Guns Everywhere - Humble Ourselves, Heal the Land - The Final Climax to The Crooked Places Made Straight

 

I finished the last two chapters of this book yesterday. This was the second time for the chapter related to Guns... I found myself highlighting even more--indeed, I'd highlighted almost the entire chapter of words... Words about our children, Uvalde springs first to mind, although that is just one of the latest we all watched occur, isn't it? 

The thing is, as I finished reading, I immediately wondered... What could I say about the fact that Guns are Everywhere in America... in our schools, in our churches, in our grocery stores, theatres, musical events--everywhere... Many times when I come on YouTube, I see the picture of a young child with his father talking about how he came to die while he was in school...

My heart--our hearts immediately begin to swell in pain, in anguish, in the final moments though, we are always asking WHY? But it is a rhetorical question... A hopeless question because we all know the answer, don't we? Every attempt to do something is stopped through the use of big money in the business of selling guns. And guns proliferating faster than we the people! Yes, there are far more guns in the United States than there are people! Far more than in any other country in the world!

And we have mass shootings in our country every day...somewhere... Someone--more than one--dies every day here in the land of the free?????

Right about then I began to ponder whether it was worth sharing further... For, as most writers do, they build up to the important points as we move further into a book. And Reverend Warnock does indeed know the pain of somebody who has died from a gun... Just as many have...

And, of course, the question was discussed... What are we doing to our children??? What are we teaching those who must attend schools, fearing for their lives... Practicing for a potential attack...

And we know that, for our Black neighbors, death has been a part of their lives right from the beginning when they were brought to America to be slaves to white men. Some may have died on the ship and were tossed overboard with no thought of grieving... Black mothers know that they must quickly begin to explain about how they can "live" with the white people who will consider them "beneath" their attention... How? Why? One thing I have learned is that what the white man has created is a race of people who are now prepared to survive, even more, to fight back...

I have learned that this is a significant difference between the black and white people... In different ways, I admire them more than many of those of my own color.

But as I went on to read the next chapter regarding climate control, with a few specific cases, documenting how it is we the people who are destroying earth, once again I came to the same conclusion... These two issues have been around for decades. Guns used for hunting were then used for sports; e.g., sharpshooting... sharp shooting led to children being familiar--too familiar with guns--guns that could kill more than animals.

So, too, has man chosen to use more and more of the earth's resources so that ultimately they needed to look for other ways to obtain them... Oil being one of those resources which is now, right now, costing all the world because of lack of control and/or consideration for planning for the future, rather than just continuing to use, use, use... Wars being fought or resources stolen, such as from South America... by those who are rich but not rich enough to be happy and live well in world around us...

And you know what, folks, from a time when, as a poor single woman, I was working to make a living to help my own family, I began to learn of those in the United States and from other countries who had much worse living conditions than we had ever had... AND, during the last decade, I have taken time to listen to multiple news sources and have read books from people who had the qualifications to help me learn more about what and why things had reached the point where we could in 2016 vote in a television reality character who had a background of bankrupted corporations, and a history of getting federal funds, while not following laws related to renting to all people, et.al. I Now Know Stuff...

And one thing I know is that the republican political party is the reason in almost every situation when guns and climate are being discussed that they have refused to even negotiate--or they may play at it, even approve it, only later to also agree to overturn what improvements have been made... 

Then beginning in 2016, it was the now president who began to either pull out of what was already established as a working group planning for the future, or removing the regulations and laws that had been put in place by earlier presidents to respond to these two important needs.

Let's face it, these two issues result in the most deadly situations that can occur. Yet congressional republicans continue to not only not support, but in some cases refuse to even negotiate on these subjects!

You know folks when I listened to the above video, I hesitated to include it, even if what was said was true.  You see, it was using satire to spotlight exactly what and how the republican party is treating the majority of United States citizens. It has exploded during this last term of the Trump presidency... So, why and how do I, we, think that anything can be done. Decades have gone by and little has been done to regulate and control guns... Decades have also gone by when not only is nothing being done on the climate crisis. In fact, many of the safety regulations have been removed by this administration... And they actually try to deny any problems with our environment. While we all watch and see more and more signs of natural and man-made created problems... Isn't it time that we begin, again, listening to our experts in science related to future plans for wind or other options...

Isn't it time that we ignore the claims of conservatives pushing pro-life, while at the same time, that same party is allowing children to be killed in devastating ways? What can we do but assume that their moral code is either ignored or not even known to exist? Just trying to understand how to proceed within this, right now, badly damaged country...

You know, folks, I woke up to a wonderful dream this morning. I was back to a time when I was young, my mother was still alive and we were living in a little town called New Geneva. There was a small store there and a woman ran that store. It was a day that Bertha, the owner and a member of our church, had fixed a meal to sell as a special. Time had no meaning, so I was also working and had come home wondering about what to fix for supper so I stopped in that little store... It smelled wonderful. The meal was Baked Ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans and creamed new onions... I have no idea how that last item got on the menu in "my" dream since I don't think I've ever tasted them... But I woke up happy. I woke up knowing that I had been given freedom to be very specific about what the republican party is attempting to do to the United States... And to all God's children... I knew that the stuff I had learned was to be openly shared and documented and sent out to whoever wanted to learn more... Speaking Truth is our Freedom!

Because, you see, I had also had a song identified... Almost Persuaded. Some of you may know that this is one of the songs that can be used at a closing of the sermon where the pastor performs what is called an altar call. It is a time when individuals who have not yet decided might have been persuaded by what was learned on that day, and would choose to formally received Jesus as our Savior...

I never really liked the song, but now I ran through the words, especially as it ended... where the one singing might be in some way affected, but is not really ready to give up what he or she thinks a Christian life might mean to them personally...The individual decides that "some more convenient day..." may be the one... But not that day...

And I wondered just how someone else had gone about deciding whether to follow a god... And then in amazement actually, I wondered whether each of us has created their own god... How else can religions have been formed in so many ways and by so many different people, Yet assume or believe that their god is the one god... 

But mostly I wonder just how religion and politics can ever be interactive without Love...without truth?

Or, at least, a basic moral code that would be acceptable to all people...

There wasn't a thing about this book that I didn't agree with. That was a confirmation needed at this particular time when the days have one thing said only to hear that it has been changed by the next day or even the next news program. Life in such chaos is not only confusing, but is not sustainable, given that there is no way any of us can really be secure in hearing, or, stating what they consider facts...

On the other hand, Reverend Warnock has opened my eyes to the value of the Book of Isaiah, and perhaps more, in helping to deal with today's world... For we know that the Bible has been interpreted to mean one thing while another might believe some other meaning... Or perhaps we just need more people like Raphael Warnock explaining how and when the old testament words reflect on today's world...

Because right now, many still believe that Trump was chosen by God... And, at least in one way, perhaps I agree... Because he certainly has opened the eyes of millions of people across the world and we can see why scripture says that the rich man will never find a home with God...

Key to this book, therefore, is finding the proof of Truth AND Love in Reflecting on the Moral Code of America... Confirming that something extreme has happened to create an atmosphere where words of our citizens have different meanings based upon a political party which is using criminal actions to try to stay in power and recreate a nation in the image of male white supremacists who are paying for their political officials to do what is best for the rich rather than for the majority of the United States citizens... Wow! That's a long sentence, but it seems to be accurate. LOL

Warnock ends with a CODA telling about a little country called Liberia--Land of the Free. It is a location where Reverend Warnock visited on a mission trip. It was formed at a time when some who lived in America were going back to Africa after slavery had been abolished, or at least, proclaimed by the government. This small place was working hard to create some part of the freedom known in America, even naming their capital city in honor of James Monroe, who supported repatriation. But this small location has had similar problems of civil unrest as has occurred in America... Yet they continue to believe... Warnock spoke at the local Baptist church about how the two areas have seen similar pains of separation of people. But our Senator confirmed there and now that he continues to support our country--even one which is now so divided. He urges us to recognize the dangers of our divisions. Of allowing demagogues* with no vision to deepen the differences and tear down what has been built with blood and sacrifice.

Urging for a future of hope for everyone, as Isaiah shared so clearly:

As the book closes, the Reverend shares that if the earth cannot sustain us, still those who are the least of these shall be with him... but to ensure that freedom shall survive, we must all work to raise the valleys, those of us who are in the lower "classes" of society, while the mountains--those at the top of society, the rich, shall fall lower... I've tried to share my understanding of this scripture... so I hope I've at least given you sufficient info to conduct your own research... For our Lord is stating that we must work to support the lowest in our land through voter selection and working against those who've corrupted out nation's government... 

I believe this book should be on your bookshelf and read before November...

God Bless

Gabby

*a political leader who seeks support by appealing to the desires and prejudices of ordinary people rather than by using rational argument.

