President Donald Trump declined to commit to a peaceful transfer of power following November’s election during a press conference on Wednesday.
Asked if he will leave the White House peacefully, if he loses the election, Trump responded, “Well, we’re going to have to see what happens. You know that…We want to have — get rid of the ballots and you’ll have a very peaceful, there won’t be a transfer, frankly,” Trump said. “There’ll be a continuation.”…”1
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or getting your news from Fox, this is not news to you.
This Present Darkness Has Arrived
I am not at all surprised that Trump said it, but I am surprised he admitted it this early on.
His personal militia, comprised of the Boogaloos, the QAnons, and the white supremacists, has been gearing up for months now. Please do not think for a moment that they are not armed and ready to defend the Dictator-in-Chief.
So what are we supposed to do- we who refuse to buy the fabrication that Trump was sent by God to rescue our country from their sins? To establish a conservative, Religious Right order? Which means ‘to hell with America and everything she stood for.’
All I can say for certain now is that we cannot give up praying. There is nothing about this present darkness that surprises God. He sees the big picture, and this might, indeed, be the beginning of the end. Never could I have imagined I would be on the opposite side of a major conflict from the people I knew and loved among the Evangelical Church. But even Kevin, my peace-loving, don’t-mess-with-my-recliner-settings husband, is marching on Washington if Trump pulls this stunt.
Shocked? You could knock me over with a feather. But this man, who’s never hoisted a protest sign in his life, is dead serious.
We Will Fight Before We See Our Democracy Overthrown
Never before in our country’s history has a president tried to sow seeds of doubt about our ballot process to throw the election. Never has a president put a buddy in the charge of the postal service for that same reason. His plan to literally overthrow our democracy is wide-reaching, but there’s not much point in elaborating. We have evolved into a nation who either believes Trump and his personal network, Fox, or we believe scientists, national security experts, former distinguished Trump employees who refused to play ball, and every other news source in America.
Never has a president even hinted that he would not cooperate with the peaceful transfer of power, should he lose the election. Until now.
We’re living in a world I would never have envisioned. Personally, I pray every day that God will remove Donald Trump from office as soon as possible, according to His will. I guess I’d better start praying that somehow God will also intervene to prevent a civil war in November.
Because we will not take the demolition of our democracy lying down. It’s terrifying, it’s tragic, and I can’t believe it’s happening, but as Edmund Burke so famously observed,
“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”
It’s time to stand up and be counted. We are ready.
When I was little, I thought everyone’s dad had one. The scar was long and curved and deep, carved into my father’s back between his spine and his left lung. Because we lived in South Florida without air conditioning, he was frequently shirtless, and I just thought it was something all men had.
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.
Evil Then
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.
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.
Evil Now
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. Whether Trump wins (God help us all) or Trump loses (the QAnons are armed and ready) we are in the fight of our lives.
They pulled up in the campsite next to ours in a stylish, late-model sedan. Judy* and Jen*, as we later came to know them, unloaded their trunk and immediately set to work pitching their tent. We were only midday through a Tuesday but clouds were building in the distance. Thunder rumbled down the valley. Kevin and I were playing Scrabble after lunch, watching the storm blow in.
Since our site was close to camper services, everyone in the loop had to amble past us some point. As Judy came by we smiled and introduced ourselves. She accepted a Cheeto from Kevin which put her in his good graces right way. Coming from New Mexico, these two friends were on a road trip and looking forward to seeing Colorado. In these days of COVID we have very little contact with strangers, and she seemed to be a nice gal with a friendly smile.
Time passed, clouds covered the sun, and the thunder went from booming to cracking. Rain started spitting so Kevin and I took our Scrabble game and headed for shelter in our camper. Sitting down at the dinette, we saw Jen sitting in their car’s driver’s seat. Judy was sitting on the ground outside of the open passenger door. The top of her body was leaned in towards Jen. In the rain. In the lightning. In the dirt.
“They’re probably just having an argument. That happens on vacation,” Kevin observed.
Maybe so, I said, but we should pray. So we did.
It rained harder, and she didn’t move. Neither did Jen. We finished our Scrabble game and played cards, and they didn’t move. The lightning was right on top of us, the wind was thrashing everything in sight, and they remained frozen in place.
Obviously something was amiss, but we were at a loss as to know what to do. The campground host was quite a distance away. Was this any of our business? Were we our sisters’ keepers? Again we prayed, and waited for direction.
The gale reached a fever pitch and was threatening to blow our sun canopy into Utah, so we went out and tried to take it down. Fabric whipped around me and I was losing my grip until Judy and Jen came to the rescue. Together we collapsed the frame so Kevin could wrestle it into submission. As the four of us recovered, bracing ourselves in the maelstrom, Kevin and I introduced ourselves to Jen. I asked if they were okay.
In the Sacred Shelter of the Whirlwind
What happened next can only be described as a holy moment; not because it was a “come to Jesus” event, nor did a rainbow burst out from behind the clouds. Instead, waves of raw emotional pain seemed to roll off these women and over me, to the point where I started crying. We were there, the four of us in the dirt, the rain, the wind, the lightning. Jen mumbled something about being fine; Judy said she was exhausted. In the sacred shelter of the whirlwind, I told them we were there to help. I told them the truth- that Kevin and I had been all over the board in terms of life experience. We were not there to judge anyone; we were there to help. Then I took each woman into my arms and hugged the stuffing out of them. Twice. And though they were both taller than I am, they offered no resistance; rather, each melted into that love, COVID be damned. Finally, straining against the wind, they rescued their now-flattened tent, shaking the pine needles off and stuffing it into their trunk.
