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That’s vhat I like about the human vorld. Humans are considerate to each other most of the time.”
There was something magical about England in springtime – a veritable explosion of new life – a delightful assault on the senses after the musky dormant chills of winter. Luke, Leia, and I drifted past the various tents, which included plenty of places to shelter. The residents of Maiden-Upon-Avon had obviously experienced springtime in England before, and knew all about the famous April showers.
The above song wasn't on the playlist which I'll be sharing, but when it started, I just couldn't not use it... after all, readers may feel like they've actually traveled over the rainbow when you start to read... LOL This is funny, as opposed to any fears or worries about the witches, werewolves, vampires, and more, that you'll be meeting in this cozy mystery set somewhere in a little town not too far from London...
I was on my way back to the bar, when a masculine voice said, “Hello again.” I glanced up and saw Vikram in front of me. He was gazing at me as if he thought he was the top prize in a Hunk of the Year contest, and I was the lucky winner. Ordinarily, I’d run a mile, but here was my chance to ask him where his boss bought his stationery! “Vik Charma,” he said. “Delighted to meet you properly.” He grabbed my hand and lifted it towards his lips to kiss it.
I don’t think so! I wrestled my fingers out of his grip. “Ah,” I said. “Charma by name, slime-ball by nature.” He laughed raucously. “I saw you here yesterday talking to Raven. What was that about?” I tried to emulate Inspector Taylor’s blank face, but it was really hard. “Just a casual chat. You’re Edward Hamilton’s assistant, aren’t you?” Vikram smirked. “Well, I’m a bit more than that – I’m his second-in-command.” I pretended to be impressed. “Oh wow, I bet you know everything that’s going on with him.” “Well, yes, I do.”
“Why was he shouting at the police just now?” “Oh, he was saying he wants DI Taylor to give him round-the-clock protection from the person who keeps harassing him. He doesn’t see why he should have to put up with threats and constant questioning.” “From Jagar Volfson?” I asked. He shrugged. “I heard you’re Marilyn Eldritch’s daughter?” “News travels at the speed of light in this village, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, well. Marilyn used to vote for the other side.” I frowned. “How do you know that?” “She displayed the alternative candidate’s poster in her café window. So, I was just hoping we could rely on your support. If you’re taking over the café?” “Oh crikey no! I won’t be sticking around long enough to be on the electoral register, believe me.” “That is a shame.”
I rolled my eyes – I was unimpressed by men like this. But I did wonder whether political candidates had taken to killing off their rival voters? It would certainly be one way of winning the election. Edward Hamilton definitely wasn’t going to win it on his charms after tonight’s little outburst. Although, of course, Vikram had an abundance of charms himself – if you didn’t mind drowning in his smarmy slime. “So, where were you the night Marilyn died?” I asked, hoping to sound casual. He answered far too quickly. “Edward and I were out of town.” “Really. And which night was that again?” “Are you a police officer?” he asked, suspiciously. I opened my mouth to reply, but Luke drifted over.
“Hey man, you’re an India fan, I see!” Vikram glanced down at the sport’s top he was wearing. “Yeah! Hey, you like India?” I felt Luke’s spirits rise at the chance to talk about cricket, whilst mine did a total nosedive. It was just so dull. “Well,” Luke said, “Obviously my loyalties lie with England, but no one will ever replace Kapil Dev. The way he spun those fast balls was just perfection – utter genius.” “Oh, I know,” Vikram said, practically salivating. “You play also? Sorry, didn’t catch your name... I’m Vikram.” “Luke...” They shook hands. “Well, I used to play for the county. But I love watching it too; never miss a Test Match.” They launched into a lengthy conversation about cricket, so I decided to retreat, lest I slip into a coma. I edged away. I knew Luke had probably just come over to see if I needed any help with Vikram, but apparently he’d found his new best buddy. I was pleased for him – and hopefully it would stop him from talking to me about the world’s dullest game.
I wandered off to find Leia, to congratulate her again on her excellent performance. We grabbed another drink from the friendly vampire behind the bar, and I watched Luke and Vikram chatting – wondering what the MP’s second-in-command might be hiding behind that charming front of his. I felt optimistic as Luke, Leia, and I left the pub. It’d been a good night. I’d made a few friends – although beer always helped there – and I was eliminating suspects, even if I wasn’t any closer to actually solving Marilyn’s murder. Another reason for my optimism was how well Luke and Leia seemed to be getting on, as they chatted ahead of me.