"a gifted demagogue with particular skill in manipulating the press"

TJ Poortinga Presents Electric Orange - Wild Weird and Wonderful!

“Professor!” Kuiper exclaimed. “Is the rumor true? Did you tell the president to build a wall?” “Don’t Change Horses Midstream!” Verboom bayed, running circles around Kuiper and the guests. He yanked the lapels of his tweed jacket over his blond hair and looped the anchor’s desk like a headless horseman, shouting more historic slogans. “A Chicken In Every Pot! The Buck Stops Here! All The Way With LBJ!” He neighed like a feral stallion. “It’s The Economy, Stupid! Ross For Boss!” He stopped himself with invisible reins, lowered his jacket, glanced side to side, and asked Kuiper in a whisper: “Yes We Can?” “Can we, professor?” Kuiper demanded. “Can we get God out of government?” Now trotting in place, Verboom chanted boldly: “Yes We Can! Yes We Can!” “There’s no wall between church and state!” scoffed the theologian. “There’s a wall higher than any ladder!” the historian shot back. Verboom flung his arms wide and sang, “Ain’t no ladder high enough! Ain’t no pundit low enough! Ain’t no angle wide enough. To keep me here talkin’ with you.” Then he galloped off stage, tearing through the greenroom, racing down the hall, clattering down the emergency stairs, and bursting through the exit door onto the frigid streets of Capitol Hill.

“When negotiations hit a wall, the rep asked: ‘What’s it going to take to get you in this truck?’ The answer came naturally, ‘The Flying Dutchman on surround sound.’ So, the guy ran to a music shop and came back with a version on CD.” “Richard Wagner, huh?” I smirked. “Flight of the Valkyries would’ve better set the mood.” “Woulda, coulda, shoulda!” He threw up his bare arms, pretending to conduct an orchestra of what-ifs.

The car ahead of us on the freeway had a bumper sticker: HONK FOR FREEDOM. Verboom read it aloud, slowly, as if weighing each word. “Hands off the horn, Santo. No telling what kind of freedom they’re after.”

(NPR) “From Washington, the president refuses to comment on Final Freedom or distance himself from the E.C.S. fellow Dr. Pieter Cornelius Verboom. Our sources, speaking only on background, debate whether the nascent movement is a serious political force or a stunt for the attention-starved. Opinions are split—some see Dr. Verboom as the mastermind of a revolution, others as an accidental prophet whose message was taken...” “Backasswards,” Verboom said, reaching over to mute the radio. “Isn’t the phrase ass-backwards?” Without answering, he switched the audio to CD. The opening strains of The Flying Dutchman filled the truck, and he let it play through—twice—without another word about politics. As our chariot rolled into the high desert city of Flagstaff, Arizona, I asked Verboom how long he planned to stay. He laughed—sharp and unhinged, like a man in need of medication—then mumbled something about Jonah in the belly of a whale. “My father can name every kind of tree,” he said, gazing up at the mountain slopes. “Mainly ponderosa pine, some oak, a few juniper.” “Let’s not get into particulars until they’ve got my mind universalized.” At the clinic, he scrawled my name on the intake form, listing me as his emergency contact and labeling me student. Then he frowned and tore up the form. He asked for a replacement. The second time, he wrote son. I’d like to say the title meant nothing to me, but I can’t. My girlfriend believed I’d become so obsessed with Verboom that he was taking advantage of me. When I told her I was simply following my interests and had genuine respect for his research, she scoffed. She insisted I was shopping for a surrogate father—my mind colonized by his influence and the whole of Western Civilization. Then she twisted the knife, remarking on his overwhelming manliness. “He must have great physical prowess,” she marveled, “in addition to his blind obedience to capitalism.” To my knowledge, he had no commitment to a grand economic theory, but her point was clear: the fact that I so deeply admired a middle-aged Dutchman meant I had failed to see his true nature. As for my dedication to the man, my motives weren’t mixed but many—not a conflict of interests, but a confluence. He was someone I wanted to help, and he was my cover story to get out of town. My quarter-life crisis paired with his midlife crisis. 

For a few days on the open road, I could escape the heavy clouds of Lake Michigan and my heartache, narrowing my role to that of a getaway driver. To catch my breath and make sure Verboom settled in, I decided to stay at a hotel near the clinic. After three days, with my duty complete, I packed for home. Before bidding farewell to the professor, I received a text message. No greeting, no affection—just a blunt declaration: “We should see other people.” My heart pounded hard three times, heat rushing to my face. Embarrassed, I didn’t write back. I’d been saving for a ring, debating whether to surprise her with one or to let her choose. She chose: none of the above. On our first date, she told me I was too diplomatic—the only time she was polite about my politeness. A few months later, she met my mother, who, though frail beneath a wig, summoned the strength to give her approval with awkward gusto. And just like that, a year had passed. Now, I was six states away with my mentor—America’s most notorious social scientist. Not famous for his research, but for being the first man in history to have a nervous breakdown on live television with an encore on radio. Since my coursework was complete, I could write my dissertation anywhere. Why not stay in the high desert? Already sick with grief, and now unceremoniously dumped, going back to campus felt impossible. We knew all the same people. Instead of hiding in my apartment, I decided to stay in Arizona until Verboom checked out. Clearly in need of a long stay, we had his mail forwarded to the clinic. Verboom’s case manager suggested I screen my “father’s” mail for anything triggering, so I intercepted Ella’s letters and stashed them in a size-thirteen shoebox. Once the shoebox filled, I put her letters in a beat-up plastic milk crate I had found behind the clinic’s cafeteria. Some of the envelopes felt like they held Polaroids and pamphlets. I had the nerve to run my fingers over them but not to open them. In addition to Ella’s envelopes, I held back a slew of speaking invitations. On the heels of his radio finale, fringe groups and lone-wolf fanatics began to flood Verboom with speaking requests. The sarcastic screed born in madness was metastasizing, spreading like a chain letter for the terminally outraged. As a swelling congregation of zealots clamored for Verboom to lead them out of the wilderness and into the corridors of power, the media took more notice. The New York Times picked up the Final Freedom story, calling his immodest proposal “an ironic rant taken literally by literalists.” And a leading WNN pundit fumed, “Verboom crashed our last dance with democracy.” More troubling than Verboom’s unraveling was the country’s willingness to embrace a delirious dare. People on the Left understood the rant as irony—which it was. People on the Right took the rant as an invitation to man up. The provocation became a watershed moment, a defining plot point in the media’s election year melodrama. Verboom had baited the American fringe, and they had taken it as the Lord’s Supper. As the spotlight intensified, he sank deeper into denial, refusing any discussion of politics or the press. He began to see the clinic not as a place to heal, but to hide. And yet, even as he closed his eyes and shook his head, his thought experiment took on flesh—and dwelt among us. 

