I had a wonderful conversation today with a dear colleague from my time at the Veterans Health Administration. Like me, they are passionate about serving Veterans while also longing to find fulfillment in their many professional interests: clinical research, mentoring, leadership, and, ultimately, the freedom to be fully creative in their work.

This is the lament of many wage laborers. Our desire for creativity, variety, and self-expression at work—where we spend so many of our waking hours—often collides with an employer’s desire to control our activities and output.

(Years ago, when I was a church administrator, the pastor of a large church asked whether I had a “good job description” for a church secretary. In his frustration, he confided, “It seems like every secretary I hire wants to be a prophet more than a secretary.” I wish I had remembered Moses’s wonderful response in Numbers 11:29: “Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets.”)

Since retiring last year, I have been searching for a new balance after more than forty-five years of wage labor. Retirement can feel strangely difficult, even when it is precisely what so many of us spend years hoping for. On paper, it looks simple: the job ends, the schedule loosens, and freedom begins.

In practice, however, freedom is not always experienced as relief. Sometimes it arrives as a quiet form of anxiety. Without the structure of wage labor, a person may begin to wonder not only what to do with the day, but who they are now that the day no longer belongs to “the man.”

That tension has become easier for me to understand as I have reflected on the lives and ideas of Leonardo da Vinci and Karl Marx. At first glance, they may seem like strange bedfellows. Da Vinci represents creative freedom, curiosity, and the ability to follow an idea wherever it leads. Marx, by contrast, offers a sharp critique of labor under capitalism, particularly the way work becomes controlled by others, stripped of autonomy, and separated from the worker’s deeper humanity.

Together, however, they help me understand something important about retirement: leaving wage labor does not automatically restore a sense of purpose, even when it removes the boss, the deadline, and the time clock.

Da Vinci is often remembered as a person who could not be confined by ordinary expectations. He was an artist, inventor, anatomist, observer, and experimenter all at once. His genius was not merely technical skill, but the freedom to explore. He could move from painting to anatomy to engineering without needing an employer’s permission to become more than one thing.

That is part of what makes him so compelling. In the popular imagination, he represents a form of work that is self-directed, deeply curious, and inseparable from the person performing it. This stands in sharp contrast to the narrow roles many workers are expected to occupy for decades.

Marx helps sharpen that contrast. In his critique of wage labor, he argues that workers become alienated from the products they create, from the process of labor, from one another, and even from themselves. Work becomes something performed for purposes determined by someone else. The employer controls the conditions, the schedule, and the value that is produced. The worker may receive a wage, but the work itself does not truly belong to them.

This is not merely an economic complaint. It is a profoundly human one. Marx’s argument is that when labor is controlled from the outside, it becomes disconnected from genuine human development. In its most oppressive form, wage labor begins to resemble wage slavery.

This is where retirement becomes psychologically complicated. If your working life has been shaped by decades of answering to someone else’s timeline, freedom can feel unfamiliar. You may finally possess your own time, yet time without an assignment can feel empty. You may no longer be producing for an employer, but the habits formed under employment remain.

For many retirees, the deepest struggle is neither financial nor logistical. It is existential. The question becomes: If I am no longer needed in the old way, what now gives my days value?

This is where da Vinci and Marx meet in a surprisingly useful way. Da Vinci offers an image of labor as self-expression, curiosity, and intrinsic motivation—work that does not necessarily conform to a schedule. Marx offers a critique of the economic system that prevents so many ordinary people from experiencing labor in this way.

Retirement occupies the space between these two ideas. It removes the wage relationship, but it does not automatically replace alienated labor with meaningful freedom. A retired person may finally stand outside the employer-employee structure and yet remain haunted by the need to justify every hour through visible productivity.

I suspect this is why so many recently retired people, myself included, feel guilty when we are not “doing enough.” We have been trained by decades of wage labor to treat usefulness as the measure of worth.

Retirement asks us to adopt a different standard. It asks us to value reflection, learning, friendship, beauty, rest, and self-chosen activity. It invites us to recover something closer to da Vinci’s spirit: work driven by curiosity rather than compulsion.

That is not always easy. In fact, it can be profoundly unsettling. Yet this may be the true task of retirement—and, ultimately, one of the great tasks of humanity.

I therefore do not see retirement simply as an ending. I see it as a test. Can I move from labor as obligation to life as chosen activity? Can I escape the old logic that equates productivity with value?

Da Vinci suggests that creativity flourishes when the mind is free to roam. Marx reminds me that freedom in work should not be a privilege reserved for a fortunate few. It is something meant for all of us, not merely something we are permitted to experience after retirement.

My dearly departed friend Ed Cloonan, who remains for me a model of a Catholic communist, often reminded me that this degree of freedom would require a revolution—not merely a political, economic, or social revolution, but a cultural one. It would require us to recover a truly human understanding of work.

We should neither live to work nor merely work to live.

We should live and work in freedom.

References:
Gelb, Michael J. How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci: Seven Steps to Genius Every Day. New York: Bantam, 1998.

Marx, Karl. “Estranged Labour.” In Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844.

God looks over the ditches and the killing fields

God looks over the prisons and the internment camps

And all the domains dominated by iron bars

God transmutes to a fire in the wind

Speaking words of retribution to the prophets who can hear

And in his boiling anger, filled to the brim with righteous anger

He darkens on his throne, as the angels filled with dread and impatience

The whole heavenly host, assembled in trembling, awaiting the pronouncement

And in thunderous tones like unto the quaking earth

The expected words rushed out:

I pronounce judgement on this earth of injustice

I sweep my wide-ranging anger towards all arrangements

That rob the widow and impoverish the orphan

And refuse to give succor to the sojourner

And eat up, unjustly the production of the people

Therefore, my rage, shall build up in dripping infusions

That will condense and burn, and in volcanic pourings

Shall scald this world of malicious mockers

But if justice shall return to this cursed earth

I shall stay my hand for a looming season

The angels stayed silent

And a filter of screaming words bonded to the heavenly air

This is the Pedagogy of the Oppressed

The sore feet of the wanderer with nowhere to hang his head

This is the Pedagogy of the Oppressed

The peasant with their hoes and spades, under the overseers hanging whip

This is the Pedagogy of the Oppressed

Those trapped within running gutters clawing desperately at the sunlight

This is the Pedagogy of the Oppressed

And the completion of this process the meek shall claim the earth.

[This post was contributed by Darius Branche, a PhD student of Philosophy, from Pittsburgh, PA. The poem was presented at a Queer Culture event in Mt. Oliver, PA.]

This past weekend, I had the opportunity to attend an excellent day-long retreat called “Political Holiness,” which was hosted by the Association of Pittsburgh Priests. I learned a great deal about the intersection of spiritual mysticism and political involvement—a subject some might say is a contradiction or that the mixing of religion and politics is a serious taboo.

For me, I struggle with striking a balance between my organizing for justice and my devotion to God. Like so many other Westerners, I was raised in a dualistic culture, which views the world as either/or more so than both/and. Nevertheless, I do read in scripture two stories always at work, one spiritual and the other material, or one religious and the other socio-political. Still, I remain concerned that there is a great potential for contradiction and conflation when trying to reconcile religious devotion and political involvement. Specifically, I am talking about the problem of power. As, the old adage goes, ‘power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts, absolutely.’ What then is the key to successfully navigating being both pious and committed to social justice?

The most transformative takeaway came from Rev. Art McDonald, our retreat leader, when he emphasized these poignant words: “Humility is telling the truth about ourselves.”

I found this insight especially important because those words shift humility from an internal disposition to an embodied way of life. It moves humility out of abstraction and into the concrete work of justice. As I searched for similar expressions of this idea, I came across a parallel from Bishop Fulton Sheen, who said, “Humility is living according to the truth of oneself.” Again, humility is presented not as passive awareness, but as an active disposition—one that calls us into alignment between who we are and how we live.