I purposely hung back, and as I walked past an alleyway alongside the pub, I noticed a man down there, bent over, leaning his arm against the wall to prop himself up. To put it politely, he’d been taken ill. Rather noisily. Investigating dark dank alleyways wasn’t on my list of favourite hobbies, especially with a murderer on the loose, but my compassion took over and I approached the man. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He groaned. “I’m throwing up down the side of a pub, what do you think?” He glanced up, realised it was me, then groaned again. “Ms Eldritch. Of course.” “Hello, Inspector Taylor.” He stood up very carefully and leaned back against the wall, before sliding down to his haunches and burying his head in his hands. I crouched too. “Is there anything I can do for you?” He shook his head imperceptibly. “Is it, um... just too much to drink?” A small nod. “This is a new low for me.” “This hasn’t happened before?” He squinted at me. “I’ve never been stumbled upon by a pretty stranger before.” I glanced around for the pretty stranger, which made Inspector Taylor laugh out loud. Oh, he meant me? Even in his drunken dishevelled state he was gorgeous. But despite how much I fancied him, I’d probably say no to a snog right now. “I expect a cup of tea will make you feel better,” I said. “I think I might need a bit more than a cup of tea, Ms Eldritch.” I was about to say he was welcome to talk it over, but Luke joined us. “You all right, Evelyn?” “Luke, this is Detective Inspector Taylor.” Luke looked surprised. “Really? Is he looking for clues down there?” Inspector Taylor glanced at Luke, then groaned again. “Is there anything we can get you?” I asked. He shook his head. I could tell he was getting agitated with this audience now. I squeezed him on the shoulder. “We’ll leave you alone. Make sure you talk to somebody though. Whatever’s troubling you, you shouldn’t keep it in.” He grunted, then threw up again. Well, I hadn’t exactly meant that. I left him to it, wondering why I was always attracted to handsome men with issues. This one had incredible green eyes. And hopefully the green tinge to his skin would fade once he sobered up tomorrow.
~~~~~~
Streamers of England flags were proudly fluttering on every shop front, reminding me that it was St George’s Day this coming weekend. I could well-imagine the Maiden-Upon-Avon residents celebrating proudly with a few rounds of Jerusalem and God Save the Queen. This village was quintessentially English, with its red telephone box, country pub, and cobblestones – it made me want to break into Land of Hope and Glory.
Although I’d much rather listen to the surrounding sound of sweet bird song. Ancient oaks stood amongst the ivy-covered shops, looking even older than the village itself, which had clearly been here centuries. Luke pointed to the first shop in the row of many – the facia of which was blue, peeling, and woodworm-ridden. “I’ve never seen an ironmonger before. I’m not even sure what they... monger.” I chuckled. “Iron, I suppose.” Next to the ironmonger was a haberdashery and then an apothecary. “It’s all so delightfully charming,” Luke said. “Oh, let’s go in here actually.” “Newsagents? Why?” “Buy a paper. I need to find out what decade this is!” Luke gestured to the huge plastic bottle-bank standing at the side of the newsagents. “Well, at least they have recycling facilities in the back of beyond – very modern.” We wandered inside and said hello to the lady behind the counter. She had a friendly face, was aged around fifty, and was knitting. The stock was crammed on the shelves, and there were all sorts of random things for sale – bath plugs, coloured sequins, an assortment of gloves, hats, and scarves, puzzle books, doormats, and much more besides. I picked up a copy of the local newspaper. Luke kept his voice low so as not to offend. “Look at this headline: Sheep Escapes From Maiden Farm – hilarious!” I tried not to laugh at how quaint it was. “Nicer than the usual shootings and stabbings in the London papers. Look at the name of the reporter – Jager Volfson. Sounds Scandinavian.” “I wonder what brings him to this little village,” Luke said. “A time machine, I suppose.” I noticed a smaller headline. “Local MP wastes money on designer cricket kit.” I glanced at Luke. “Corruption exists everywhere!” We both sniggered at this heinous crime. I read out loud, “‘Detective Inspector Taylor made no comment – as usual’. It sounds like the shaky relationship between the police and the press exists here too.” “Are you planning to buy that?” the shopkeeper asked, continuing to knit. “Or just laugh at it?” “Sorry,” I said, guiltily lowering the paper. “You’re not from round here, are you?” the lady said. “No, just visiting. Come on, Luke, we should get going.” “I do hope they find that missing sheep,” Luke said, managing to keep a straight face. I was about to put the newspaper back, when a gruff man strode into the shop. The lady’s demeanour plunged to unfriendly. “What are you doing here, Mr Hamilton?” Glancing at the newspaper in my hands, I realised that this newcomer was in fact the local MP we’d just been discussing. The one who’d allegedly been wasting council money on designer cricket gear. The Right Honourable Edward Hamilton was tall, greying, and tetchy. Not your usual smarmy politician, but someone who’d fought to be in his position, and wasn’t about to be defeated. He was wearing a rosette on his grey suit. Of course, there was an election coming up next month. The local journalist was clearly vying for the other side. “Don’t believe a word of that rubbish,” the MP said, pointing to the newspaper. The lady behind the counter spoke with a tremble in her voice. “I thought I asked you not to come in here anymore.” Edward Hamilton grabbed the newspaper from my hands. “And I told you not to sell this rubbish anymore, Helen!” Helen drew herself up to her full five-foot-six height. “I’m the local newsagent, Edward, how can I not sell the local paper. It’s my raison d’être!” “Oh, we speak French now, do we? Well, hear this, je ne regret rein!” Helen put down her knitting. “Please just leave me alone.” Luke stepped between them. “You need to leave.” Edward guffawed. “I’m the local MP, boy. Don’t you know anything?” “I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England. This is Helen’s shop, and she’s asked you to leave, so I suggest you do.”