2 Behold! I send you out as sheep among wolves, therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves!” Verboom recited a verse from the Gospel of Matthew, lying in his bed at the clinic, staring at the ceiling... 

~~~

I have to admit a couple of things... I thought the Orange in the title was for one man we all know... I was wrong... Second, when I announced this book and said it was weird... I was right... Because it is so much more...

It is Wild, Weird and Wonderful!

There is so much in this complex book--important info that is helpful at this time of chaos... Most of all that it all started with a man who had a breakdown and threw out words that were picked up by the people who actually liked what he said... and it became a winning slogan...

First, the author started writing the book during the time period when Obama was running for office and then proceeds thereafter... Yet, it many ways, it is not a linear movement in toto. In fact the book runs much like is being used during these days of chaos... it is more by subject or topic... So there will be multiple time periods as we explore the topics presented. And don't expect the topics to be in the right time period... 

There are two main characters who run throughout the book. One of which as I read, I identified as our present president. He is a distinguished professor of psychology in the book, who has begun to have mental lapses... I can only assume that the actions of these two men are based upon similar mental disabilities which many will recognized from our present days of chaos... Only the character in the book has been actually diagnosed as having breakdowns as well as lapses into psychological trauma and flashbacks...

I held back a slew of speaking invitations. On the heels of his radio finale, fringe groups and lone-wolf fanatics began to flood Verboom with speaking requests. The sarcastic screed born in madness was metastasizing, spreading like a chain letter for the terminally outraged. As a swelling congregation of zealots clamored for Verboom to lead them out of the wilderness and into the corridors of power, the media took more notice. The New York Times picked up the Final Freedom story, calling his immodest proposal “an ironic rant taken literally by literalists.” And a leading WNN pundit fumed, “Verboom crashed our last dance with democracy.” More troubling than Verboom’s unraveling was the country’s willingness to embrace a delirious dare. People on the Left understood the rant as irony—which it was. People on the Right took the rant as an invitation to man up. The provocation became a watershed moment, a defining plot point in the media’s election year melodrama. Verboom had baited the American fringe, and they had taken it as the Lord’s Supper. As the spotlight intensified, he sank deeper into denial, refusing any discussion of politics or the press. He began to see the clinic not as a place to heal, but to hide. And yet, even as he closed his eyes and shook his head, his thought experiment took on flesh—and dwelt among us. 

It all began when Verboom was asked to participate in a televised panel discussion. Including Professor Verboom, Social Psychologist, are a theologian promoting Christian Nationalism, a historian tracing US secularism, and a political scientist exposing propaganda. The first issue was aimed at the Professor. “Professor Verboom, sources within the administration claim you told the president to ‘get God out of government,’” and "to build a wall of separation between church and state." His response took it even further. “If God is truly God, how could we get such a Being out of anything?” Then, "Let God" answer the question!"

He ran off the stage, only to have his agent stop him, unsuccessfully, it seemed, when he ran back on stage and shouted. "The Union Shall and Must be Preserved." He howled to the ceiling, darted to the camera and instead of answering the moderator who asked for verification of the first question, Verboom shouted, "Don't Change Horses Midstream..." and then started spouting all of the political slogans he could think off. That is, until he began to calm down but was still pressed as to whether a wall was needed.. to which he now replied “There’s no wall between church and state!” Which could have, of course, meant anything by that time since Verboom was clearly not capable of clearly explaining his position. But that didn't stop those listening deciding exactly what was meant... Because he had again ran out off the stage and this time out of the building...

Santo was Verboom's graduate student assistant and had become almost like a son... In fact, when he had agreed to drive Verboom to a clinic, he wrote on the entry form that the contact individual was Santo, his Son... Santa, for his own reasons, found that he didn't mind that title... But when Verboom began reviewing what had happened and the responses, he told Santo that he realized an ugly thought--he could bring the whole thing down... And heading for a clinic where he couldn't be disturbed was the best hiding place for him to be...

But you can only stay in a clinic as long as you remain visibly disturbed. And that was not true, all the time, for the Professor... Then later he stated, “A terrible notion, of course, an intrusive idea inspired by the myth of Samson pulling down the Philistine temple. The Bible is such a violent book.”

Thus begins a journey of two men--one a professor and his selected assistant... Now a professor without a career with a very intelligent caretaker... With some very interesting points of concern being spouted along the way. Fact: There are more guns than people in the U.S. We are making more guns than babies...

Fact: Americans make up 4% of the world’s population, but we own half of the entire global stock of civilian firearms! Can I get a U-S-A?” “Another fact: We own at three times the rate of Canadians. ‘O Canada! Our home and native land!’” 

“People wander the streets like they’re in another dimension. They don’t ask for money; they speak to the air. They look right through you, like you’re the air. Maybe I’m moving into the next dimension myself. Think I’ll fit in?” “Careful. Conservatives believe all behavior is a free and punishable moral choice, and Liberals think it’s rude to be fascinated by abnormalities—unless that abnormality is conservatism.”

Of course there has to be more to the book, right? Well, it surrounds the professor's agent and her obsession to be wherever the professor is... Yes, sex is involved, but is that all that is driving her to track the professor down no matter where he tries to hide--yes, he has actually asked Santo to keep her away from him... Santo knows why, the professor cannot say no when she comes to be with him... Why? Or is the more important question, why would a beautiful younger woman bother???

But the professor just can't stop talking--sound familiar? So going on the radio becomes the next big announcement! Stay tuned, you might even hear him. Well, no, because he goes by different names... LOL And talk included climate control, God, Jesus, men wearing clothes like Jesus--maybe klansmen... Yeah,,, and the Professor always wore the same outfit that appears on the book cover... Figure this one out! And have fun...

GABixlerReviews

Separation of Church and Hate: A Sane Person's Guide to Taking Back the Bible From Fundamentalists, Fascists, and Flock-Fleecing Frauds

Now Reading: After I heard about the book, by Book News Expert Velshi, I immediately bought it... Read the Introduction and knew that this was enough for most people to decide, immediately, whether you wanted to read this book... I'll be reading as I do non-fiction books ongoing, but I wanted to get this out today... The author. John Fugelsang is a comedian... How better to read about this major issue, but with a little smile or two... God Bless, Gabby

Introduction

I’m here because two people broke a promise to God. My mother was born during the Depression in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Her name was Mary Margaret, but she always went by Peggy, and she entered the convent directly out of high school. Her prom date had asked her that night if she would marry him. She politely declined, gently informing the poor boy that she’d already made plans to marry someone else. At age eighteen, while other kids were still enjoying the 1950s, she joined the Daughters of Wisdom order. She ceased to be Mary Margaret and received her new name, Sister Damien. This was before the movie The Omen was released, but you can imagine the jokes she would’ve had to live with had things worked out differently. The convent put her through nursing school and then sent her to Africa, first to work with lepers, and then at a village hospital in Malawi. But before they sent her overseas to begin her new life, they briefly assigned her to Holy Family Hospital in Brooklyn, New York. 

My father had been born in Brooklyn just a few months before her, and had become a Franciscan brother a year after graduating high school. He’d been working as a butcher at the Brooklyn fish market, and after losing half a finger, celibacy probably seemed like a step up. Upon entering the brotherhood, he ceased being Jack and became Brother Boniface. As a brother, he taught history to Catholic boys at St. Francis Prep, coached basketball, wore the robe and rope belt, and walked among the people like the Lost Jedi of Flatbush. My father, the brother, met my mother, the sister, when he entered Holy Family for tuberculosis treatment. By all accounts, he was instantly smitten by this quiet, Southern girl in a nun’s habit, a woman he knew he couldn’t have, and had promised God he would never want. She was reserved and came from the segregated South; he was all Brooklyn charm and passionate about civil rights in ways her Southern father was not. He was exactly one foot taller than her, and their strong Southern and Brooklyn regionalisms did not suggest any potential compatibility. 

But they became friends, and when the convent sent Sister Damien to Malawi, Brother Boniface took it upon himself to write her letters—many letters—to innocently keep her informed of what was going on in the states—civil rights, Vietnam, and US politics. Her village had no TV or radio, so his letters became the de facto newspaper for the entire convent. Her Mother Superior would open his envelopes and read them aloud; Damien was often the last to read her own mail. Eventually, she returned—briefly—to the US. After ten years of hiding his feelings, poorly, my father eventually convinced her to leave the convent and go on a date. They were married two months later, in the chapel at Fort Story Army base in Virginia Beach. 

They soon settled on Long Island and tried to raise us to be progressive, free-thinking, sexually repressed Catholics. Which is why I would eventually turn to stand-up comedy, as I could never afford the therapy I so deeply required. 

SON OF A NUN 

My brothers and I were raised in Bohemia, Long Island, listed in the Guinness Book under “Most Ironic Town Name.” If you knew what “bohemian” meant, you were probably the town bohemian. We were an extremely Catholic family. I’m pretty sure we had open-casket reunions. Lots of kids had to go to church twice a year. A few had to go every Sunday and give something up for Lent. We attended Catholic Mass every Sunday and every single holy day, even when that meant church after school. Skipping church was not an option—ever, for any reason—except extreme illness or if you were dying. And if it looked like you might die on a Sunday, then you’d still have to get to five o’clock Mass on Saturday night. 

We learned all the Bible stories that kids are usually taught: Adam and Eve in the garden, Noah building the ark, Moses parting the Red Sea. The slaughter of the Midianites, where God commands Moses to kill all the men and nonvirgin women—but keep all the virgin girls—didn’t make its way into any of our illustrated children’s Bibles. My dad was a lector, CCD (like Sunday school, except rarely on Sundays and seldom in schools) teacher, and eucharistic minister at church; my Uncle Louis in Brooklyn was a Catholic deacon; my brother an altar boy. And when my mother became head nurse at a convent nursing home for her former order, there was a steady multicultural flow of elderly nuns in and out of our house. We said grace before every dinner and our prayers before bedtime. Whereas some kids were taught piano, my parents got me organ lessons. And to the best of my knowledge, I was the only child in Bohemia, Long Island, to have been baptized in his parents’ living room by a priest his mother had known in the jungles of Africa. 