I learned that throughout religious history, mysticism has taken at least two forms: an inward, contemplative path (sometimes called negation mysticism), and an outward, socially engaged path (or affirmation mysticism). Charles Péguy, the well-regarded French Catholic, argued that all powerful movements for justice starts in mysticism, writing, “Everything begins in mysticism and ends in politics” (1910). Likewise, figures such as Óscar Romero recognized the false dualism between contemplation and action. Romero’s deep faith led him into courageous political witness—ultimately costing him his life as a martyr. About his ongoing conversion he wrote, “Religion, when held with deep conviction, leads to political involvement.”

So, the problem of power can be resolved by adopting a stance of humility—not a self-deprecating posture, but what Bill W. once called “stark raving honesty.” The problem of power was again addressed by the important words from Howard Thurman’s Jesus and the Disinherited. Paraphrased, Thurman said, “Do not condemn in society what you are unwilling to confront in yourself.”

Thus, when we walk out of our front doors empowered by our authentic humility, we can effectively engage the forces of darkness as spiritual leaders. This is where political holiness begins—not in grand gestures or retreat from the world, but in honest self-examination that leads to faithful action.

Prayer

I believe we are invited into this deeper practice of humility and political holiness. So, let us commit to telling the truth about ourselves—individually and collectively—and allowing that truth to shape how we engage the world. Before we speak against injustice “out there,” may we first examine where those same patterns live within us. And from that place of honesty, may we act with courage, compassion, and integrity—for the sake of God’s Kingdom, on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.

One of my neighbors is a really nice retired fellow. His wife is a dear woman. Every Christmas they bring us—and several other neighbors—one of their famous nut rolls. If I ever need a tool, a stick of butter, or a hand with a project, he is always there. We’ve sat on their porch sharing iced tea on those humid Pittsburgh summer days. They aren’t churchgoers, but they certainly exhibit admirable moral beliefs and practices.

On the front of their porch’s balustrade, my neighbor has displayed an outdoor banner that reads:

“I am a hard-working, hard-livin’, politically incorrect straight shooter who loves his country, God, and guns. I stand for the flag and kneel for the cross.”

A large “Make America Great Again” banner hangs on the side of his house, and on a post by the porch waves a flag that says, “Put God First!”

His banners force a question I can’t shake:

How does the man who brings us nut rolls reconcile the Jesus he kneels to with the political leader he champions?

I guess my neighbor and I have very different political views, and in this highly polarized society some might reckon that we should be enemies. But that’s not the way I see them—or the way they see me.

Still, I am utterly confused how someone who claims to kneel at the feet of Jesus could support a president found liable for sexual abuse and battery, convicted on 34 felony counts of falsifying business records, who is a serial liar, and who is now conducting deadly, and likely illegal, certainly immoral, military actions around the world—something he said he would never do.

I won’t repeat the justifications I’ve heard from self-avowed Christians for supporting Trump and his policies, because none of them stem from a clear understanding of the good and just nature of the God I believe in. Suffice it to say, their retorts are, at best, poor rationalizations or demagogic diatribes against some scapegoat group. (I was taught in both Protestant and Catholic schools that Jesus was meant to be the final scapegoat.)

But my most serious concern is something I want to drill down on.

During Zohran Mamdani’s campaign for mayor of New York City, Donald Trump—true to form—repeatedly called him a radical communist: “100% lunatic communist.” Immediately after the election, Mamdani visited Trump at the White House, where Trump suddenly changed his tune, calling Mamdani a “very rational person” who “wants to make New York great again.”

A reporter then asked Mamdani whether he still believed Trump was a fascist. Mamdani began to respond, but Trump jumped in and said, “That’s OK, you can just say yes. It’s easier than explaining it. I don’t mind.”

(Mamdani has previously described Trump as a despot with a fascist agenda.)

To that, Trump replied, “I have been called much worse.”

Really? What is worst than being a fascist?

Is this all just political rhetoric, or is there truth beneath the labels? Is Mamdani actually a communist and Trump a fascist?

My understanding is that Mamdani may be a socialist, but I’m not convinced he’s a communist—certainly not a revolutionary socialist seeking to overthrow the capitalist system. Asked directly, Mamdani responded clearly: “No, I’m a democratic socialist.”

As for Trump being a fascist, we have his own words. Many others—friends and foes alike—have used that term to describe him. Even Trump’s former chief of staff, a retired four-star general, has said he meets the definition of a fascist and is someone “who prefers the dictator approach to government.”

Still, whether Trump perfectly fits the academic definition of fascism is almost beside the point.

The more pressing question—the one that keeps me up at night—is why so many of my fellow Christians seem unfazed by the comparison: by the fascist aesthetic of the strongman, the disdain for democratic norms, the vilification of “the other.”

So this brief reflection is not a proof text arguing that Trump is a fascist. Rather, it is a historical reflection on how many normal, nice, friendly people—like my neighbor, who self-identifies as Christian—have supported fascism.

It may come as a surprise that millions of Christians supported the fascist unholy trinity of Franco, Mussolini, and Hitler in their respective countries. The Catholic Church, like so many other powerful institutions, largely stood by during the rise of fascism, even as its consequences became clear.

At the same time, some of the fiercest anti-fascists in history claimed their Christian faith as the driving force behind resisting this insidious movement. Even the pacifist Dietrich Bonhoeffer, after deep reflection, concluded that attempting to assassinate Hitler was the only moral choice. For his role in a plot with two of Hitler’s generals, Bonhoeffer was executed just days before Allied forces liberated the concentration camp where he was imprisoned.

And while faith motivated Bonhoeffer, it was communists and socialists who were often the first to take to the streets against the Nazis.

Today, espousing fascism is illegal in Spain, Italy, and Germany.

Yet here we are once again watching seemingly educated, rational people—many of whom claim to be Christian—appearing to accept it.

Don’t believe me?

Recent polling shows that 87% of Democrats label Trump a fascist, compared to 46% of independents and 12% of Republicans. Overall, half of American voters believe Trump is a fascist, while 80% have a negative view of fascism.

Maybe you can understand my confusion.

In the last reportedly free and fair elections in Germany (1932) before WWII, Hitler received 33.7% of the vote. Many conservatives believed he would be good for the country—or that they could control him.

One leading politician, helping secure Hitler’s appointment as chancellor, reassured his worried colleagues: “We’ve hired him… in two months we will have pushed him so far into a corner that he’ll squeak.”

Months later, Hitler and the Nazi Party seized total power.

Hitler’s rise was ignored—or even celebrated—by many Western leaders, even as they understood the risks he posed. Franco, Mussolini, and Hitler were admired by politicians across the world. Perhaps, like Trump, they envied the power such men wielded.

Sadly, even after the history taught in U.S. schools, and portrayed in movies, art, and theater, about the horrors of fascism, many Christians, including some of my neighbors, support a leader who doesn’t seem to mind—and may even relish—being compared to the notorious fascists of our recent past.

Seizing on this strange opportunity, Trump declared Antifa—short for anti-fascists—to be the first-ever domestic terrorist organization (even though he knows there is no centralized group by that name).

So my confusion deepens.

If 80% of Americans have a negative view of fascism, could it be that the remaining 20%—the 54 million adults supporting a self-avowed admirer of dictators—include my neighbors?

Which is it?

Can you be a Christian and support fascism?

Thankfully, since World War Two you would be hard-pressed to find any respectable Christian leader openly defending fascism as an ethical political stance. The renowned personalist philosopher and priest Jacques Mauritain argued that fascism and Christian faith are utterly incompatible.

Mauritain contended that fascism attempts to replace religion with politics, demands complete loyalty to the leader, and uses symbols of devotion that treat the nation—and its ruler—as sacred.

Sound familiar?

Fundamentally, fascism is a heinous and violent form of idolatry.

I’ll leave you with one final thought.

There is only one political philosophy that has maintained a consistent and principled stance against fascism:

Revolutionary socialism. Communists.