~~~~~~
Somewhere in a small village where many different people from many different backgrounds had come to live together, we arrive into a new cozy series just when a senior witch has been murdered! She was the owner of a small cafe where cakes, and more, were sold. Some said they were magical, but that could have been just because she had won the local festival cake competition for each year so far back that nobody could remember... This year, somebody new would win because Marilyn Eldrich had been poisoned, they later determined, and had died. She had been well liked in the community and would be much missed. Especially by her helper and apprentice, Leia, who wasn't quite sure where her future would lead, but she had learned that the new owner would be coming soon, so she had hopes she would be as nice as Marilyn had been...
But learning about her inheritance was a complete surprise for Evelyn who was, as the first chapter opens, literally up a tree, to help get a cat down (bless her!). So when her phone rang during the storm that had started during her climb, she was becoming more and more... Well, you should know she talks to herself and describes herself as an idiot for climbing a tree to get a cat...(the cat wasn't hers...) In any event, she was somewhat shocked... No, she was really shocked to learn that her biological mother had died and she had inherited her cafe...and she needed to travel quickly to learn more...
Thankfully she could talk her cousin into traveling with her and they were soon on their way, leaving London, and heading to a small town with a really strange kind of a name... Whoever had heard of a town with a hyphenated name! Luke was her sister's son and was in medical school, but they agreed that this shouldn't take long... But, of course, readers are already guessing that she's going to be staying, right?! At least I did...
“Evelyn, darling!” She kissed me on both cheeks, then grabbed my hand to drag me to the kitchen. “Your magic training begins! I need to explain a few things first, and then we’ll try some spells.” “You’re all insane around here.” She chuckled, pushing me down into a kitchen chair. “Darling,” she said, standing over me. “You are going to have to accept, sooner or later, that you are a witch.” I rubbed my eyes. “I don’t believe in any of this. It’s bonkers.” Her voice was business-like. “Right, now that you’ve been given your powers, you must learn how to use them.” “No I don’t.” “Yes you do. If you’re magical, you have to train how to use it, or else it will use you. Or worse – the darkness will come to take you.” I rolled my eyes in disbelief. “What darkness?” “I hope you’ll never find out, Evelyn, I really do.” She sounded deathly serious. But actually she was mentally deranged, wasn’t she? Or I was. And I didn’t think I was. “First things first,” Joanie continued. “I need you to promise me you won’t tell a human soul any of the following, other than Leia, who’s a friend of Beings of Magic.”
Evie was not prepared for all that she was to discover. Indeed almost as soon as she arrived, she was no longer Evi, but was soon to be called Evelyn... And soon after she arrived, she was called into a meeting where she was proclaimed sergeant of arms and expected to take over the role that her mother--a woman who she had never met--had once held... But that wasn't the only surprise. She soon learned that she was a witch by birth, and even if she didn't know about her heritage, she was expected to take on the role and learn... Her grandmother was going to teach her! Now as if that wasn't enough, this was not a family such as we knew whose wife twisted her nose and did cute magic tricks, nor was this the charmed ones...
In fact, Leia who worked at Magic Cakes and was there to greet Evie and Luke knew more about her mother's activities that her daughter. Marilyn had shared her skills with Leia, even though she was human and had no actual abilities. While Evie, when she began to receive lessons failed just about every attempt she made... Which was great fun, especially when she was attempting to create a cake, only to have it explode all over her and Leia... Did I mention that there is lots of humor to look forward to in this book as well?!
