of mine understanding! I prostrate myself before thee and plead with thee for mercy. Forgive me my weakness. Take from me the shame that tortures my mind. Show to me that there is hope for me and the ones that I love; that my weak words and efforts to express them are sufficient to do thy will. Fill my soul to overflowing with love and compassion for all and hatred for none, I pray to thee with all my soul and might. Amen.

“Maybe the progress wasn’t as great as we wanted to tell ourselves it was. The Civil Rights movement was not as much a grassroots enlightenment as it was a top-down federally enforced policy. Racism is not going to be fixed by the government.”

That was my Twitter response to a thoughtful post written by a progressive. He was lamenting how we seem to have lost a half century of progress in racial relations. He was asking whether there was a way back to that progress; to turn the clock back to 2016. It struck me as strangely reactionary for a progressive; a strange comment for strange times.

Progressivism is an interesting movement. I don’t know anyone that doesn’t see themselves as progressive. We all want progress, we have different paths to get there and different rules we are willing to make or break, but in the end, we all have similar goals. Fair and equal treatment under the law, the chance to develop ourselves in our careers and education, the ability to earn a piece of the American dream. We want a steady, stable economy, laws that are fair and equally enforced, and respect from other countries. I think it is interesting that the political left has adopted a morally charged word like “progressive” as though deliberately trying to point out that the other side doesn’t believe in progress. It isn’t a set of policy positions is the appropriation of a value. It is a new secular religion.

One of the ironies of progressivism, as I have watched it unfold in the last decade or so, is how similar it is to the evangelical right. Although they claim to be opposites of each other, they have managed to become opposite of each other as one half of a pair of scissors is the opposite of the other.

This point of view is going to be inherently unpopular. As a staunch opponent of Trumpism, I am expected to be a reformed conservative, fully receptive of my new friends on the left who will teach me the true political faith. Unfortunately, I am as unlikely to be a progressive convert as I am to become a MAGA hat wearing, flag waving, rally attending, Trump supporter. I see as many problems on one side as I do on the other. More than that, I see the same problems. The big question for people like me becomes, is there a place for me to live? Is America big enough to fit me, or is there only room for these two faiths, so alike in so many ugly ways? Trumpism and Progressivism; America First and the Resistance; religious extremism and secular religious extremism. Two sides of the same ugly coin.

One of the hardest things to find in today’s world is a consistent definition of a value. For example racial equality used to have a consistent usage. America was not expected to create equality between the races, America was to allow equal opportunity. The statues of lady justice has a blindfold, and that was what racial equality used to be about. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream that his children would be judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. Progressives have gone beyond that. Theirs is a moral crusade to tip the scales of justice in favor of the minority. The minority, in their morally zealous secular judgement, is too disadvantaged to compete in a level playing field. Instead, he or she must compete with the all powerful straight white male who has been held up as the source of all the evils in the world. White European colonialism, Native American subjugation, African slavery, Japanese internment camps, and Southern segregation are all evidence that it is time to overthrow the white overlords. The minority members deserve a leg up, a helping hand, an advocate in the government. Doubtless these vengeful revolutionaries will make life difficult for the privileged white usurpers once they are safely beneath the progressive heel.

The fracturing of America didn’t start on the right, it started on the left with the progressive movement. The hatred that has colored America in shades of darkest black began on the political left, and it’s growing. Consider for a moment, the zealousness of the progressives. They are determined to outdo the Puritans in their secular piety. Cultural appropriation is the new moral code of modesty, stringently enforced with public shaming of everyone from Kim Kardashian to Bruno Mars. According to the cultural appropriation police, Bruno Mars is only popular because his music makes black rap palatable to white listeners. In their view, only black people should be able to make a career out of African based music. Bruno Mars got so much hate, he got really down. He tried to stem the criticism with insistence that he was sufficiently grateful to the foundations of the genera of his music. It wasn’t enough, the tide of hate almost sunk Mars’s career. Thankfully, the black musicians he was accused of stealing from stood up for him as an artist who has found expression in the music they all love. Other artists with less visibility have surely been less successful in fighting this kind of prejudice.

Cultural Appropriation isn’t the only sin that progressives are into shaming for. LBGT values are huge. If you ever considered marriage as being reserved for only heterogeneous couples, forget ever having a successful political career. Look at the shaming of up and coming progressive politician Tulsi Gabbard. She is Hindu and American Somoan, so she fits the minority requirements, but at the age of seventeen, she advocated for a defense of traditional marriage amendment to the Hawaiian constitution. Her father is still actively engaged in pro-traditional marriage activism. (Cue the scandalized gasps of the secular-progressive knitting club). I don’t think anyone thinks she has a future in politics, let alone securing the Democratic nomination for President. Too bad for them. She seems like she might have a lot to offer in spite of her sins.

Consider the cases of Jeremy Kappell, a small town meteorologist who slipped up the name of a local park named for Martin Luther King Jr. He was publicly shamed when a video clip went viral on social media. He was fired within days without an opportunity to explain himself. Comedians too, it seems, are having past jokes examined for secular progressive sins. If the sins are deemed damning enough, their careers are over, even if they give the most abjectly humble apologies. There is no Savior in the progressive movement. No forgiveness. No redemption.

If things look bleak on the left, they are far worse on the right. The abandonment of the political right to anything resembling a coherent moral and policy value system has been a spectacular disaster. In a few short years, the cult of personality around Donald Trump has completely destroyed any credibility of the political right, and effectively paved the way for the progressive left to enforce their brave new world on America. They have adopted the hypocrisy and cruelty of the left and taken it to a new level. They have shown the most abhorrent use of religion to shield Donald Trump by making him out to be a repentant sinner who is now a soldier for Christ. They refuse to look honestly at the damage he is doing to trusted institutions and the way he targets his political enemies on Twitter, openly abusing his executive authority with no political or social consequences.