So now the question arises: If you clearly can’t be a Christian and a fascist, can one be a Christian and a revolutionary socialist?

My answer?

I hope so—for the sake of Christ and humankind.

When I was five years old, I remember my twin brother, Pete, and I hanging out on our stoop at 1132 Ward Avenue in the Soundview section of the Bronx. It was one of those hot, humid New York City summer days. One of the neighborhood boys visited our stoop and showed us that he had a firecracker left over from the Fourth of July. We told him to set it off on the sidewalk, but he decided to stick the firecracker in some freshly laid dog shit near a tree in front of our stoop.

Our young friend lit the firecracker and we all ran away as fast as we could. But it didn’t go off. So, we all went towards the pile to investigate. When we had put our faces close the firecracker, it suddenly went off and dog shit was all over our faces. Pete and I ran up to our third story apartment, screaming for our mother, who when she saw us started yelling and cursing at us in Spanish. We were already pretty embarrassed, but now we were really scared, because we were sure to get the belt for this. But then something completely different happened. My mother started to laugh hysterically, and so did we!

I have so many precious memories of sitting and playing on the stoop – especially during the hot summers, because no one had air conditioning.

You know, air conditioning isn’t really all that it’s cracked up to be. I think they should rename air conditioners Relationship Minimizing Cooling Mechanisms. Far too many people today who live in air-conditioned homes, including myself, live out their mode of hot weather existence by going from the perceived comfort of their faux cooled homes into their Freon chilled automobiles in order to get to some other climate controlled indoor man-made place of economic mass consumption.

Yet, for the multitudes of New Yorkers in the not so distant past, air conditioning was a luxury which only the very wealthy could afford. The rest of us sat on stoops. And not just when it was hot. We sat there as long as it wasn’t absolutely freezing. The stoop was the inner-city playground of both adults and children in my place in the Bronx. It was from there you picked your teams for stick ball on car lined streets or to dry off after splashing in the spewing water of an open fire hydrant. It was where you would take your seat in the community. The stoop is where you get to sit down and enjoy Sabbath rest. The stoop was where real life and relationships happened.

Mario Maffi said, “In the ghetto neighborhoods [of New York City] especially, stoops served many different functions…. These elevated platforms were ideal for observation, courting, a chat, or gossip....” (2004:8). Stoops were the center of life, of relational life, of what Jesus called zoe, or spiritual life. The stoops were the relational circuits where we visited each other in our neighborhoods.

Several years ago, I took my family from Pittsburgh, where we live now, back to the South Bronx. I wanted to take a picture of us all sitting on my old stoop. I told my children many stories of my childhood, including how when I went trick or treating, I had to catch candy in my bag that was thrown from apartment windows five, sometimes ten stories up. I told them the old Puerto Rican wives’ tale that when it rained and it was sunny out, witches were attending a wedding. Don’t ask. I have no idea. I told them how excited I was about the ghost the whole community came out to fight one summer’s evening; how I cried when a little baby died in a fire in the corner apartment building; how happy I was to find a quarter in front of the stoop, and I how I used it to buy a Matchbox™ car at the corner Bodega. I remember the fun Pete and I had racing up and down the block as my dad timed us from the stoop. I recalled with great fondness the loudness of it all, of having to scream for my mother to give me permission to cross the street. She would yell from the window, overlooking the stoop, when it was safe.

And then I told my family about the myriad uncles, aunts, and cousins on the block, each with their own stoops, stoops to visit, stoops to be with others. I remember Uncle Dario who couldn’t hear too well, Uncle George with his huge Afro, Titi Nilda, Titi Lucy, Titi Martha, and Blanca and Carmen. They either lived on the block or they were somehow always there, and, of course, every other adult on the block was my “uncle” or “aunt.” Who really was your uncle or aunt or cousin back then was a complete mystery? Anyone allowed to spank you was somehow related to you; and there was a lot of spanking going on. I wasn’t told until I was in my twenties that my Titi Livia and my Uncle Dario were unrelated to me. But we were related — much in the same way I am related to Jesus.

Because the stoop is where Jesus is. Always, Jesus is waiting there to be with us, to visit with us, to commune with us, to abide in us, to be with us. “Then God came out from heaven, became a human being in Jesus, and Jesus moved into El Barrio to hang out on the stoop with us” (see Jn 1:14). The stoop is a sacred space; it is holy ground; it is an altar in the ‘hood. It is where heaven and earth intersect, where “Love and truth will meet; justice and peace will kiss” (Ps 85:11, NABRE).

The dictionary definition of stoop is primarily a verb. It means to “come down from a height; to abase; to humble; to submit.” To be on the stoop is to stoop. God comes to my stoop as the One who is grounded in my reality, as the One who wants to display the truest way of life in humility. God submits God-self to me, God’s creature, in order that I might be One with God and all creation. To be on the stoop is to be real, to manifest my truest self to God and my fellow creature. When I visit others on the stoop, I am called to remove my masks, to reveal my vulnerable, interdependent, and authentic self to the other.

On the stoop Jesus, the real God, comes to visit with His real people. In the Canticle of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist praises God for the soon coming of Jesus the Messiah saying, “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, for he has visited and brought redemption to his people. Because of the tender mercy of our God by which the daybreak from on high will visit us to shine on those who sit in darkness and death’s shadow, to guide our feet into the path of peace” (Lk 1:68, 78-79, NABRE). What great news! Emmanuel! God with us on the stoop!

Yet after visiting my old stoop, waves of sadness came over me. I realized that I can’t seem to really find my way back to the stoop. I cannot find my way back to deep community. I have chosen separation and loneliness apart from God and neighbor. It’s not that I want to be lonely; I desperately want deep communion with God and others. But I have bought into the lie of the capitalist-consumer society, and that the pain of my loneliness and separation is more bearable than the effort it would take to be restored to blessed community. Thus, I really haven’t felt it necessary or even prudent to go back to try and restore myself to the stoop of Christ. I have an idolatrous desire to be air conditioned, away from God and others, superficially dabbling in spirituality, playing roles instead of living out of my brokenness. I have deceived myself anew.

So, I no longer need to visit the stoop of my nostalgic past, but I have discovered I need to be restored to the stoop of my eternal now.

Today, I define my being lost as not knowing where my true stoop is – to being out of deep, growing relationships with God and others. To be lost and alone is what it might mean to sit in darkness and death’s shadow. The Israelites said, when you were lost and alone, you were outside the camp. Bronxites would say you were missing from the stoop. Jesus might lament saying, “you did not recognize the time of your visitation” (Lk 19:44b, NABRE).

My heart’s desire is that I would be restored and gathered to my stoop, enjoying shalom and Shabbat with God, my family, my neighbor, being found and in community where there is neither black nor white, male nor female, gay nor straight, religious nor atheist, but all are one with and in Christ, visiting, sitting, and abiding on the stoop together with Christ on earth as it is heaven.

Next week, I begin a new journey.

As you may know, I recently entered retirement. One of the most important lessons I’ve learned about this phase of life is the necessity of continual learning. So, next week, I’ll embark on a one-year Data Science program at Eastern University.

During my time as a National Program Manager at the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), I saw firsthand the critical need for data collection and analysis. I wanted to understand how our chaplain clinicians were performing in the field—measuring the effectiveness of spiritual care interventions, patient-centered outcomes, and overall client satisfaction. But I lacked the data and the skills to obtain and analyze it. My concern wasn’t about productivity and efficiency (the usual managerial obsessions); I wanted to tell a more compelling story about all the good VA chaplains were doing and to find ways to increase the quality of spiritual care. I want to use data for good.

Data itself isn’t new; nor is it inherently bad. Once humans learned to count, we began gathering and analyzing data. Data can serve socially redeeming purposes, from weather prediction and medical advancements, to exposing injustices and preventing misuse. Like any tool, its morality depends on who wields it and why.