Leia had also learned and did most of the cooking, as well as introduce Evie and Luke--with whom she quickly develops an attraction which is reciprocated--within the community and also plays the guitar!
But, as every cozy reader already knows, Evie was immediately on the hunt for, once learning that her mother was actually murdered, who was guilty! And she wasn't going to give up until she learned the who and why... So, of course, in doing so, Evie becomes immediately attracted to the hunk who was the detective on the case, who has no desire or need for assistance, and even fights his attraction, while somehow they seem to become partners in some events... Often meeting up at the local pub where everybody congregated evenings... On open mike night, Leia was to play...
I found myself wondering whether they were human or Beings of Magic. But I quickly stopped that train of thought. What difference did it make? We were all part of this village, of this community.
The thing I liked most about Reed's book is that when there was a potential individual about whom she considered a possible "person of interest," she provides a "back story" for each. For instance, she saw a woman with a silver cross necklace which was said to have been her mother's.... We learn more about Evie as she enters into each of these situations and her response to each....
And then, of course, the magic beings are known only if they happen to be identifiable... Take for instance, one man who Evie immediately questioned as he forced her to attend a meeting on the very first contact, but then, his wife had no alibi for not being there as well--at least in her opinion... Readers will enjoy the love story of this couple, like one you've never read about before--or at least I hadn't... LOL...
Seriously, when the overall story becomes more fascinating to me than the mystery to be solved, I was hooked! This book is fun, joyful--even when murder happens, and a wonderful way to begin a new series, which I highly recommend if this post sounds at all interesting to you... Folks, you really have to visit Maiden-Upon-Avon... to understand ...and ...know... Enjoy!
Folks this took me away from the madness and chaos...
"Something Stayed" seemed to be a song that I wanted to added as well...
Note: I found myself reading each line of the following so carefully, that I decided to keep it in poetic form--a slower pace of reading--to allow each of us to ponder exactly what is being said... Let me know if you think this format affected your thoughts...
Future Regret
Regret is an underappreciated moral sentiment.
We often think of regret as synonymous with guilt,
emotions that flow from past actions
that we now judge to have been mistakes.
But unlike guilt or its cancerous cousin shame,
which both weigh heavily on the soul,
regret can be productive.
Guilt and shame freeze our gaze
in the rearview mirror.
They capture us at our worst
and ossify that vision
into a memorial that claims to be all of us.
They are debilitating.
But regret, like Janus, encourages us
to look behind and ahead simultaneously.
With regret, we acknowledge our mistakes
and imagine our better selves showing up next time.
There is also a version of regret
that can powerfully shape our present.
Our moral imaginations allow us to benefit
from the gift of what we might call future regret.
If we project ourselves into the future
and find that we look back
on our present with regret,
we can harness that insight
as motivation to act with more integrity
than we might otherwise muster.
Future regret can help us think
not only about things we’d regret doing
but also about things
we’d regret not doing.
There are harmful actions to avoid,
but there are also courageous actions to take.
Anticipating future regret helps us think more expansively,
beyond ourselves and our own time,
to imagine how we might be
a good ancestor to yet unborn generations.1
Ten years from now,
what story do we want to be able to tell about ourselves?
Seven generations from now,
what story do we want our descendants
to be able to tell about us?
What story would we regret?
We can also harness the moral power
of regret by learning from the mistakes of others,
both real and imagined.
In our personal lives,
the news of a divorce, a broken friendship,
or a failed risky business investment
often sets us on our own evaluative path.
In troubling times,
we seek the company of dystopian fiction.
It’s no coincidence that George Orwell’s 1984,
Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale,
and Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451
have seen a surge in American sales in 2025.2
These stories confirm the reality
of the dangers we see developing around us,
sharpening our moral vision
and steeling us to act lest we suffer similar fates.
We also bolster our efforts
to avoid future regret
by telling the stories of heroes and moral exemplars.
We admire the lives of courageous people,
especially those warning us across time and place
about the consequences of refusing
to resist oppression and injustice.
For the last century,
no cautionary tale has been more powerful in the U.S.
and Europe than the rise of the Nazi Party
and the complicity of everyday Germans,
including German Christians and churches.
In the wake of Donald Trump’s return to power,
many concerned Christian leaders
have invoked this historical precedent.
They frequently mention Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
the German pastor who was arrested
for resisting the Nazi Party and ultimately executed
in a concentration camp in 1945.