And I was taught—relentlessly—that Christianity was about the things Jesus prioritized: Service to others. Forgiveness. Caring for the poor, the sick, the stranger, the prisoner. Fighting injustice with nonviolence, like Dr. King and Gandhi. Standing up for the less fortunate, like Dorothy Day and Catholic Charities. Love. Empathy. Compassion. And go wash your hands, we’re leaving for Mass in five minutes.

 My parents presented as Republicans, identified as Independents, and lived like closeted Democrats. Like most dads, mine was liberal in some ways and conservative in others. He maintained the same severely short haircut regardless of what decade he was in, flew the US flag outside our home, and believed God was love. 

His overall parenting strategy was to guarantee that I’d be way too liberal to ever fit in with Christians and far too Christian to ever blend with liberals. And almost every therapist I’ve ever been able to afford has agreed that his plan worked perfectly. When I was very young, my father pulled me out of bed late one night to watch Jimmy Carter sign the Camp David Accords between Israel and Egypt. He couldn’t believe an American Christian had helped bring peace to part of the Middle East, and he wanted his kid to witness Christian, Jew, and Muslim embracing each other. I was too sleepy and confused to even understand what I was seeing. Moshe Dayan had an eyepatch, which was cool, I guess. My father’s face convinced me of the moment’s significance. I had never seen him so happy. To him, this was everything Christianity—and America—could and should be. 

I was lucky to grow up around large Catholic families in both Brooklyn and the South—and to have eventually married into a very sane Protestant family. I’ve been blessed with relations who’ve been White, Black, and Latino; gay and transgender; cops and convicts; military members, teachers, chefs, immigrants, DREAMers, and firefighters; hardcore right-wingers, reasonable Libertarians, compassionate lefties, and the happily politically apathetic. I’ve had Muslim cousins, Jewish in-laws, an atheist brother, and an ex-nun mother. I don’t get to hate anybody. Big families meant many reunions, many conservative relatives, many cans of beer. My dad would often debate loved ones on politics and scripture, in the same gregarious Brooklynite way he’d debated for years with his Franciscan housemates. 

It exasperated my Southern mom, but everyone mostly loved each other, despite any differences in voting habits. I think many of us remember an America when family could disagree over politics while still generally getting along. Maybe yours still can. And I swear, it all seemed quite normal at the time. I had no idea growing up what Roe v. Wade was, nor did I know that the issue of abortion was splitting and redefining American Christianity. But when the Christian Coalition and the Moral Majority decided to make abortion their central political issue—half a decade after Roe v. Wade, by the way—the American church would never be the same. In the eighties and nineties, my father the social studies teacher always kept the news on. Being that this was during the rise of the Moral Majority and Christian right, I was exposed to many interviews with white men who were introduced as “Christian leaders.” But these Christians didn’t talk about helping the poor, welcoming the stranger, or fighting injustice. They never mentioned the evils of racism. They didn’t quote scripture to justify the need for all of us to take care of the least of us. 

If you watched American TV news in the late twentieth century, you received a steady diet of Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, and all manner of ex-segregationists and blow-dried televangelists, all ranting about welfare queens, feminists, and AIDS patients. These right-wing Christian media stars preached the virtue of forcing poor pregnant women to give birth against their will, that they might experience substantially greater poverty and greater risk to their health. They warned us that any government programs that actually helped the poor were “communist.” They expressed outrage at protests against racism, while never denouncing actual racism. They always punched down—always attacking the poor, the addicts, the migrants at the border, and a gay minority they assured me the Bible condemned, somewhere. 

Millions of American Christians were media-fed this version of Christianity. White supremacist. Pro-apartheid. Anti-labor. Zero teachings of Jesus. Offering only condemnation and propaganda, always seeking more power, and always needing more cash. Watching TV news was the first time I became aware of Christianity as a political force in my country, but it was a Christianity I couldn’t understand. I didn’t have the words to express it, but it was awkward to be told I was the same religion as these men. These were the fundamentalists, the power-hungry grifters who took advantage of the fact that most people don’t know the Bible all that well. They were charlatans, frauds, hypocrites, and villains. And they made for great TV. Within a decade, Christianity in US media culture would become synonymous with the criminalize-abortion movement and condemning gay people. And the fact that attacking abortion and gay people has nothing to do with the ministry and teachings of Jesus has never gotten in the way of the right-wing agenda. And apparently, the media’s still never been told.

My parents generally felt that some people had abortions too casually, but they would never vote for any politician who would take that right away. They never joined a political party but also never voted Republican (for “Jesus-based reasons”). Years later, my mother would tell me about hospitals pre-Roe, saying most nuns she’d worked with as nurses vigorously supported giving women the choice. But by the 1990s, if you told another young person you were “Christian,” they often presumed that you despised gay people and feminists and thought the government should force rape victims to be pregnant by their attacker. 

BEHOLD, THE “SMALL C CHRISTIANS” 

Now, some of my atheist friends like to say that religion is responsible for all the world’s hate, violence, sexism, homophobia, war, and oppression. In a 2018 US News and World Report survey of more than twenty-one thousand people from all regions of the world, the majority of respondents identified religion as the “primary source of most global conflict today.” And I can certainly understand why they feel that way. But they’re mistaken. The primary driver of most global conflict, oppression of women, suppression of science, persecution of gay people, and abuse of power is not religion. It’s the extreme fundamentalist wings of all the world’s religions that provide all these dramas for the rest of humanity. 

The overwhelming majority of progressive, moderate, and even conservative Christians, Jews, and Muslims are getting along just fine, right now, in all corners of the earth—just trying to make their way through life and leave a better world for their kids. Of course, people from different backgrounds peacefully coexisting, working together, and building families, businesses, and communities in a drama-free way doesn’t attract much media attention. But the violent lunatics and bigots? They get the eyeballs and clicks, so they still get the coverage. In recent decades, the US has witnessed fundamentalist Christianity publicly mutating into Christian nationalism: the belief that God intended America to be a Christian nation and that a “true” American should be Christian, too. These hopeless romantics fervently believe the Bible must be prioritized in both your government and your day-to-day life. Well, their interpretation of the Bible, that is. This powerful, profoundly white, well-funded, and growing movement seeks to impose a very narrow religious identity on our entire nation. And it all serves a deeply inspiring vision, where America gets to be a second-rate theocracy, like Iran, guided by ultraconservative values that just so happen to put their group first. 

“Christian nationalism” is also becoming an umbrella term for all kinds of right-wing zealotry: The fundamentalists, who use faith as a cover for power and control. The spiritual bullies, convinced that they get to be as cruel and judgmental as they want because they already know for a fact they’re going to heaven. The Apocalypse worshippers, whose Bible is pretty much just Revelation duct-taped to a Left-Behind Book. Pious politicians who brag they’ve accepted Jesus as their savior, while actually only accepting him as their mascot. The Strapped Bro-Dudes for Jesus, worshiping a jacked-up, gun-toting, ass-kicking Alpha Christ, who doesn’t actually appear in the Jesus parts of the Bible. The Christian supremacists, who always believe violence is morally acceptable if it’s their side doing it. The Holy Haters, convinced that God despises the same people they do, including LGBTQ people, immigrants, academics, Muslims, Jews, the poor, foreigners in general, environmentalists, science believers, people who support women’s reproductive rights, people who think gun safety laws could maybe help save a few lives, racial minorities, liberals, organized labor, feminists, atheists, and/or anyone else they think God put here by accident. While many of these movements overlap, the general shared goal is societal control, under the guise of “defending Christianity.” 

They don’t care about Jesus’s teachings or commandments. They’re not really concerned with “freedom of religion.” Their mission is earthly power, in the form of a Christian nation that’s controlled by their specific, Jesus-free take on the Bible. These groups are aggressively shaping our political discourse, cultural norms, and legislative priorities. They don’t like that they can’t control women anymore, and they’re terrified of becoming a minority in a country they believe they own. And our meanest Christians tend to piously and publicly worship Jesus as their King, because that’s considerably easier than following his inconvenient teachings. They fight for legislation that neglects the poor and vulnerable, defunding social welfare programs and criminalizing homelessness. They do this while prioritizing tax cuts for the wealthy, exacerbating poverty and inequality but never alleviating suffering. They weaponize scripture they themselves don’t follow against minorities they dislike. They preach nationalism over global compassion. And they often frame anyone who disagrees as “enemies of God.” 

It’s a gospel of control over caring, power over humility, and judgment over mercy. They won’t fight for the words of Jesus, but they’re profoundly committed to stuff they believe he said. For many of our right-wing friends and neighbors, Jesus is three things—the manger, the miracles, and the cross—but never the three years he spent teaching, reforming, and explaining what a “Christian nation” would actually need to do to earn that label. Jesus modeled servant leadership, washing his disciples’ feet and teaching that the greatest among his followers should be the servant of all (John 13:1–17, Matthew 20:26–28). He was not about total right-wing domination of the school board. Many Americans can remember being raised in a Christianity that focused on love, forgiveness, and service—the values of the biblical Jesus, whom Christians are generally supposed to follow, above the other parts of the Bible. 