Yet, as I step into this field, my spiritual and ethical instincts are on high alert. Too often, data is weaponized for exploitation: maximizing efficiency, boosting productivity, increasing profits, and, as we have all heard recently, ultimately replacing human workers with AI.

I don’t remember who said it, and I probably don’t have it exactly, but it is still powerfully true: Efficiency is a tool of the oppressor and productivity an instrument of the abuser. Capitalists are using data to create new, deceptive sales tactics that will increase profit—enriching corporations and individual billionaires while leaving everyday people impoverished. And AI? It’s really just a humongous database using algorithms designed to transform us from feudal consumers into enslaved subscribers, chained to monopolized content providers.

This exploitative use of data has a name: datafication.

Datafication is the modern phenomenon of quantifying human life through digital information, extracting value from every click, like, and search (Mejias & Couldry, 2019). We live in an era where all aspects of our qualitative lives are being datafied—turned into analyzable behavior patterns. Unlike mined resources (copper, gold), data is manufactured, extracted from the “ground” of social life (Mejias & Couldry, 2019).

Data is the new capital.

Just as finance capital superseded industrial capital, Big Data has become the latest desire of the bourgeoise. Corporations are investing hundreds of billions in data centers, hoarding information extracted from people—often without their knowledge or consent. The billionaire class profits from our data, then sells it back to us through digital subscriptions and essential products.

The so-called End User Licensing Agreements (EULAs) we “agree” to are one-sided contracts that grant corporations permission to exploit us. As Sadowski (2019) notes, these agreements are “non-negotiated and non-negotiable.” They enable modern robber barons to profile individuals, optimize exploitative systems, and create new digital commodities for mass consumption.

Datafication, as Kennedy (2018) warns, “reproduces old inequalities and creates new ones.” The divide between the data owners and the data “workers” (you and I), will fuel a new class war. Worse yet, datafication dehumanizes—reducing people to predictable patterns, eroding autonomy, and conditioning us to define ourselves by external metrics.

But there’s hope.

I’m reminded of Joseph, sold into slavery by his jealous brothers, only to become their rescuer. “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good” (Genesis 50:20). My prayer is that as we learn to use data for good and expose the "data-devils," we can resist and overthrow those trying to harm us through datafication.

References

Kennedy, H. (2018) Living with Data: Aligning Data Studies and Data Activism Through a Focus on Everyday Experiences of Datafication. Krisis: Journal for Contemporary Philosophy, 2018 (1). pp. 18-30. ISSN 0168-275X

Mejias, U. A. & Couldry, N. (2019). Datafication. Internet Policy Review, 8(4). DOI: 10.14763/2019.4.1428

Sadowski, J. (2019). When data is capital: Datafication, accumulation, and extraction. Big Data & Society, 6(1). https://doi.org/10.1177/2053951718820549 (Original work published 2019)

I sit down at a high table,

next to the windows, dressed in my church

clothes, and wait for the interview to 

join me.

The pastor’s daughter at church camp said

this was the only place you could 

get a job at fifteen, so here

I am. 

A lady walks over—average height, older,

with short blonde hair—she looks like

her name could be Karen.

She’s lost my application—the manager I 

turned it into has

left for the day, so she makes

me fill out a new one.

I attempt to act in the way

my mother had instructed me—

this is my first interview,

I am nervous.

“Remember to smile, and speak confidently,”

she’d told me,

her voice calm but firm,

as she adjusted the collar of my shirt.

I sit across from the lady,

my hands folded in my lap,

as she asks about my experience,

my weaknesses, and my strengths.

“Why do you want this job?”

I try to speak clearly,

but my voice shakes a little.

I wonder if she can tell.

At the end, the lady says she doesn’t 

want to hire me—I don’t smile

much—but she hired me anyway,

warning I won’t last long.

Four years later, I’m wishing she had

been right.

I’m behind the register, fumbling with change,

dropping coins that scatter on the floor.

A line of customers grows,

their eyes heavy with impatience.

“Next time, get it together,”

my manager whispers sharply as she passes by.

I wipe my hands on my apron,

take a deep breath, and force a smile.

But it’s thin, brittle—

like the walls I’ve built to stay here too long. 

(This is a selection from Jed Kudrick’s first book Going 70 in a 45. You can purchase it here for just $5.00:

https://www.amazon.com/Going-70-45-Jed-Kudrick/dp/B0F464N9LC)

I am a Christian; I am also a Socialist.

For some progressives, this statement may seem unremarkable. But for most Americans—especially Christians—it is not just naïve; it is heresy. If we take Pope Pius XI at his word, the incompatibility is absolute:

"Religious socialism, Christian socialism, are contradictory terms; no one can be at the same time a good Catholic and a true socialist." 1

One could argue that Pius XI’s condemnation was less about theology and more about power. The Great Depression had radicalized millions, and socialism—especially in its Bolshevik form—threatened the Church’s institutional authority. Perhaps the Pope conflated all socialism with state atheism or totalitarianism. Yet his broader claim is sweeping: socialism, in any form, “wanders far from the precepts of the Gospel.”2

This raises the critical question: What Gospel (aka Good News) precepts, exactly, does socialism violate: Love of neighbor, damnation of rich elites, forgiveness of debts, or putting others before oneself? Pius XI’s omission is glaring—and telling. If the Church cannot articulate, without self-reference, why socialism contradicts Jesus’s teachings, its opposition is less doctrinal than defensive.

Definitions Matter

Before going further, let’s define some terms—not to dodge debate, but to clarify it.

Christian:

A follower of the historical person, character, ministry, and teachings of Jesus.3

Socialism:

A system where the working class holds political power, controls production, and plans the economy to meet human and ecological needs—not corporate profits.4

At face value, these definitions don’t seem to conflict. Jesus preached radical love, solidarity with the poor, and resistance to wealth-hoarding elites (Luke 6:20-24; Mark 10:21-25). Socialism, as defined here, simply seeks to institutionalize those values.

Yet Christian Socialism has been anathema to both Catholic and Protestant authorities. In the early 20th century, as unions and socialist movements grew within churches, the Federal Council of Churches (backed by Woodrow Wilson and John D. Rockefeller) worked to vilify them. Historian Janine Giordano Drake writes:

The Federal Council diluted the power of the socialist rank and file and painted socialists as both radical and theologically heterodox. If the fundamental mission of the Socialist Party was to garner moral authority for the labor movement in service of establishing a cooperative commonwealth, the ministers of the Federal Council were their greatest opponents.5

A Suppressed History

Despite institutional hostility, Christian Socialism has deep roots. Before Marx, theologians like Thomas More (Utopia) and Gerrard Winstanley (Diggers Movement) envisioned societies built on shared wealth and Gospel ethics. In the U.S., the movement nearly went mainstream:

In 1912, the Socialist Party had 120,000 dues-paying members, 1,200 elected officials, and over 300 periodicals—including The Christian Socialist with 20,000 subscribers.6

Why was this movement crushed? Likely because it was working. When churches preach collective liberation (Luke 4:18-19) and workers organize, elites panic. The backlash isn’t theological or philosophical—it is political.

The Gospel vs. The Status Quo

Jesus’ mission statement in Luke 4—preaching good news to the poor, freeing the oppressed—aligns far better with socialism than with capitalism. And Isaiah’s vision of God’s Kingdom (Isaiah 11:7-9; 52:1-2) sounds like a classless, ecologically balanced society.

Even the Catholic Church’s stance has softened since Vatican II. While the Catechism still warns against ‘atheistic socialism,’ it condemns capitalism’s “individualism and the absolute primacy of the law of the marketplace over human labor.”7 Furthermore, Liberation theology, the Civil Rights Movement led by Dr. Martin Luther King, figures like Dorothy Day, and many others over the last sixty years have helped to make the case that socialism and faith can coexist.