The question “Is this a Bonhoeffer moment?”
has appeared multiple times in my social media feed
since the 2024 presidential election.
Bonhoeffer’s story is indeed inspiring.
Unlike so many others, he saw the dangers
of Adolf Hitler early, drew bright moral lines,
and called out the complicity
of his fellow German Christians.3
But in America today,
I think the complex story of another German pastor,
Martin Niemöller, is more instructive for our nation’s
already compromised white Christians,
most of whom voted not once, not twice,
but three times to put Donald J. Trump into power.
Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) was a Lutheran minister
and early Nazi supporter who was later arrested
and imprisoned for opposing Hitler’s regime.
He was a sought-after speaker following the war,
but he is most remembered today for his poem
“First They Came For.…”
The poem is inscribed on the wall
in the Hall of Witness on the ground floor
of the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum
in Washington, DC,
and in numerous other Holocaust memorial museums
and public spaces around the world.
First they came for the Socialists,
and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists,
and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—
and there was no one left to speak for me.4
Niemöller’s words are well circulated.
We read them in museums and hear them
in our churches and synagogues.
We read these words to our children.
We hold them up because we believe,
at least we want to believe,
that we would act with the moral clarity of their author.
In the parlance commonly used
in Holocaust educational curricula,
we would not be among the
“Perpetrators”
of violence or the
“Sympathizers”
with such evil.
Nor would we be among the willfully oblivious
“Bystanders.”
No, we would certainly be counted
among the
“Upstanders”:
those who would see the early warning signs,
those who would risk their own safety to protect others.
But the poem, while conveying an important truth
about the inevitable expanding dangers
of unchecked tyranny,
is at bottom pragmatic,
an appeal to enlightened self-interest.
If we don’t defend others,
the poem reminds us,
there will be no one left to defend us.
In a lesser-known 1946 speech
given in Stuttgart, Niemöller offered a more explicitly
theological and confessional reflection.
He gave the following account
of a powerful spiritual experience he had during a postwar visit
to Dachau, the first German concentration camp,
opened in 1933,
and the one where he was imprisoned from 1941 to 1945.5
I stood with my wife in front
of the crematorium in Dachau,
and on a tree in front of this building
there was a white-painted board with black lettering.
There one could read:
“Here in the years 1933–1945 238,756 people were cremated.”6
While I read it, not aloud,
I noticed that my wife fainted and sank trembling into my arms.
I had to support her and noticed
how at that moment a cold shudder ran down my spine.
I think my wife fainted when she read
the quarter-million number. That hadn’t moved me.
Because it didn’t tell me anything new.
What ran through me hot and cold at that moment
was something else.
That was the other two numbers: “1933–1945.”
I groped for my alibi and knew
that the two numbers were the wanted poster
of the living God for Pastor Niemöller.
My alibi reached from July 1, 1937, to mid-1945.
There stood: “1933–1945.”
“Adam, where are you? Mensch, where were you?
Yes, I know, from mid-1937 until the end you have an alibi.
Here you’re being asked:
‘Where were you from 1933 until July 1, 1937?’”
And I couldn’t avoid this question any longer.
In 1933 I was a free man.
1933—at that moment in the crematorium yard it occurred to me—
yes 1933, that’s right. Niemöller concluded with this testimony:
And on that day, when we got home,
I read the chapter Matthew 25 with new meaning:
“I was hungry, and you gave me nothing to eat;
I was thirsty, and you gave me nothing to drink;
I was sick and in prison,
and you did not come to me.”
As a Christian I could have known
and should have known in 1933
that in each of these human brothers—
may they be called Communists or whatever—
God in Jesus Christ was asking me
whether I wouldn’t want to serve him.
Reading this speech,
we understand that Niemöller did not always have
the moral clarity he captured in his famous poem.
For the first four years of Hitler’s reign,
from 1933 to 1937,
Niemöller was a free man
because he did not fully oppose the Nazis,
even as their atrocities mounted.
When he finally resisted the Nazi policies
aimed at controlling the Lutheran Church,
he was arrested on July 1, 1937,
and spent the remainder of the war
imprisoned and in concentration camps.
It is always our protective instinct
to want to envision ourselves as the Niemöller of 1937–
1945 and not the Niemöller of 1933–1937.
We do not want to imagine ourselves experiencing
the excruciating regret that plagued Niemöller and the Protestant German Church after the war.
Here is Niemöller in 1947 reflecting on the church’s failures:
We preferred to keep silent.