And yet millions of bewildered Americans have grown up to find this religion of peace and empathy has been hijacked by a right-wing movement that uses Jesus’s name, waves him over their heads like a prop, and legislates against his actual teachings. And if there’s one thing the Bible shows us, it’s that authoritarian government, aligned with some extreme conservative religious fundamentalists, literally killed Jesus. Also, Some of Them Like to Kill People From the 2012 Oak Creek, Wisconsin, Sikh temple shooting to the 2015 Charleston church shooting; from the 2017 Charlottesville Unite the Right rally to the 2018 Tree of Life Congregation synagogue shooting; to the US Capitol attack of January 6, 2021—all acts of violence committed by right-wing men who proclaimed themselves Christian. 

Any Christian individual or group who advocates, engages in, or justifies violence directly rejects Jesus’s unglamorous, deeply unsexy teachings of non-retaliation and love. Jesus blessed the peacemakers (Matthew 5:9) and taught reconciliation (Matthew 5:23–24). His true followers are instructed to live in peace with everyone (Romans 12:18). He quite famously challenged his followers to love their enemies and to care for those who are different from them. 

But Christian nationalists and white supremacists have shown what religious zealotry and authoritarian propaganda can do in a country that has over one hundred guns for every person. 

ALWAYS IN POWER, ALWAYS UNDER SIEGE 

In contemporary America, you’ll hear a steady refrain from the pulpits of preachers and the podiums of politicians: “Christianity is under attack.” Christians still constitute the majority and wield significant cultural and political influence, mind you, but that’s never stopped a narrative of systemic oppression. This talking point, which pairs nicely with shrieking claims of persecution, warns of an encroaching secular agenda that seeks to destroy “traditional Christian values” and turn our families into transgender atheist groomer communists who listen to hip-hop and use paper straws. Politicians use the “Christianity under attack” rhetoric to secure votes and consolidate power. By framing themselves as warriors in a spiritual battle, they thirstily pander to a sense of tribal loyalty among a certain kind of Christian voter. Televangelists and megachurch pastors have long capitalized on the victimhood narrative to solicit donations and build obscene personal wealth. And polarizing cultural wedge issues are historically one of the slickest ways to redirect attention away from real social and economic problems. Examples of “Christianity under attack” have included First Amendment restrictions on public prayer in government settings, restrictions against anti-LGBTQ discrimination, and resistance to teaching creationism in public school science class. Nothing that threatens Christian religious practice—just conservative religious domination. Donald Trump never even tried to sell himself as an actual Christian to earn blind evangelical obedience. Rather, he easily attracted voters sympathetic to Christian nationalist ideas by branding himself as a defender of “Christians under siege.” Which is to say he pandered to and played up the persecution complex: “I will tell you, Christianity is under tremendous siege, whether we want to talk about it or we don’t want to talk about it…. And we’re going to reverse that trend big league.” January 30, 2016, campaign event in Dubuque Christianity is under attack—but by divisive right-wing fundamentalists who publicly worship Jesus while fighting against, voting against, and legislating against his actual commandments. Help the poor? No. Care for the sick? No. Turn the other cheek? No. Render one’s taxes? No, sucker. Be kind to the incarcerated? Hell no. Welcome the stranger? Bitch, please. Modern right-wing Christians have been suckered into an anti-Christian trap of aligning with power, instead of challenging it. 

But conservative power was what Jesus stood up to—not for—time and time again: The authoritarians among the religious leaders, drunk on their own eminence. The wealthy, worshiping their own stature and possessions while denying the suffering of the poor. The capitalists in the temple, greedily exploiting poor believers. The imperial government of Rome, whose hunger for power led to its own collapse.

Religion, like all institutions of man, is inherently flawed, but irony will never let you down. 

THE MOST IMPORTANT PART 

Shakespeare tells us that even “the devil can recite Scripture for his purpose.” And from the very beginnings of the American experiment, Christianity has been used to justify all manner of evils, from slavery to ethnic cleansing to preemptive war. Historically, American Christians of both major political parties have used a Bible to justify the slaughter of Indigenous people, the enslavement of African people, the labor exploitation of Asian people, ignoring the suffering of European Jewish people, cruelty to gay people, the indiscriminate detention and torture of Muslim people, and of course, pushing perpetual second-class citizenship on female people. 

But there’s another side to this. Because for nearly every great injustice perpetrated throughout history by authoritarian Christianity, liberal and moderate Christians—and many conservatives, too—have fought back. Progressive Christians helped lead the battle to abolish slavery. They’ve opposed imperialism, segregation, and science denial; fought for humane conditions for the American worker and for an end to child labor. Throughout history, Christian reform movements have dared to critically engage authority with scripture and tradition, supporting compassion, social justice, and human rights, as Jesus did. And I’m sorry, but they really do listen to better music. Decent Christians—including moderates and sane conservatives—along with righteous atheists, agnostics, and many people of other religions, have always had to band together to beat back the batshit-crazy Christians. 

St. Francis of Assisi left the Crusades and preached against war. The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., a Baptist, used the scriptures to shame white America out of the mutually destructive American apartheid of segregation. And millions of liberal Christians have, very gradually, helped many conservative loved ones beyond a whole lot of homophobia. It’s sadly not a coincidence that some of the most historically bigoted and segregated parts of this American Land have also been known as the “Bible Belt.” And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nobody hates like a Christian who’s just been told their hate isn’t Christian. 

Liberal and moderate Jesus-following Christians—and their allies—have the power to stand up to right-wing Christianity and call its adherents out on their own terms, using the very book fundamentalists wave around so bombastically. Never forget that the first-ever protest by a white person in this hemisphere against slavery and human rights abuses was against Columbus himself, led by his ship’s own Catholic priest, Bartolomé de Las Casas. There’s an inspiring true heritage of authentic Christianity, and it’s almost always manifested itself in resistance to Christian authoritarianism. 

SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND HATE 

This is a book about what Christianity started out as, what it became, and why it’s still worth fighting for. It’s about the grotesque mutation that is Christian nationalism and how fundamentalism has always been the opposite of Jesus, even though it gets most of the TV airtime. And it’ll show how the best of Christianity has always pushed back against the worst of it. This book is not an attack on God, Jesus, or Christianity. It’s not designed to ridicule people of faith or mock belief. It’s not another atheist manifesto, and it won’t try to convince you that religious people are superstitious or dumb. It’s also not going to ask you to believe in miracles or divinity, or to take all of the Bible as literal fact. Most Christians don’t. It doesn’t denigrate the idea of organized religion, and it won’t mock the life or teachings of Jesus. 

It’s designed to help you use the Bible when engaging with the Christian fundamentalist in your life, at your job, or, if you must, in your social media feed. It’s a guide to everything the haters got wrong. It focuses on Christianity through the teachings of Jesus, known to some as the “red letters” of the Bible. And it’ll show that if you’re debating an authoritarian Christian on almost any subject that divides us, Jesus probably has your back. Whether you’re a believer, agnostic, or atheist, whatever you think about politics, you’re going to have to deal with these people at some point. 

They want to control the level of freedom in US society based on how they pick and choose from the Bible. It’s going to be increasingly vital to dismantle their supernatural authority by elegantly pointing out that they don’t really follow this Bible they claim to base their lives on. And you’ll be surprised at how good it feels, too. You may find yourself unable to escape a particular person like this in your life, and that person may delight in projecting authoritarianism or hate as some kind of spiritual piety. 

But there are two things to remember: Much of the time, these people don’t really know the Bible all that well. And they’re 100 percent counting on you not knowing the Bible all that well. For all of our lives, fundamentalists have used the Bible to manipulate their way into our government, all over our school boards, and onto our airwaves. If they’re going to stand in your house and claim to represent Jesus, you’re allowed to prove if they really mean it. The extreme right uses Jesus’s name as camouflage. This is a guide to camouflage removal. 

A FEW HELPFUL DISCLAIMERS First, I am not a clergy member, nor a professional academic or theologian. This means I will not be using the word “exegesis” at all in this book, beyond this sentence. But I do know many wonderful scholars and clergy, gracious and learned people with all the spiritual and academic depth I lack, and they have charitably allowed me to ask them about a few theological specifics above my pay grade. I am but a friendly guy on a barstool, tugging on your coat about what’s actually in the Bible. 

But I promise: What I lack in credentials, I make up for in name-dropping. As a comedian, I’ve long known that taking on toxic Christianity is not a commercially viable subject matter. But like many, I got tired of seeing my parents’ faith used to merge Jesus and meanness. Against the strenuous wishes of many wise agents and managers, I began talking about Christianity onstage. And everywhere I’ve performed, spoken, or broadcast, I’ve been amazed at the massive numbers of truly good people I’ve met, of every conceivable background, who were raised Christian but now feel alienated from the domination and cruelty of so many churches. 

Now, I won’t be claiming to be anything resembling a great Christian. Tragically far from it. I’m happy to run through an extensive list of sins and shortcomings for you. But Jesus taught me the joy of calling out pious religious frauds, and I’d like to show you how rewarding it can be. I generally trust people who are seeking the truth; I tend to be wary of those who claim they’ve found it. When I cite specific scripture, I strongly encourage you to doubt me—and research what the Bible really says. I won’t ask you to believe anything I can’t prove, so you’ll know I’m not selling you religion. 

A few more things before we begin: This book covers many topics and you’re welcome to create your own adventure and skip around. Because the teachings and commandments of Jesus are relevant to many of our modern debates, some quotes and parables are cited more than once, in different chapters. Throughout the book, I frequently refer to the Torah as “the Old Testament.” I’m sorry if you’re offended by the term; it’s the simplest shorthand for talking to Christians, and I’m a simple person. Also, I won’t be capitalizing the H in “He” or “Him” every time I talk about Jesus. I tried it, but it started to feel a bit too much after a while. I’ll still capitalize the H when referring to God, so you’ll know I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I know how certain right-wing folks are sensitive about pronouns. Most cited verses are from the NIV Bible, but I do go full King James for some of the gorier moments. And please know, nice conservative Christians, that this book is not about you—it’s about those extreme right-wing hateful Christians. I come from two large, rather conservative American Christian families. And while I may disagree politically on some issues with our conservative Christian brethren, I’ve always found most to be quite lovely, and often more liberal with kindness than many, well, liberals.  But nice conservative Christians are going to have to deal with these haters too, so I thank you for making it this far. 