This time, they both climbed into their car. And there they sat.
Now I’m figuring it’s time to give up the ghost and go home. We had offered help, and they had declined. It was getting dark. The weather was miserable. I was thinking I’d rather sleep in my own bed than camp out another night. We heard their engine turn over, there was a knock at the door, and the car roared off into the darkness.
Judy stood outside with her sleeping bag, her suitcase, and two handguns.
Thelma and Louise versus The Old Jesus-Freaks Next Door
“Can I come in and sleep with you guys? Jen’s had a gun pointed at her head all afternoon. She wanted to drive us off a cliff like Thelma and Louise. I’ve been terrified. I finally got her to swap her gun for the car keys, but now I’m out here all alone.”
Kevin and Aunt Bea
As she spoke, a gust caught the door and flung it wide open. Judy came in out of the dark, out of the wind, and out of the terror. We were miles from cell service. She made a choice to trust us. Now that I think back, I’m not sure what I would have chosen had I been in her place. The logical choice would have been the campground host. But something sacred had taken place in the midst of the maelstrom, so the three of us talked in the dark.
“Judy, we’re going home. Will you come with us? You can sleep on our sofa and we’ll help you make a plan in the morning.”
She strongly resisted putting us out. “I’m the person that people come to in times of trouble, not the other way around. I am so sorry. Why do you guys want to help me?”
“We didn’t know what was happening over there, but obviously you had trouble. We’ve been praying about this all afternoon. We’re glad you came to us.”
We’ve all experienced sacred moments, and we treasure them in our hearts and memories. Until dementia sets in, this will be one of mine. In Aunt Bea, our tiny, ancient motorhome, Kevin drove us over a rough dirt road twenty-five miles through the wilderness in the pitch dark while Judy and I talked about Jesus. She is a new-age Reiki master, life coach, and yoga instructor. She has hiked the Himalayas in search of God. She never understood why Jesus had to die for our sins. She actually had to cancel plans, due to COVID, for another spiritual quest in Nepal last spring. She is beautiful, accomplished, successful, and spiritual. But she had just spent hours sitting in the dirt, talking down a suicidal friend who was holding a loaded gun. She was terrified, hungry, thirsty, cold, tired, stranded, and alone. The old Jesus-freaks next door were looking pretty good right about then.
This, of course, is not the end of the story. By mid-afternoon on Wednesday I had driven her around Pagosa Springs to buy a phone charger as well as the special locking suitcase and the gun carrier she needed to check her bags. She took me to lunch and I drove her to Durango, dropping her at a hotel so she could catch a flight to Albuquerque the next morning. She had called friends back home about Jen’s precarious mental health, and found someone to pick her up at the airport. Back in civilization, she had her phone, her credit cards, and everything she needed to rescue herself from this dilemma.
The best news ever
But still we talked about Jesus. Between stores. At lunch. On the hour-long drive to Durango. Kevin had given her a small New Testament with the Psalms and Proverbs, and I had given her my copy of God Came Near. She told me she had prayed in the midst of the crisis- the word “help” tossed out there to “The Universe.”
Over lunch, I asked her about her spiritual beliefs. She practices a faith born of teachings from both Hinduism and Buddhism.
“How ironic that you were going to seek God in Nepal, and He answered your prayer in Colorado,” I laughed.
With that, her head snapped back slightly from her enchiladas.
“I don’t doubt for one second that Jesus was there. I want to know more about Him.”
Where the Wheels Fell Off The Bus
How rarely do we, as Christians, have the authentic privilege of sharing our faith? The surge of joy I felt for the moment was tempered by sorrow for the timing. These are the days of Donald Trump. The Evangelical Church has compromised the truth of Jesus’ teachings for the political power of the Religious Right. No longer can I, in good conscience, recommend that Judy seek out a Bible-believing church in her community. No matter how they dress it up in Christianese, no matter what high-and-mighty evangelist justifies it, and no matter what powerful news network promotes it, I see no Jesus in Donald Trump’s words, actions, or policies. I could not be more crushed by the betrayal of people who introduced me to my Savior in the first place, and taught me to love the Bible. And I am beyond heartbroken that the best I can offer Judy is my ongoing prayers, the story of Jesus through the Gospels, and my favorite Max Lucado book.
But it’s going to have to do. The damage to the church is done, and I can’t imagine it can ever be repaired. There are other churches who haven’t been drawn into the darkness; churches that preach Christ crucified and share His amazing, revolutionary teachings about social justice. Churches that don’t tolerate racism and sexism. Churches that stand up to white supremacy and bullies.
I hope they survive the Trump administration. I’ll be looking for these Jesus strongholds when the dust settles, if it ever does.
In the meantime, I’ve definitely lost faith in church, but not in Jesus Christ. The One who saved me reached through the storm to love Judy. He cannot be changed.
He will not be moved.
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”-Hebrews 13:8
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.