We are certainly not without guilt,
and I ask myself over and over again
what would have happened if we had in 1933 or 1934—
it must have been a possibility—
14,000 Protestant pastors
and all Protestant congregations in Germany,
if we had defended the truth with our lives.
If we had said back then, it is not right
when Hermann Göring simply puts 100,000 Communists in concentration camps, to let them die.
I can imagine that then perhaps 30,000 to 40,000 Protestant Christians would have been made a head shorter,
but [I] can also imagine that we would
have saved the lives of 30–40 million people,
which is what it costs us now.7
We want to believe
that we would have broken the silence
and defended the vulnerable.
The challenge, of course,
at least for those of us who are white and Christian,
is that we have scant historical evidence
that we know how to hold such moral vision
and live such costly faith.
Although we’ve turned blind eyes and deaf ears to it,
nonwhite Christians have been calling out our complicity
with the forces of white supremacy for the entire history of our nation.
We white Christians have largely ignored what historian Jemar Tisby has called the “spirit of justice” that has steadily flowed through the Black Protestant churches, the liberation theology developed among Latino Catholic churches, and the mirror held up to our faces by Indigenous communities.8
In his 1845 autobiography—published in the same year that the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) was formed to declare that enslaving others based on the color of their skin was compatible
with the gospel of Jesus—Frederick Douglass declared,
“Between the Christianity of this land, and the Christianity of Christ,
I recognize the widest possible difference.…
The slave auctioneer’s bell and the church-going bell
chime in with each other, and the bitter cries
of the heart-broken slave are drowned in the religious shouts
of his pious master.
Revivals of religion and revivals in the slave-trade
go hand in hand together.”9
In 1963, as he sat in a cramped jail cell in Birmingham, Alabama,
Martin Luther King Jr. solemnly observed that rather than speaking up for justice and supporting racial equality,
most white Christians “have remained silent behind
the anesthetizing security of stained-glass windows.”
He concluded, “We will have to repent in this generation
not only for the evil words and deeds of the bad people,
but for the appalling silence of the good people.”10
Across the last three decades of the twentieth century,
beginning with Custer Died for Your Sins:
An Indian Manifesto in 1969,
Vine Deloria Jr. asked white Christians
to give an honest accounting of ourselves
regarding the violence and deception
we have wielded in our interactions
with Native Americans.11
These appeals were largely ignored
by good white Christians as we continued to attend the church
of the status quo.
Amid the long shadows cast by the light of such witnesses,
at least some of us finally—
first during the Civil Rights Movement
and more recently during the Black Lives Matter Movement—
found the courage to ask painful questions
about turning points in U.S. history
when we might have acted differently.
What would have happened if white Christian pastors
and congregations had protested en masse
when Congress removed Thomas Jefferson’s original language denouncing slavery, which called it a “cruel war against human nature itself,” from the Declaration of Independence?
What would have happened if white Christians had, in 1830, opposed Andrew Jackson’s duplicitous Indian Removal Act,
demanding that we honor the promises we had made to Native Americans?
If white Baptists and Methodists in the South had,
in 1845, committed themselves to love
rather than a violent defense
of their right to enslave people of African descent?
If all white Christians in the country had,
in the 1960s,
responded to the indictments from King
and so many others by turning our faith into action
during the Civil Rights Movement?
If we had called out the racism in the predictable white backlash following the Black Lives Matter Movement?
And, in 2021, demanded that our elected officials follow the second impeachment of Donald J. Trump
with a resounding conviction for inciting a violent insurrection
against the United States on January 6?
As America’s demographic majority during nearly all of its existence,
we white Christians have always held the power
to change the course of our country’s future.
What would have happened if we had,
at any of these hinge points of history,
collectively defended the truth with our lives?
The costs to our ranks, as Niemöller notes,
may have been significant,
but we could have saved millions of others.
Those sacrifices would have preserved both a nation
and a faith in their highest principles.
In the Southern Baptist churches of my youth,
the word “backslide” was a familiar one.
I was frequently warned in sermons and in youth group Bible studies
to remain vigilant lest I backslide as a Christian.
In that context, backsliding meant falling away from the faith
after being lured by the distractions of the world
or the wiles of the devil.
These enticements, we were told,
offered short-term rewards—
worldly recognition, sexual pleasure, success—
but all led down a slippery slope,
away from the path of Christian discipleship.
We were called to deny ourselves,
metaphorically take up our cross, and follow Jesus.
“Backslide,” a word born out of the sixteenth-century Scottish Reformation, has a long theological pedigree.
The Oxford English Dictionary credits Scottish minister John Knox with coining the word “backsliding” in a 1554 pamphlet.