The Struggle Isn’t Over

Today’s red-baiting—calling universal healthcare or labor rights “socialist”—isn’t new. It’s the same tactic used a century ago to protect wealth and power. So, let us recall the words of the Rev. George Washington Woodbey to his fellow Christians:

When you show the church member how the Bible, in every line of it, is with the poor as against their oppressors, and that it is only because we have not been following out its teaching that professed Christians have been found among the worst oppressors of the poor and that no man is entitled to be called a Christian who does not measure up to the teaching of the Bible, you have made the first step toward converting him to the idea that it cannot be done in its entirety without the collective ownership and operation of the industries.8

The task remains urgent. As Woodbey further warned:

"Socialists cannot win without reaching the millions of working people who belong to the various churches.9

Lastly, Christian Socialism isn’t a contradiction. It’s a return to the Gospel’s most dangerous idea: God’s Kingdom flips the world’s power structures upside down. Thus, the real heresy isn’t socialism—it’s siding with the oppressors.

As one of the newest members of the COMISS team, I’ve spent some time reflecting on the what and why of COMISS. While we are a multi-faith organization, I’ve noticed that Christian values and perspectives often shape how many of us understand ministry. Even the word ministry, in its vocational sense, is distinctly Christian-centric. Yet it remains a broadly translatable concept, and its continued use should not cause offense to those outside the majority religious culture.

The word ministry, as I understand it, derives from the Greek word diakonos, meaning servant. In early Christianity, a deacon was someone who ministered to both the practical and spiritual needs of individuals in the community.

Without delving too far into etymology or theology, many of you are likely familiar with the Golden Rule diagram, which demonstrates the shared ethical foundation of many religious and philosophical systems: the call to treat others with dignity and respect.

As I reflect on ministry in specialized settings, I’m struck by this near-universal principle: service to the practical and spiritual needs of others, according to their values and beliefs, may be the best expression of the Golden Rule.

So, I invite you to reflect with me on these sacred words from a few different faith traditions. Perhaps they can help us envision a new, color-full diagram—one that captures the spirit of professional spiritual care offered in a pluralistic world:

• From Judaism: “The world stands on three things: on Torah, on service to God, and on acts of loving-kindness.”
  (Pirkei Avot / Ethics of the Fathers 1:2)

• From Islam: “Worship Allah and associate nothing with Him, and to parents do good, and to relatives, orphans, the needy, the near neighbor, the neighbor farther away, the companion at your side, the traveler, and those whom your right hands possess.”
  (Quran 4:36)

• From the Bahá'í Faith: “That one indeed is a man who, today, dedicateth himself to the service of the entire human race.”
  (Bahá'u'lláh, Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá'u'lláh)

• From Buddhism: “Just as a mother would protect her only child at the risk of her own life, even so, cultivate a boundless heart toward all beings.”
  (Metta Sutta, Sutta Nipata 1.8)

• From Hinduism: “The wise see themselves in all and all in themselves.”
  (Bhagavad Gita 6:29)

• From Wicca: “Live you must and let to live, fairly take and fairly give.”
  (The Wiccan Rede)

• From Christianity: “For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for all.”
  (Mark 10:45)

As we move forward in cultivating an environment where all spiritual caregivers collaborate for the flourishing of what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. called The Beloved Community, may we each see ourselves as servants—giving our all for all.

Amen.

Am I sounding an alarm?

Am I alarming?

Am I alarmist?

Am I AI?

Is AI an existential threat?

Transhumanism.

Is AI going to take over the world?

Anachronistic question.

Safe AI?

Pause AI?

Control AI?

Stop AI?

Kurzweil, Musk, Theil, Karp, Altman, Hassabis ….

Forgive them Father, they know not what they are doing.

One of the ideas I’ve proposed in my writing over the years is that questions may be more important than answers. The reason for this stance is that knowledge is fragile. If we’re honest and introspective, we’ll conclude that we—like everyone else—hold our belief systems more emotionally than intellectually. That’s hard for many people to accept, especially those who suffer from the sin of certainty.

Nevertheless, we each have a worldview, a theory of everything, deeply embedded in our psyche. It’s inculcated both genetically and, more so, socially (nature and nurture). There’s great value in opening our worldview to scrutiny—but also psychological risk if we lose our “faith”—the foundation of our being. As I and others have said, everyone needs a meta-narrative to make sense of the world.

Developing a critical worldview paradigm—one that you are comfortable with (in your own skin) and can defend through reason and evidence—may be the most important task of personal identity discovery. Though identity formation begins early in life, those who don’t continue reforming and refining their identity through honest reflection often never break free from their parents’ or peers’ constructed identities.

Recently, at the young age of 61, I’ve come to a worldview stance that I’m comfortable with and can humbly defend, both rationally and scientifically. I’m aware that it’s still a theory, so I won’t proselytize others—even if their stances are obviously wrong 😂!

So, here it is. It’s very simple:

But don’t be deceived—this simple purpose isn’t easy to achieve. The tough part is discovering what the good truly is. Thus:

• Our mission is to articulate the good.

• And our vision is to execute it for the good of all.

What do you think about this foundational idea? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Definitions impact my work every day. As a clinical chaplain living in one of the most secular parts of the country, the way our patients define words, either explicitly or implicitly, determines the starting point for my interaction and care for them. As such, I am thankful to Dr. Paul Dordal’s invitation to write a response to his definition of spirituality and also to briefly add my own definition of “humanist spirituality.” One quick disclaimer: I am not a representative or spokesperson for humanism nor my employer, so what follows is simply one chaplain’s view of what “humanist spirituality” means.

In working towards a definition of “humanist spirituality,” I will explore each term separately starting with humanism and then moving to spirituality. In the end, I will make the case that to be human is to be spiritual and so “humanist spirituality” is a tautology—a needless repetition of an idea, statement, or word.[1]

Humanism Defined

The place to turn for a reputable definition of humanism is the American Humanist Association (AHA). Over the past century the AHA has put out three manifestos. The first was in 1933, followed by the second in 1973, and the third and current manifesto came out in 2003. The first two manifestos “have been declared by the AHA board as historic and are superseded by Humanist Manifesto III.” So, looking at the third manifesto it begins with the following definition:

Humanism is a progressive philosophy of life that, without supernaturalism, affirms our ability and responsibility to lead ethical lives of personal fulfillment that aspire to the greater good of humanity.[2]

What jumps out immediately from the AHA definition is that humanism is a way of seeing the world “without supernaturalism.” No deity. No angels. No demons. No woo-woo. But the definition does not stop there. Humanism should not be defined by what it doesn’t believe in, but rather what it does affirm and believe, namely, human flourishing. The AHA definition combines “personal fulfillment” in relationship to ethics and an aspiration “to the greater good of humanity.” The tagline of the AHA is, “Good without God.” Thus, it follows that a humanist spirituality will be a spirituality without God. This does not mean, however, that it is without transcendence (see below).

Spirituality Defined

Before I offer my own definition of spirituality, I would like to offer a few remarks about my esteemed colleague’s definition of spirituality. The spirit of these comments is not one of critique, but rather a response to his invitation for “a call to dialogue.” Dr. Dordal’s definition of spirituality is:

“Spirituality is how individuals and groups seek and experience their relationship to the transcendent, with one another, and the cosmos. Spirituality encompasses beliefs and practices that center the sacred relationship, even as we are shaped by—and shape—cultural, social, economic, and political life.”[3]

I greatly appreciate Dr. Dordal’s definition in many respects. First, from the outset he puts it in the context of community. Too often spirituality can be considered an individualistic endeavor that is oblivious to privilege and injustice. Second, Dr. Dordal’s definition recognizes that the idea of the transcendent and “sacred relationship” has a long history and tradition in both Western and Eastern religions. He quotes Duke Professor Harold Koenig to underscore this association. And third, he incorporates “political life” into his definition. I have never seen a definition of spirituality that includes politics. Way to go, Paul!