There will be much in this book that conservatives will disagree with; I’ll try to be as polite as I can. Parts are quite silly, and I’m sorry for that. The point is, intrepid conservative friends, while we may disagree, I know you won’t hate me with a violent bloodlust over it. And let me point out that nowhere in this book will I suggest that the Democratic party is somehow the party of Jesus on a policy level. Far from it. I’ve never belonged to a political party, and I’m happy to hear you out about big money in politics, Wall Street donors and lobbyist culture, lip service to climate action, how our representatives don’t fight hard enough for single-payer healthcare, universal basic income, unions, paid family leave, etc. I’m all ears.  But while Democrats fall painfully short in many ways, their party policies on healthcare, social safety nets, immigration, gun safety, women’s equality, gay rights, and antiracism are light-years closer to the teachings of Jesus than Trump-era Republicanism, which remains the brazen, junk-wagging opposite of JC’s actual words. Atheist friends—thank you for making it this far. And I get it—we’re arguing over a book that was written by Bronze Age goat herders who thought the earth was flat, etc., etc. I know. And I agree with you that religion should have no power over our governance, but here we are. Nonbelievers will also have to deal with fundamentalist Christians; perhaps you already do, perhaps they’re the family you still love. I can confirm that calling them superstitious cult members or saying they’re brainwashed to believe in myths doesn’t work. The hardcore ones will just double down and say you’re on the side of Satan. But I find that if we positively engage folks like this on what’s actually in the Bible, something else can happen. They may get defensive, but they might appreciate that you took the time to engage them on scripture itself. You’ll have an easier time convincing them that Jesus wasn’t an immigrant-hating homophobe by talking about what Jesus himself taught than if you just call them an immigrant-hating homophobe. And again, I’m not asking anyone to take anything in the Bible as literal fact. But if you plan on debating the fundamentalist Christian in your life, it helps to know the specifics of who said what and to ask questions rather than seek conflict. Also, I tend to be too irreverent when I should be serious, and can sometimes be way too churchy when it’s time for a joke. Sorry in advance; I promise to feel guilt over it. Finally, some surveys will tell you how the fastest-growing religious demographic in America is Mormonism. Some say Islam. More recent ones say “no affiliation.” I would argue there’s a large and growing religious group we don’t acknowledge—people who were raised religious but now consider themselves “spiritual” because they’re turned off by the cruelties and hypocrisies of organized authoritarian religion. 

Spiritual people use religion to become better people. Fundamentalists use religion to pretend they’re better than other people. Human hate has been around a lot longer than religion. It’s natural and at times we all fall prey to it, but religion didn’t create hate—hate found voice in religion. The right has turned a movement based on compassion and love into a mean, self-worshiping tax-free clique. The intolerance of right-wing Christianity is what’s driving young people away from religion. It’s not because our youth are controlled by Satan, although the fundamentalists might be. They’ve got a First Amendment right to twist scripture to their liking. You’ve got a First Amendment right to call them out for it. It’s time to take the Bible back from the hypocrites. And remember—if your church isn’t telling you to love your enemies but keeps telling you who your enemies are, you’re not really in a church.

Lisa Scottoline Presents Final Appeal - Spotlight on Court System--and--Corruption Recommended as a Must-Read!

 Someone’s life is at stake, Armen had said. Get involved. I put the note back in my pocket and slip my car key in the door. There’s going to be an investigation, but it’ll have to be my own. Because I’m involved, starting now.

 Sarah wants to represent the downtrodden, not mingle with them.

“When we talk about justice,” Ben says, “we shirk thinking in legal terms.” “I’m impressed, Ben. Did you make that up all by yourself?” “No. Oliver Wendell Holmes said it.”

“Didn’t you know, Grace? Ben is waiting for a phone call from Justice Scalia. He’s this close to a Supreme Court clerkship.” Artie squints at his forefinger and thumb, held a half-inch apart. “Maybe even this close, am I right, Ben? This close?” He makes his fingers touch.

Empty coffee cups dot the surface of Armen’s conference table, along with sheaves of curly faxes, photocopied cases, and trial transcripts from the Hightower record. We worked straight through dinner and into the night, reading cases and talking through the opinion. Then Armen began to tap out an outline on his laptop and I picked up the habeas petition to check our facts. It says that Thomas Hightower was seventeen when he cut school to go drinking with a fast crowd, which got him drunk and dared him to kiss the prettiest girl in school. Hightower went to her farm, where he found Sherri Gilpin in the shed. He asked her out, and she laughed at him.,, Allegedly. In a drunken rage, Hightower slapped her and she fell off balance, cracking her skull against a tractor. He tried to give her CPR, at which point her little sister Sally came in and began to cry. Hightower says he panicked. He couldn’t leave witnesses; it would have killed his mother. So he throttled the child, then, full of shame, he got back into his car and drove himself into a tree. 

Enter the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, which saved his life, reserving for itself the honor of putting him on trial. For death. Hightower couldn’t afford a lawyer, not that one in the small coal-mining town would represent him anyway. The county judge appointed a kid barely out of night law school to the case, and the jury convicted Hightower of capital murder. During the sentencing hearing, where the jury decides life or death, Hightower’s lawyer argued from the wrong death penalty statute, one that had been ruled unconstitutional three years earlier by the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. Somehow he had missed that. The obsolete death statute, the only one presented to this predominantly white jury, said nothing about the fact that a jury could consider Hightower’s youth, his diminished capacity because of alcohol, his lack of a prior criminal record, and the remorse that he demonstrated by his suicide attempt as “mitigating circumstances” in deciding whether to impose the death penalty. The jury took only fifteen minutes to reach its decision. Death. I set the papers down and look out the huge windows that make up the fourth wall of the office. It’s the dead of night. Orangey streetlamps stretch toward the Delaware River in ribbons. White lights dot the suspension cables on the Ben Franklin Bridge. Traffic signals blink on and off: red, yellow, green. The lights remind me of jewels, twinkling in the black night. I watch them shimmer outside the window and turn the legal issues over in my mind. The question is whether Hightower’s lawyer was so ineffective that the trial was unfair. Strictly as a legal matter, Hightower probably deserves a new trial; what he deserves as a matter of justice is another matter. This is why I practiced commercial litigation. It has nothing to do with life or death; the questions are black and white, and the right answer is always green. “Well,” Armen says to himself. “Well, well, well.” He stops typing and reads the last page of his draft. The office is quiet now that Bernice has stopped snoring. I feel like we’re the only people awake, high in the night sky over the twinkly city. “Well what?” 

“I think we’re going to save this kid’s life. What do you think?” The question takes me aback. “I don’t know. I don’t think of it that way.” “I do.” He smiles wearily, wrinkling the crows’ feet that make him look older than he is. “I wouldn’t stop if I didn’t think so.” “Was that your goal?” “It had to be. His lawyer was incompetent. Anybody else would have gotten him life in prison, instead he’s scheduled to die. They set him up.” He leans back in the chair. Fatigue has stripped something from him: his defenses, maybe, or the professional distance between us. He seems open to me in a way he hasn’t before. “I didn’t think of it as saving his life. I thought of it as a legal issue.” “I know that, Grace. That’s why I wanted you on this case. You narrowed your focus to the legalities, divorced yourself from the morality of the thing.” It stings. “Do you fault me? It’s a legal question, not a moral one.” “Really? Who said?” “Holmes.” “Fxxx Holmes,” he says, stretching luxuriously in a blue oxford shirt. His shirtsleeves are bunched at his elbows; his tie is loose. He’s so close I can pick up a trace of his aftershave. 

“It’s both those things, Grace, law and morality. You can’t separate law from justice. You shouldn’t want to.” “But then it’s your view of justice, and that varies from judge to judge.” “I can live with that, it’s in my job description. Judges are supposed to judge. When I read the Eighth Amendment, I think the framers were telling us that government should not torture and kill. That’s the ultimate evil, isn’t it, and it’s impossible to check.” His face darkens. “I don’t understand,” I say, but I do in part. Armen’s culture is written all over his olive-skinned features, as well as his chambers: the framed documents in a squiggly alphabet on the walls, the picture of Mount Ararat over his desk chair, the oddly ornate lamp bases and brocaded pillows. 

“It started piecemeal with the Armenians,” he says, leaning forward. “Our right to speak our own language was taken away. Then our right to worship as Christians. By 1915, they had taken our lives. We were starved, hanged, tortured. Beaten to death, most of us, with that.” He points at a rough-hewn wooden cudgel mounted over the bookshelf. “I didn’t know.” “Not many do. Half my people were killed. Half a million of us, wiped out by the Turkish government. All my family, except for my mother.” A flicker of pain furrows his brow. “I’m sorry.” He shakes it off. “The point is, government cannot kill its own citizens, not with my help. 

I know Hightower did a terrible thing. He killed, but I won’t kill him to prove it’s wrong. He should be locked up forever so he never hurts another child. He will be, if I have any say in it.” He seems to catch himself in mid-lecture; then his expression softens. “So thank you, for getting involved.” “Did I have a choice?” “No.” He relaxes in the leather chair. “You are involved, you know,” he says quietly. I see the city lights glowing softly behind him and feel, more than I can understand, that we aren’t talking about the case anymore. “I don’t know—” “Yes, you do. I’m involved too, Grace. Very involved, as a matter of fact.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I feel my heart start to pound softly. “We can’t do anything about it.” “Yes, we can. Give me your hand.” He holds out his hand to me. I look at it, suspended between us, at once a question and an answer. This situation is supposed to be black and white, but it doesn’t feel that way inside. “Stop thinking. Take it.” So I do, and it feels strong and warm. He pulls me in to him, as naturally as if we’ve done this a million times before, and in a second I feel myself in his arms and his kiss, gentle on my mouth. 

Suddenly I hear a noise outside the office and push myself away from his chest. “Did you hear that?” “What?” “There was a noise. Maybe the door?” ...