There, he used it to admonish English Christians who compromised their Protestant beliefs by reverting to Catholicism
during the oppressive reign of the Catholic Queen Mary I.12
A half century later, the translators of the 1611 King James Bible
chose the term to describe a plea from the prophet Jeremiah for the Israelites to return from their waywardness to a loyal relationship to God: “Return, thou backsliding Israel, saith the LORD; and I will not cause mine anger to fall upon you: for I am merciful, saith the LORD, and I will not keep anger forever” (Jer 3:12).13
In each case, the term is used as a warning, accompanied by a call to return to the right path.
My adolescent fear of backsliding was not primarily about going to hell. It is a fundamental tenet of Southern Baptist theology that a Christian cannot lose his or her salvation. “Once saved, always saved,” as the mantra goes.14
At its best, it was a reminder to stay in relationship with God, to fulfill my role in living out the gospel in love and service for the world,
rather than being consumed by the empty pursuit of things of the world. But there was always the disquieting worry that if you strayed too far, too comfortably, and too long from the path, that fact itself was a sign that perhaps you had never entered into an authentic relationship with Jesus in the first place.
Salvation isn’t about works; but, as the New Testament book of James warns, salvation without works is dead.
For me, as a teenager, the fear of backsliding, falling away from a close personal relationship with God and thereby God’s will for my life, produced a persistent white noise of moral anxiety.
Despite the theoretical assurances of the security of salvation
that Southern Baptist theology offered,
any significant moral lapses triggered second-order interrogations
of what the backsliding meant.
Were they simply stumbles from which I could recover?
Or were they a sign of something more deeply wrong
with my spiritual condition?
Was I temporarily disoriented or more fundamentally lost?
I was terrified by a word in the Christian tradition
that describes the destination to which unchecked backsliding ultimately leads: apostasy.
The Greek roots of that word mean to stand away from
or depart from a previous place.
In religious context, that powerful term describes
a falling away from formerly
cherished beliefs
and an abandonment of once-held moral principles.
The scary thing about the state of apostasy
is that it is hard to recognize
when one has reached it.
When exactly has one broken faith with a friend?
Given up on a marriage?
Betrayed one’s country?
Exchanged the truth for a lie?
We can miss the dim signposts along the way.
To be sure, the term apostasy should be used with some care.
In the Christian tradition,
when authorities have wielded it as a final
irrevocable judgment against others,
it has been the trigger for countless acts of reprehensible violence:
the Crusades, the Inquisition, witch trials.
But properly understood, it is a warning.
It calls attention to a state of peril,
accompanied by an invitation to return to the fold.
It is the prophet’s call in the Hebrew Bible,
the parable of the lost sheep,
and the story of the prodigal son.
A beloved is lost.
But there is still time for repentance and return—
always until, of course, there isn’t.
In these challenging days in our nation,
I’ve been brought back to words like backslide and apostasy,
both theologically and politically.
These terms help describe the indefensible willingness
of white Christians to shed
their core values like inconvenient loads
along the road to supporting Donald Trump.
The term backslide has also more recently
come to have resonance among political theorists,
who use democratic backsliding
to describe the process by which a democracy
slips into authoritarianism.
These powerful terms also help
us describe the perils of our current moment succinctly:
We are now living in a democratically backslidden nation,
abetted by an apostate white Christianity.
With the rise of the Make America Great Again (MAGA) movement
and Donald Trump’s return to power,
the white evangelical world of my upbringing
has now fully come undone.
That conservative white Christian world
was always built,
as the parable goes, upon sandy ground.
When the storm finally came,
it was all too easily swept away by the political current.
Many of us
—even those fully embedded in white conservative Christianity—
have sensed, deep down,
that something was amiss within the faith of our fathers.
But that malady is elusive.
It isn’t discoverable as a logical misstep
in a theological proof.
It’s not identifiable as a single fork
in the historical road.
It is more like a haunting.
We experience it as an unsettling presence
that episodically escapes the shadows
but cannot bear the full light of day.
We blink, and it is gone.
But we feel its icy breath when our faith puts us at odds
with our most fundamental human instincts.
It lulls us with a seductive heresy:
that we can only know we are Christians by our boundaries.
It tells us we must banish some people
from the community of grace:
queers, Blacks, Muslims, immigrants.
Our loves, it warns, may betray us.
Empathy, the keystone of moral sentiment, is suspect;
compassion, a threat to obedience.
Faithfulness is authenticated not by the good fruits
it produces but by our willingness to sacrifice our humanity
on the altar of submission.