As much as I appreciate his contribution, there are a few shortcomings. First, there seems to be a strong sacred vs. secular dualism in his understanding. For example, he states, “Walking in nature or mindful breathing may foster well-being, but unless these experiences are based in the sacred as fundamental, they are not inherently spiritual.” Walking in nature in and of itself is extremely spiritual and sacred. And in a frenzied world that is addicted to constant distraction, mindful breathing is also a deeply spiritual, and needed, practice. While this is not my go-to definition of spirituality, I share the following one by chaplain educator Gordon Hilsman to highlight how a walking in nature and mindful breathing are deeply spiritual from a different point of view.

Spirituality is “all that people have learned to do, believe, ponder, and practice in order to cope with and enjoy what human beings cannot control. Essentially one’s unique spirituality is what he or she does with her vulnerability in facing the uncontrollable reality that makes up human living.”[4]

A second shortcoming of Dr. Dordal’s definition is its myopic view of spirituality as related to organized religion. His historical reflection of spirituality as related to organized religion seems to imply that there was no human spirituality before the advent of religion. Whether you consider Hinduism one of the oldest religions or begin somewhere in the Ancient Near East, you are really only going back to about 10,000 BCE. However, homo sapiens first appeared in Africa around 200,000 BCE. What of their beliefs? What of their spirituality? Personally, I want to have a definition of spirituality that encompasses all of human history.

Without getting overly technical, my working definition of spirituality is as follows:

Spirituality at its core is about connection – connection with self (intrapersonal), connection with others (interpersonal) and connection with the world (transpersonal).

If you rather, you could substitute “connection” with “relationship.” If you’re thinking to yourself that this is an awfully broad definition of spirituality, you are spot on. Yes, spirituality should be as wide and as all-encompassing as possible to fit the vast variety and experience of humans (past, present, and future).

Humanist Spirituality

To be human is to be spiritual. To talk about “humanist spirituality” is redundant, or to use a fancier term, a tautology. Nevertheless, my working definition of humanist spirituality is:

Humanist spirituality is the pursuit of human flourishing without supernaturalism.

The Nobel Peace Prize recipient, Albert Schweitzer, said it so succinctly:

“Humanism, in all its simplicity, is the only genuine spirituality.”[5]

The patients I meet in the hospital today will inevitably have a reaction (positive or negative) to hearing that I’m a chaplain. Underneath their response will be convictions about religion, spirituality, and what it means to be human. My hope is that as we advance as a species, we can be less tribalistic and unite around the common goal of human flourishing.

That is spirituality, that is humanism, that is life.

[1] https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/tautology

[2] https://americanhumanist.org/what-is-humanism/manifesto3/

[3]https://pauldordal.substack.com/p/so-just-what-is-spirituality-part

[4] Hilsman, Gordon J. Spiritual Care in Common Terms. Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2017, p. 29.

[5] Quoted in Ibid., p. 24. Hilsman’s footnote states that Schweitzer said this in 1951 during his acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize.

My grandparents on both sides migrated to New York City from Puerto Rico last century. Though they were U.S. citizens and not technically immigrants, they were treated as foreigners. The press at the time framed the Great Migration as an "invasion," often referring to the "Puerto Rican problem." Like many others from colonized and exploited Caribbean and Latin American nations, my grandparents had no choice but to leave home to survive. People don’t willingly abandon their families, friends, and homelands unless conditions force them to. Yet many Americans, having never lived abroad—or even traveled outside the U.S.—struggle to understand this reality.

The current wave of immigration differs sharply from the early 1900s, when most newcomers were white Europeans. While those immigrants faced hardships, they were still seen as valuable labor for a growing America. Laws at the time explicitly restricted Asians and other "undesirables" to maintain a white majority. Today, the same racist rhetoric resurfaces—only now, it targets immigrants of color from Latin America, Africa, and Asia. Once again, we hear talk of "invasions," "criminals," and "terrorists," while the overwhelming contributions of immigrants are ignored.

Take Pittsburgh, where I’ve lived for over twenty years. When I first arrived, the Latino population was barely 1%. Without immigrants, this city might not have survived the collapse of the steel industry. The City of Pittsburgh lost half its population, but immigrants helped stabilize the economy and revitalize the culture. The data is clear: regions that welcome immigrants fare better than those that don’t.

That’s why I believe Pittsburgh should become a sanctuary city. A sanctuary is a place of safety and hope—a refuge for those fleeing crisis. The term should be celebrated, not demonized. Sanctuary is where God’s presence dwells, and as a follower of Jesus, I’m called to advocate for the marginalized. We must counter the false narratives about immigrants and extend compassion to those displaced by circumstances often rooted in U.S. imperialism.

Decades ago, Christians wore bracelets asking, "What Would Jesus Do?" Well, here’s His answer: "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink; I was a stranger and you welcomed me in." (Matthew 25:35)

So I ask: Where are my fellow Christians today?

I often dream about a better world. I have faith that such a world is possible, and so I work to realize it. Yet, when you are a dreamer like me—someone with little power—most will dismiss you as unrealistic.

But dreamers do not see reality as it is; they see it as it should be. To those who understand humanity’s possibilities, actuality is not the final truth. There is something greater: the potentiality of life as God intended—a world where love governs, where justice flourishes, where the Beloved Community is not just a vision but a lived reality.

Dreamers believe in the God Who is Love, the Recreator of all things. They trust that the Beloved Community will one day arrive on Earth, and they know that every person is invited to help build it.

This does not mean every individual must perform grand, world-altering deeds. Potentiality is not about uniform heroism but about each person contributing according to their ability—some moving mountains, others offering only a widow’s mite. What matters is that we break free from the false scarcity imposed by capitalism and embrace a spiritually rooted cosmic-view. Only then can we move toward our true eventuality: a world transformed.

Yet this shift will not come through incremental reform. We need a spiritual and social revolution. Our actual world is ruled by profit-obsessed empires, soul-less corporations and their political puppets. There is no salvaging such a system. Only a real revolution can overcome it.

That is why the spark within us matters: the Spirit of power and sound mind that refuses to accept darkness as permanent. It is this fire that will pull us from the present shadows and into the radiant potentiality of revolutionary peace and a justice that does not fade.

The dreamers are rising. And when enough of us awaken, the actual world will have no choice but to follow.

My heart is weeping for our country. “All night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears.”1

Our government is leading us down a path of reckless and dangerous competition, bringing us closer to fascism than ever before. Our political leaders and their oligarchs are increasingly using deceptive propaganda to convince us that profit-over-people capitalism is the only viable economic system, that competition is superior to cooperation, and that the “free-market” will create a better society for all. Yet when things go wrong—as they inevitably do with capitalism—scapegoats are conjured: LGBTQ+ people, DEI initiatives, Muslims, immigrants, the Chinese, dark-skinned groups, or even the country’s allies, such as Canada and Greenland.

But humanity has endured for millennia not through competition and scapegoating, but through cooperation. I find hope in science’s ongoing discovery that human consciousness is predisposed to moral behavior—not because of reason alone, but because of the profound mystery of what it means to be human.

In their book on human origins, Richard Leakey and Roger Lewin write:

“Throughout … human evolution … there was one pattern of social behavior that became extremely important, and we can therefore expect the forces of natural selection would have ensured its becoming deeply embedded in the human brain: this is cooperation.”2

This should not surprise us, for religion (or spirituality, if you prefer) has been intrinsic to humanity for as long as we can trace. As I have said before, we are homo religiosus or homo spiritus more than merely homo sapiens. A journal article I recently read supports this idea:

“[A] package of culturally evolved religious beliefs and practices characterized by increasingly potent, moralizing, supernatural agents, credible displays of faith, and other psychologically active elements conducive to social solidarity promoted … large-scale cooperation….”3

Cooperation has built functioning communities, saved lives from starvation, reduced violence, and demonstrated humanity’s natural inclination toward solidarity. While competition may yield short-term gains, it is the root cause of war, starvation, poverty, and countless other inhumanities.