Surely in this awful state, we should take a good hard look at our nation. We need a baptism. We need a renewal. We need to start over and consider what our core values are. We need to strip ourselves of hypocrisy and pride. We need to bathe ourselves in the blood of Him who is Mighty to Save. The sins of the past are real. Racism, income inequality, gender discrimination, the ripple effects of slavery and segregation, drugs, gangs, police brutality, and all the rest. Those sins are real and we won’t fix this with secular religious piety coupled with government reinforcement or evengelical hypocrisy proselyted and enforced by Donald Trump.

We need a real Savior to unite us, and he isn’t going to be sporting a clever slogan and a red campaign hat. He will be meek and lowly in heart. He will care for and advocate for the disadvantaged, while refusing to force the human mind. He will lead from the front, and inspire us to be something more than the sum of our parts. He will show us what the real destiny of America will be, the nation that has always been his creation, formed for his eternal purposes. She doesn’t build walls or draw nationalistic boundary lines among people. She helps liberate the captives in foreign lands. She shows the world that leadership doesn’t equal tyranny and that wealth doesn’t equal value. She knows that there is only one who is King of this great land, and that is the true God of this World, even Him whose blood atones for all those who come unto him; Jesus Christ the King of Kings.

He is known in many lands and many religions by many names. I have been researching ancient cultures and traditions and the story of the hero who sacrifices his life for all is present universally. Human kind is instinctively aware that we are in an awful quandary. No religion of heaven or Earth can save us. We need a Savior! It is in our collective unconscious. Our modern identity of self-sufficiency is at odds with our subconscious knowledge that we are not enough. Our phones and tablets, mass transit and internet, our fast food restaurants and online universities, stock markets and bank accounts will not sustain us. We must come unto Him! We must confess our weakness and sacrifice our pride at the altar of his mercy. He is Mighty to Save! Mighty to Save!

I finished Educated on Friday. It was quite an experience and I am so glad she chose to share her story with the world. I felt resonance with so many different pieces of this book, it’s hard for me to think of one in particular that I want to focus on for this post. After thinking about the book for a couple of days, I decided that what stands out the most to me is that she wrote it.

Having shared quite a bit of my own story online, I feel a kinship with Tara Westover. In a way, what we have both done is kind of like donating your body to science, except we are still alive to watch everyone react to our most sensitive revelations about ourselves. Although she has chosen to share more of the intimate details of her family relationships than I have, I feel that we are trying to do the same thing; to find our voices and become the women that God created, not the women that society and our family would like us to become.

I know there are many people who disagree with these kinds of displays. Some call it showing your dirty laundry, or equate it with public exposure. One of the duties of upcoming generations is to reevaluate the values of the past based on present circumstances. Tara and I do that by speaking out. What benefit did Tara Westover get from keeping her family’s secrets? Nothing but abuse. By giving voice to her perspective and creating such a vivid picture of her upbringing, she allows us the benefit of her experiences. She has given us a gift; her perspective. Agree or disagree with her, in reading her book, you get to live life behind her eyes.

I’ve pondered on the ways her book has impacted her family. They didn’t choose to have a national spotlight put on them. Her writing was well done. It fleshed out each of the family members and did so without judgement, but with vivid and detailed descriptions. Just the same, each reader will judge the family members. Personally, I found myself with a large amount of compassion for each of them in spite of disagreeing strongly with some of the choices that were made. Most readers will probably not respond that way. Condemnation comes too easily to most people, and the Westovers will get loads of it. I would be very surprised if they were not getting inundated, as we speak, with piles of hate mail.

The longer I live the more I realize that families like Tara Westover’s are not uncommon. Undiagnosed mental illnesses are as plentiful as ice in the Arctic and the unfortunate children of these parents carry heavy burdens. Exposing people like Val and LaRee Westover to public scrutiny and condemnation will not encourage them to get treatment or to reevaluate the way they enabled their son’s abuse. It will likely increase their paranoia and sense of victimization and further convince them that the demonization of their daughter was justified.

Tara Westover says that she wrote the book because she felt her parents and their enablers had stronger voices than she did and they owned the narrative of her life. She decided to publish this memoir in order to show that her voice was as powerful as theirs. In this, I fear that she answered a BB Gun with a nuclear missile. Of course, she didn’t know the book would achieve such spectacular success, and she did attempt to protect people by changing their names. Still, I feel like her book likely burns a bridge that in time she may regret burning. If so, the book is largely her loss and our gain. All the money and fame in the world will not replace your parents.

At the same time, I think that if she did err in publishing this memoir, and I’m not at all sure she did, I really loved what she had to say. If each of us could take a page out of her book and be a little more real about ourselves, we would be better for it. The relationships we have with the people that we love don’t have to be a secret. If more people talked more honestly and openly about the complicated relationship they have with a sister or a parent or a brother, they would find that they are not alone, and that can be a relief. I think we are long past the time when silence is a virtue in these matters. Forcing people to see a one dimensional caricature of perfection instead of real people when they look at you and your family, is not just inaccurate, it’s unfair and dishonest. It robs the world of a soul and leaves us all poorer as a result.

Life in a fallen world is painful and difficult, but it doesn’t have to be lonely. I am grateful that Tara Westover shared her journey with me and helped me feel less alone on my own path. I hope my blog helps others in the same way. Pay it forward!