But submission alone is not enough
for the vengeful god conjured by white Christianity.
It seduces us, demanding violence to others
and the self as proof of our devotion.
It does not halt Abraham’s dagger before it plunges into Isaac.
Like addicts, we even begin to crave the transgression—
our moral degradation paradoxically serving
as the evidence of our righteousness—
until that perverse satisfaction finally extinguishes
the innate impulse to love our neighbors as ourselves.
I don’t hold out much hope that what passes for religion today
among the two-thirds of white Christians who voted for Trump is redeemable. That world is now marked by a shockingly impoverished relationship to the Bible and an outright abandonment
of a genuine search for truth.
But I’m not writing for those who have fully given themselves
over to the spirit of white chosenness, supremacy, and dominion.
I’m writing to mark some waypoints for those who know,
and those who are waking up to realize,
that the foundations of both our politics and our faith
need redemption.
We can no longer pretend
we do not know where this path will lead.
We can and should know that any political ideology
that demands the circumscription of love
and the extinguishing of empathy
has moved beyond the bounds
of both pluralistic democracy and Christian faith.
If we do not defend that truth with our lives,
we will find ourselves unable to recover a democratic society
in which we can all live together.
And we will surely feel devastating regret.
If we have any hope of finding our way,
we must start by being explicit about the dangers
of our current moment.
We have no alibis.
This is our 1933.
~~~~~~
Jones, Robert P.. Backslide: Reclaiming a Faith and a Nation After the Christian Turn Against Democracy St. Martin's Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.
Folks, It seems to me that I am being guided in what is most important to be shared across the nation, the world...
This appeared first thing this morning after a fumble at choosing...
I am almost finished with another book along similar lines, but from a female's perspective...
Yes, I am also concerned about many things now happening, but, let's face it... after thousands of years, those who chose another path have created a world that is not sustainable... No, I am NOT claiming the second coming or any thing that implies that... When somebody tells you that what is happening is written in Revelations... And assumes that we should believe that this, right now, has been created by God, please stop and start thinking beyond your religious lives...
Are you aware that many individuals such as those trying these days have attempted to use the end times for their own benefit? Surely you can remember at least one instant when a cult leader chose to have everybody drink kool aid rather than...whatever he had come to believe... These are now seen as sad events where people were fooled, were manipulated...
I realized something during the last week... Without a father as "head" of the house, I was never prone to see a male figure as somebody that held power over me. Perhaps this is why I saw right through a conman and have questioned often what was occurring that seemed illogical... I rarely need to spend time pondering this type of belief...
Especially when there are people being hurt/murdered on behalf of some religious command decided upon by any human... who somehow always are white...males... rich...seeking more and more power...
Please know that I'm trying to share as much as possible, but things are happening too fast... Courts are not able to respond to what is being ignored by this administration... This is the one time, perhaps in our lives--I know it is for mine--that voting is the only option we have to make a statement in faith... How we got to this point is important, but we need to recognize the bottom line, the beginning... And we now are looking all the way back to the year 0 when the time changed to restart our calendars, based upon a man called Jesus Christ...
Robert P. Jones says American democracy is backsliding, and white Christianity is helping push it in that direction. In his new book, Backslide: Reclaiming a Faith and a Nation After the Christian Turn Against Democracy, Jones confronts a difficult contradiction: among white evangelicals, greater church attendance does not necessarily produce less support for Christian nationalism, anti-immigrant attitudes, or Donald Trump. In some cases, the relationship runs in the opposite direction. So what happens when the institutions meant to form Christians in the teachings of Jesus begin producing a politics built around hierarchy, exclusion, and power? Jones joins us to talk about how race and culture shape biblical interpretation, why some Christians are now attacking empathy itself, what American Christianity inherited from slavery and Jim Crow, and why he believes the country has moved beyond ordinary partisan disagreement into a fight over democracy itself. Drawing on Martin Niemöller and the failures of the German church in the 1930s, Jones ends with an urgent question: when future generations ask what Christians did in this moment, what will the answer be?
Book: Backslide: Reclaiming a Faith and a Nation After the Christian Turn Against Democracy.
GUEST BIO Robert P. Jones is the president and founder of Public Religion Research Institute, or PRRI, and a New York Times bestselling author whose work focuses on religion, race, politics, and democracy. His books include The Hidden Roots of White Supremacy, White Too Long, The End of White Christian America, and his newest book, Backslide. Jones holds a Ph.D. in religion from Emory University and writes the Redeeming Democracy newsletter