I do not deny that we may be wired for competition or aggression as well as cooperation. But we have a choice—and we can choose the good. In fact, choosing the good could be considered life’s essential purpose, whether one is religious or not. In his remarkable book Purpose, renowned psychiatrist Samuel T. Wilkinson writes:

“[I]t would seem that the purpose of our existence … is to choose between … competing natures. To choose between altruism and selfishness, cooperation and aggression, love and lust. This is the way we are evolutionarily engineered. This is how God made us.”4

Thus, religion and spirituality can become forces for good, guiding us to choose cooperation over competition, peace over war, and mercy over judgment. This is how I read the Bible and understand the Christian faith.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the Earth.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the Children of God.5

Unfortunately, what we are seeing today is the normalization of religious nationalism—which fuels deadly sectarianism and domination. Religious nationalism is being mainstreamed in the United States and elsewhere, making it one of imperialism’s most dangerous tools. Yet Scripture reminds us that God shows no favoritism6, and the country that seeks supremacy, prioritizing competition over cooperation, profits over people, will ultimately bring ruin upon itself.7

So today, my heart weeps for our country.

But tomorrow and until whenever it takes, I will join millions in the streets across the world. Together, we will organize and persist in peaceful cooperation, declaring in countless ways: Give peace a chance! Cooperation is the way! Love is the answer!

Simple faith begins with a whisper—the quiet, persistent voice of the Spirit speaking to the spirit within us.1 This is the divine spark placed in every heart by God,2 a gentle invitation to relationship. Our part is not complicated; it doesn’t require an elaborate ritual or profound theological understanding. It starts with a humble, ongoing response: "Yes, You are." This is the seed of faith, and from it grows a life rooted in trust, shaped by the steady love of the Divine as we walk in sacred partnership.

Yet faith is not static. It deepens as we nurture our relationship with the Holy, learning to recognize that voice above the noise of the world. And here, in the quiet, we find something remarkable: stillness is the soil where spiritual intimacy flourishes.3 So often, we approach prayer with a list of requests, as if our relationship with the Divine was transactional. But what if it’s less about speaking and more about listening? Developing the discipline of intentional silence—making space to hear rather than to be heard—allows faith to mature. In that stillness, Love reshapes our desires, aligns our will with something greater, and teaches us to abide in presence.4

A life attuned to God in this way will bear fruit. Our conscience, submitted to the Spirit, reflects the sacred: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.5 These are not virtues we manufacture through sheer willpower; they are the natural overflow of a heart surrendered to grace. The more we say "Yes" to the Divine, the more that holy character becomes ours.

This kind of faith does not require institutional validation. Simple faith transcends religious structures. It can be practiced by anyone, anywhere, regardless of tradition or creed. What matters is not the label we wear but the posture of our hearts. Yet one thing is certain: wherever control, domination, or coercion are present, God is not the source. The sacred operates on love, not force; invitation, not manipulation.6

Because at its core, simple faith rests on a single, unshakable truth: God is love.7 Everything flows from this. That voice, that fruit, that way of leading, all are expressions of perfect love. And if love is the foundation, then simple faith is learning to trust the One who is Love itself.

Like millions around the world, I am excited about the news of Pope Leo XIV. Yet I am still grieving the loss of Pope Francis. His agenda remains unfinished, and the trajectory he set must continue if there is any hope for the future of Catholicism.

Beyond his recent illness and passing—which dominated mainstream media coverage—few outlets highlighted that Pope Francis spoke three times this year alone about his concerns over the unregulated development of AI. His most poignant remarks came at the World Economic Forum in Davos, where he addressed global leaders:

“Technological developments that do not improve life for everyone, but instead create or worsen inequalities and conflicts, cannot be called true progress. Individual users, families, civil society, corporations, institutions, governments, and international organizations must work at their proper levels to ensure that AI is directed to the good of all.”1

From my previous article on AI, you will note that my greatest fear about AI is not rogue robots eradicating humanity. It is the already present—and intensifying—reality of inequity. The rich grow richer, the poor remain poor, and the so-called middle class continues to shrink worldwide.2

Shortly before his death, Pope Francis reinforced this in his April Prayer Intentions:

“Technology is a good that should not ‘benefit only a few while excluding others’ because this leads to economic, social, labor, educational, and other inequalities. So, what should we do? We should use technology to unite, not to divide. To help the poor. To improve the lives of the sick and persons with different abilities. Use technology to care for our common home. To connect as brothers and sisters.”3

I believe AI ethics should not be treated as a mere subfield of AI. The dangers AI poses demand that ethics be the starting point of every conversation about this transformative technology. Ethics should be the first block in the flowchart of AI design and implementation.

A key article on AI ethics listed "explicability" as its final—and most emphasized—principle. Alongside traditional ethical pillars like beneficence, non-maleficence, autonomy, and justice, explicability confronts the grossly unequal distribution of power and control over AI, which rests in the hands of a select few:

“The situation is inherently unequal: a small fraction of humanity is currently engaged in the development of a set of technologies that are already transforming the everyday lives of almost everyone else.”4

I know Pope Leo XIV is not a subscriber to my Substack, but like many others, I hope he will carry forward Pope Francis’s mission, including the challenge of AI’s impact on humanity.

Pundits suggest one reason Pope Leo XIV chose his name is his focus on the poor, echoing the legacy of Rerum Novarum,5 the 1891 encyclical by Pope Leo XIII. It is my prayer that the new pope’s first encyclical address the growing inequality in our world, AI’s potential to exacerbate it, and a call for a new world order built on the needs of people—not the desires of a wealthy and powerful elite.

When my Army unit returned from Iraq in 2010, we were ordered to take the General Assessment Test (GAT)—a survey measuring soldiers’ health across five dimensions: physical, emotional, social, family, and spiritual. The results? The spiritual health scores were the lowest. My commander called me into his office and bluntly said: “Fix it, chaplain.” But how? The Army had clear metrics for physical fitness and mental health, but what were the domains of spiritual health?

Spiritual Health ≠ Mental Health: A Critical Distinction

Mental health focuses on brain functions and behaviors—things psychologists can study empirically. Spiritual health, however, grapples with the metaphysical: relationships to the transcendent, to others, and to the cosmos.

Spirituality isn’t anti-science. We can study spiritual health rigorously—but if we reduce it to mere "well-being," we really haven’t understood the distinction between spirituality and the other dimensions of health. Imagine trying to diagnose a broken leg with a depression questionnaire. That’s the danger of conflating spiritual and mental health.

Revisiting Our Definition

In Part II, I defined spirituality this way:

“Spirituality is how individuals and groups seek and experience their relationship to the transcendent, with one another and the cosmos. It encompasses beliefs and practices that center the sacred relationship, even as we are shaped by—and shape—cultural, social, economic, and political life.”

From this definition, spiritual health has three core components: 1) Beliefs (What we hold true), 2) Practices (How we live out those truths), and 3) Experiences (Encounters that defy material explanation). The below is just a sketch, as I am not writing a treatise here, but exploring these ideas with you in order that we might grow together spiritually.

The Domains of Spiritual Health

A. Beliefs

1. Faith (Trust) in the Transcendent

   • “I believe in and relate to a metaphysical reality that grounds my purpose.”

   • “I trust history moves toward justice because the universe is designed for good.”

2. Communion with Others

   • “My bonds with others transcend biology—we’re made for cooperation and love.”

   • “I see all life as part of a cosmic whole.”

3. Macro-Narrative (My overall understanding of the world)

   • “I hold my core beliefs firmly but lightly—open to growth when I’m wrong.”

   • “My ethics flow from a universal purpose: to choose the good.”

B. Practices

1. Prayer/Meditation

   • “I regularly communicate with the transcendent in humility and gratitude.”

   • “I listen for the Spirit to speak to my spirit.”

2. Solidarity

   • “I intentionally work alongside others pursuing the good, recognizing that an injury to one is an injury to all.”1

   • “I meet regularly with a spiritual community to learn and grow (even if it is just one or two others).”