~~~

I'm certainly happy I kept on reading... You see, Lisa Scottoline has taken readers much further into the entire Justice System than most legal fiction books do. I even checked and the first 10% of this book introduces us to a group that we rarely even learn about other than as a very minor character. In this book, you see, it is the clerks of the judges who are leading much of the action--along with a certain undercover FBI agent... In fact, the POV is from Grace, who becomes the "amateur detective" since... well... because... Let me just tell you what happened...

Grace, has just come back to her law career, after a divorce. She is older than those who are just out of Law School, thrilled to be selected as a clerk, but, often, are lacking, shall we say, in the decorum, or, even more so, the maturity of what we normally see within legal communities--in books or television. Hey, I've been a Law and Order Fan for uncountable years!

The support of Judge Gregorian, Chief, is presently working on The Hightower (name of accused) case and discussion is moving throughout all levels as the political component moves into the forefront for affecting the decision... Yes, and readers will see much of the action of the opinions based upon each of the judges... Now, one totally irrelevant legal point is that there are several of the females supporting this apparently very striking judge becomes relevant very soon...

And that actually begins the investigation... It was Grace, who was not in criminal law, who was chosen to assist the Judge in preparing his final opinion... She was one of those who was attracted to her boss... So she was scared to have been chosen because she wouldn't know relevant laws, but at least she thought she could deal with her own issues...

At least until they were finally closing the all-night work session in the early AM hours and it was the Judge who initiated the seduction, ultimately telling her that he loved her... You'll have to read the details of those last few hours, however...

Because the important thing was that Judge Gregorian was dead by the next morning... Supposedly by suicide...

And of course Grace doesn't believe it... And through some strange and funny scenes, she is ultimately asked to assist the undercover FBI agent to be his informant...

I think about Hightower, who had no suburban soccer field, no fancy jersey or hundred-dollar cleats. One will go to Harvard; the other will be put to death. No justice, no peace.

“Let’s do it,” Eletha says grimly as we encounter the first wave of reporters along the wall of the outer lobby to the courthouse. “Grace! Grace Rossi!” one of them shouts. Shocked, I turn toward the voice. It’s the reporter from the day before, Sandy Faber. He’s wearing the same sport jacket and more stubble. “Remember what I said, Ms. Rossi?” “Which judge does she work for?” one of the women reporters asks. He ignores her, so she shouts at me. “Who do you work for, Ms. Rossi? Do you have any comment on Hightower? Why did it take so long to get the transcripts of the oral argument?” “Holy shit,” I hear Eletha mutter beside me. I push forward away from the reporters, but the lunchtime crowd is barely trickling out the narrow courthouse doors. “Come on, Ms. Rossi!” Faber shouts. “You gonna talk to me? Come on. Gimme a break here.” The heads of three other reporters snap in my direction. I feel Eletha’s hand on my forearm. “Who do you work for, Judge Meyerson? Judge Redd?” the woman shouts at me. “I can find out, you know.” “No comment,” I say. “Aw,” the woman says, “just tell me who you work for. It’s Simmons, right? That’s who? Simmons?” I feel Eletha’s talons dig into my arm; she seems shaken. I press ahead, pushing in line for the first time in my life as a good girl. It works. The crowd surges forward, and Eletha and I squeeze out the door and into the crowd outside the courthouse. “You all right?” I say to Eletha, but she can’t hear me over the Hightower supporters to our left. 

“No justice, no peace!” they chant. 

Their signs read: DEATH PENALTY=GENOCIDE OF AFRICAN AMERICANS! ABOLISH THE DEATH PENALTY! SUPREME COURT ADMITS “DISCREPANCY CORRELATES WITH RACE!” 

“Let’s just get out of here,” Eletha says. “I’m trying, El.” 

One of the signs is a picture of a young black teenager with smooth clear skin and a shy smile. He wears a red varsity football jacket. Hightower. The sound of the chanting resounds in my head. At the front line of the swelling Hightower contingent is a prominent black city councilman and members of the black clergy. An older black woman standing next to one of the clergymen catches my eye; she’s heavyset but dignified in an old-fashioned cotton dress, a calm eye at the center of a media hurricane. I recognize her from TV: Hightower’s mother, Mrs. Stevens. “Are you surprised by the amount of support that’s being shown for your son?” a TV reporter says to her, thrusting a bubble-headed microphone in front of her face. Mrs. Stevens looks startled, then the black councilman steps closer to the microphone, obstructing her from view. “We are going to hold a round-the-clock vigil to protest the death penalty, to show that it has always been racist in this country,” the councilman says. “The Baldus study shows that African Americans are more likely to receive the death penalty than whites.” 

“Push, Grace,” Eletha says. “Okay, okay,” I say. I force my way past the man in front of me, but find myself face-to-face with Mr. Gilpin, who’s standing in my path. Even in the midst of the hubbub, his face relaxes into a smile. “Hello there, my friend,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the din. “Is this pretty lady a friend of yours?” A tall black man in an X baseball cap chants over his shoulder, and behind him is the TV reporter and the black councilman. Gilpin acts like none of this is happening, as if it’s a squabble over a suburban fence, not an incipient race war. “Mr. Gilpin, this is Eletha Staples,” I say. Eletha extends a hand reluctantly. “Hello, Mr. Gilpin.” “Call me Bill, Eletha. You girls goin’ out to lunch?” 

“No justice, no peace!” booms a clear voice behind him, and the crowd begins to shove me aside. “We’d better go, we’re blocking the way,” I say. I edge forward, but Eletha gets jammed between one of the Hightower supporters and a TV technician. Gilpin grabs her arm and pulls her lightly to her feet. “Are you all right?” he says. “Get me out of here, please. I hate crowds.” She places a hand to her chest and starts breathing in and out. I’m worried she’s going to hyperventilate and Gilpin must see it too, because in one swift movement he scoops us up by the elbows and drives through the mob. He deposits us at the curb and brushes back a pomaded hank of hair. “I played football in high school,” he says. Eletha tugs a handkerchief from the sleeve of her sweater and dabs at her forehead. “Thanks a lot.” Gilpin’s eyes skim the crowd unhappily. “We started this, I know. But it’ll be over soon.” 

Which is when it occurs to me. The politics of the new Hightower panel is all over the newspapers; Galanter and Foudy aren’t closet conservatives. Gilpin must realize that Hightower’s going to lose, and he’s about to see his daughters’ murder avenged. I wonder if Gilpin is happy that Armen was killed. Suddenly I like him less. “We’d better be going,” I say. He nods. “Sure enough.” “Thanks again,” Eletha says, recovering. We cross Market Street and the chanting trails off into the noontime traffic, making me suddenly aware of Eletha’s stone silence. She chugs along the sidewalk like a locomotive and I tense up, feeling like a curtain has fallen between us: white on one side, black on the other. We come to the corner of Sixth and Chestnut and she squints up at the light. 

An executive takes a second look at her, then stares right at my breasts. 

My tension, pent up, bubbles over. “They’re a B-cup, okay?” I spit at him. “Any other questions?” The man hurries past us, and Eletha bursts into startled laughter. “I can’t believe you said that!” she says. “Neither can I. It felt great. Absolutely great.” I laugh, suddenly lighthearted. “I’ve been wanting to do that all my life.” “So have I.” I meet her eye. “Are you mad at me, girlfriend?” She shakes her head, still smiling. “I’m getting over it.” The traffic light turns green and we cross Chestnut. “It’s not my fault I’m white.” She laughs again. “It’s not that. It’s that I can’t believe you’re messin’ with Gilpin. You know better than that.” “I’m not messin’ with him. He talked to me the first day.” “You shoulda walked away.” “I couldn’t walk away, he’s a person.” 

She holds up a hand. “I don’t want to know he’s a person, and I don’t want to know Hightower’s a person. These are names on a caption, not people. If you start thinkin’ they’re people, you won’t be able to do your job. Look what happened to Armen.” “What?” We stop in front of Meyer’s Deli, the only place she’ll eat; Eletha’s not Jewish, but she practically keeps kosher. “What do you mean by that, about Armen?” She looks warily at the lunchtime crowd. “Let’s talk inside, okay?” We head into the noisy deli, with its old-time octagonal tile floor and embossed tin roof. Meyer’s is always mobbed, but the line moves quickly because everybody inhales their food; the clientele consists almost exclusively of hyperactive trial lawyers. The hostess accosts us at the door and hustles us to an orange plastic booth against the wall. Our waitress, Marlene, appears at our table from nowhere. “You havin’ the tuna fish?” she says to me, already writing down #12 on her pad. “Only if you call me ‘honey,’” I tell her. “I want someone to call me ‘honey,’ and not just for my body.” Eletha smiles. “Do what she says, Mar. She just attacked a man on the street.” “Okay, honey,” Marlene says mirthlessly. She tears off the check and puts it face down, like we’re at the Ritz-Carlton. “You havin’ the whitefish on bagel, Eletha?” she says, scribbling on the order pad. “Yes,” Eletha says. “What’s goin’ on at the courthouse, girls?” Marlene says. She rips Eletha’s check off the pad and slaps it face down on the table. 

“They gonna kill that kid?” Jesus. “We have no comment,” I say. Marlene scowls as she slips the ballpoint into her apron pocket. “I’m sick of the whole thing anyway,” she says and vanishes. Eletha leans forward. “So. I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said, about Armen. About him being murdered.” “What?” “Just accept that he’s gone, Grace. That’s hard enough. Anything else is a waste of time.” “I don’t understand. You don’t think he was murdered?” “I’m not so sure.” Now I really don’t understand. “Since when? That’s not what you said yesterday.” “I know what I said. But last night I tried to quit school, and they told me Armen paid already, in advance.” “What are you talking about? You go to school?” “Night school, at the community college. I got two more years left, and I’ve had it up to here.” She draws a line across her throat. Marlene materializes with our food. “Enjoy,” she barks and takes off again. “Eletha, I didn’t know you went to school.” “I thought Armen might’ve told you.” She picks up a bagel half and spackles it with whitefish salad. “He didn’t, but why didn’t you?” 

“It’s a secret.” She bites into her sandwich, but I’m still too surprised to start mine. “In case I flunk out.” “You won’t flunk out.” “You never know. The whole damn thing was Armen’s idea. Now he’s gone.” “But I think it’s wonderful, Eletha.” “You don’t have to do it, girl. Three nights a week I get home at eleven o’clock. I gotta take two buses, then transfer to the subway. Malcolm’s in bed, I don’t even get to see him. If I’m lucky, I got an hour left to fight with Leon. I figured if I got an associate’s degree, maybe I could transfer the credits and go on to college, then who knows.” “Maybe to law school?” She smiles. “Maybe.” “That sounds great. I think it’s great.” She puts down her sandwich. “Nah, it was a pipe dream. The only reason I didn’t quit was Armen. He’d have been on my case forever, like he was till I quit smoking. That man was too much. He paid my tuition for me, clear through to graduation.” “But why does he pay it at all, if I can ask?” “I couldn’t afford to, so we had an agreement. He lent me the money and I paid him back in installments. When they told me it was all paid off, I started thinkin’. Maybe it was a suicide. Maybe he was fixing it so I couldn’t quit after he was gone.” It can’t be. “Maybe he just wanted you not to worry about it.” She shakes her head. “I feel like quitting anyway.” “Don’t. He wouldn’t want you to.” “I know that.” She bites into her sandwich. “El, can I ask you a question?” She nods, her mouth full. “How much money are we talking about for your tuition?” “Couple thousand a semester.” “Where would Armen get that kind of money?” “He makes a fine livin’, hundred thirty thousand a year, and he saved like a fiend. He never spent a dime, that man.” It doesn’t make sense. Why would Armen save if he had over half a million dollars? “He was a saver?” “Always. But he was cheap, they all are.” “Who’s they? Judges?” “Armenians. You should see, when they’d have a dinner, I’d be countin’ dimes on my desk. Who had the iced tea, who had the wine. I’m serious.” “That’s racist, El.” “I know. But it’s true.” She laughs. “Did his family have money?” “No. Susan’s did, but he didn’t.” “So how much did he have saved, do you think?” “Maybe fifty–sixty thousand. He told me not to worry about it, he’d take care of Malcolm’s college. I worried plenty, but I don’t make enough to save shit. Why?” I look down at a half-eaten pickle. “Just curious.” 

We split up after lunch because Eletha has to run an errand; she promises me she’ll take the back entrance into the building, because there’s no demonstration there. As I reach the courthouse, I consider doing the same myself. The mob has grown. People spill out past the curb and into the street, filling the gaps between the TV vans and squad cars. The police ring the crowd, trying vainly to keep it out of Market Street. I cross against the traffic light, which turns out to be advisory anyway. A gaper block stalls traffic up and down the street. As I get closer to the courthouse, I see that something seems to be happening. The chanting stops suddenly; the crowd noise surges. Reporters and TV cameras rush to the door. I pick up my pace. It looks like breaking news, maybe the panel decision. My pulse quickens as I reach the edge of the crowd. I look for the hot orange cones that mark the walkway into the courthouse, but they’ve been scattered. “What’s going on?” I say, but am shoved into a woman in front of me. I turn around to see who’s pushing. A cameraman stands there, and a lawyer with a trial bag. “Sorry,” says the lawyer, sweating profusely behind horn-rimmed glasses. “It’s this person behind me.” “No!” someone screams at the head of the crowd, and then there’s more shouting and pushing. The mob’s moving out of control. I feel a sharp elbow in my back. It knocks me off balance. “There’s a decision!” someone shouts up front; then there’s more yelling, even screaming. I feel panic rising in my throat as the crowd swells toward the door, carrying me with it, almost off my feet. Suddenly there’s a painful whack at the back of my head. I feel faint, dizzy. Everything gets fuzzy. My arms flutter, groping for anything to stay upright. Gunshots ring out like distant firecrackers, and there’s screaming and shouting, also far away. Strong hands catch me from behind. Someone says in my ear, “This is a warning. Let the judge rest in peace.” The words and the pain melt together. And then slip beyond me. 

~~~

One will go to Harvard; the other will be put to death. No justice, no peace.

It reminds me of Armen, and our talk that night, over Hightower. Law and morality. You can’t separate them, why would you want to? Then I think of his broad back slumped over his desk. Armen was murdered, and murder is wrong. Illegal and immoral. Nothing I’ve learned tonight changes that, and I’m still the only one who has a chance of getting to Galanter. I rise, unsteadily. “Maybe I’m not out, Rain Man.”

If you have questions of exactly how and why we've begun to be greatly concerned about Justice in America, this is an excellent book from which you can learn about the inside of the system... We've seen the introduction of bias against non-white citizens and, the implementation of DEI, the override of established laws by The Supreme Court, in this case, resulting in the death of one judge and subsequent criminal actions which were discovered...by those in the legal staff... Yes, this is fiction, but there was too much that ran parallel to things happening today. By the way, the Judge's wife was a Senator and they were heading for divorce, but she asked that the judge stay with her until "after the election..." Manipulation, seeking personal power, and yet, learning of how it is the single individuals who work to investigation who in the end do...find...justice...

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Sometimes free will is not freeing. “I just don’t know. Whatever you think, Miss Rossi."

--Secretary to Conservative Judge