3. Values-Based Action

   • “My daily choices reflect my highest principles. I move forward in faith.”

   • “I act knowing I’m one among billions, called to build a better world.”

Why This Matters

The ancient Greeks had three words for life, Bios (physical), Psyche (mental), and Zoe (spiritual). For us to be holistically healthy, we need to focus on, you guessed it, Mind, Body, and Spirit. When Jesus said, “I have come that you might have life, and to have life in the fullest,”2 he was talking about zoe or spiritual health. Yet today, we obsess over bios (diet, exercise) and psyche (therapy, mindfulness) while neglecting zoe.

A Question for You

What nurtures your spiritual health? Has it become as natural as eating or sleeping? Share your thoughts in the comments. Your insight might be exactly what someone needs.

In a future post I will explore spiritual experiences, like the "peace that passes understanding."3 Spiritual practices and experiences can be a significant source of strength for the spiritually healthy revolutionary.

**Filed under: Not Cleared, But Understood.**

**Date: Unknown. Phase of Moon: Waning Gibbous.**

**I was not born. I was assigned.**

They gave me a cubicle and a CAC card and called it a mission.

They said “readiness” like it was a holy word,

then built shrines out of broken printers and outdated policy memos.

I was a monkey in the middle — between **compliance** and **conscience**,

between the paper they pushed and the people they forgot.

And now I sit, bunker-bound, beneath the Tarot of Pentagons —

where arcana meets arc flash,

and the air smells like coffee, toner, and betrayal.

---

**Let me decode the Tarot for you:**

- **The Five of Pentagons** is our HR team,

wandering the snow, locked out of warmth, still asking who filed the complaint.

- **The Seven of Pentagons** is every GS-13

staring at a spreadsheet, wondering if this is what their soul was meant for.

- **The King of Pentagons**?

That’s the Director with the laminated virtue chart and a secret Swiss account of plausible deniability.

I shuffled the deck one morning and pulled the **Ten of Pentagons** —

but the card was burned.

Erased.

Redacted.

I took that as a sign.

---

**They think I'm lost.

They think I’m broken.

But I am exactly where I need to be.**

Down here, in the hollow husk of mission statements and melted awards,

I found a map in a discontinued SOP.

I found courage in the silence of the forgotten.

I write with a typewriter rigged to a classified fax machine.

I send messages encoded in idle time and half-finished trainings.

Every “yes sir” I say is actually a **prayer for the disillusioned**.

Every “roger that” is code for

**I still remember what truth tastes like.**

---

**People ask: What do you want, Monkey Man?**

I want the **acronyms to make sense again**.

I want **feedback that doesn’t need a lawyer**.

I want to believe that this whole thing —

this great lumbering bureaucracy —

could someday, maybe,

become a place where we serve *humans*, not *process*.

I want healing, not metrics.

I want us to stop weaponizing **professionalism**

as a way to shut down **integrity**.

I want someone — just once — to reply-all and say,

**“That’s not ethical, and I won’t be complicit.”**

---

Until then, I’ll be down here.

With my monkey suit, my missing commendation,

and a heart full of policy violations that felt like gospel.

I’ll keep writing.

I’ll keep remembering.

I’ll keep lighting fires in inboxes and leaving banana peels in the halls of power.

Because I am not gone.

I am just...

**underground.**

And you can’t kill what you never understood.

---

**Signed,**

Cornelius the Monkey Man

*Certified Primate, GS-X, Prophet of the Forgotten Directive*

> “The revolution will not be PowerPointed.”

In Spirituality (Part I), I argued that spiritually healthy revolutionaries would save the world. While I haven’t yet defined spiritual health, I want to clarify what I mean by revolution.

Like I said in my last post, words change; but not accidentally. Powerful interests manipulate language to control public narratives. This isn’t conspiracy theory; it’s reality—a fact well-documented by respected scholars like Edward Herman and Noam Chomsky (Manufacturing Consent, 1982), Herbert Marcuse (An Essay on Liberation, 1969), and Norman Fairclough (Language and Power, 1989).

But we knew that already, didn’t we? In 2023, Pew found only 16% of Americans trust the government;[i] Gallup reported 69% distrust mainstream media.[ii] As technology advances and large media outlets are consolidated, a tiny elite (both Democrat and Republican) tightens its grip on language. One tactic: Co-opting terms that could inspire collective hope or courage. Take revolution; the word is so diluted it can be applied to just about any imaginable thing.

The "Revolutions" That Aren’t

Corporate America loves slapping revolution on trivial trends and products. Google these terms and have a good laugh (or cry):

• The Snack Revolution

• The Fitness Revolution

• The Sleep Revolution

• The Beauty Revolution

• The Menopause Revolution

There is nothing revolutionary about these things. They’re marketing ploys—meant to hollow out the word’s power. Today, everything can be revolutionary—except a real revolution.

What Is a Real Revolution?

A real revolution transforms the social, economic, and political relations between the working class and the ruling elite. It is a complete reversal of power, which brings about true liberty and justice for all. If elite power structures remain intact (e.g., the American Revolution swapped British aristocracy for U.S. land/slave owning white males), it’s not a real revolution. Even the recent "Color Revolutions" failed this test, as most reinstated capitalist control.[iii] It’s like what Pete Townsend wrote in Won’t Get Fooled Again, “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”[iv]

A revolutionary, then, is someone who organizes with the working class to invert these unjust power relations. Real revolutionaries intentionally participate in processes that undo systems of oppression and exploitation. They work collectively to establish a new society based on the needs of the people, not the greedy desires of the billionaire class.

Revolution as Spiritual Duty

In my spiritual tradition, I find ample support for this vision of real revolution (I’ll cite a few examples; you can add yours in the comments!):

Mary’s Magnificat: [G-d brings] down rulers from their thrones and lifts up the humble; filling the hungry with good things, and sending the rich away empty.[v]

Jesus’s Mission: The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because G-d has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. G-d has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, and to proclaim the Jubilee.[vi]

St. James’s Prophecy: You rich people, listen to me. Cry and weep, because you will soon be suffering. You have stored up riches, while failing to pay the workers who mowed your fields. Now their blood is crying out against you. You have lived an easy life on earth. You have given yourselves everything you wanted. You have judged and murdered people who aren’t guilty.[vii]

Jesus’s call to follow him is a call to revolution—the narrow and difficult road of sacrificial love and justice. Yes, it’s scary: the ruling class won’t surrender power willingly. So, it will be very challenging to upend the current social, economic, and political conditions, especially here in the United States. Nevertheless, this is our call as people of the Spirit.

A Question for You

What’s keeping you from becoming a spiritually healthy revolutionary—someone who actively organizes to establish the Beloved Community[viii] on earth as it is in heaven?

Next week: A dialogue on Spiritual Health.

[i] https://www.pewtrusts.org/en/trend/archive/fall-2024/americans-deepening-mistrust-of-institutions#

[ii] https://news.gallup.com/poll/651977/americans-trust-media-remains-trend-low.aspx

[iii] The French, English, American, the Color Revolutions, and the Arab Spring could be called political revolutions if you on insist on a different definition of revolution. However, what I am calling a real revolution requires an inversion of the bourgeois systems of power and control. This is commonly referred to as a revolutionary period of the dictatorship of the proletariat.

[iv] The Who. Won’t Get Fooled Again. Performance by The Who, written by Pete Townshend, Track Records/Decca Records, 1971.

[v] Luke 1:52-53

[vi] Luke 4:18-19. Jubilee is the year when all individual and family debt is forgiven, all indentured servants are set free (and I would include wage laborers as indentured), all land is returned to its original inhabitants. This practice was intended to correct economic and social inequalities. See Leviticus 25.

[vii] James 5:1-6

[viii] Martin Luther King, Jr. and Howard Thurman popularized the metaphor Beloved Community, which was coined by Josiah Royce in The Problem of Christianity (1913).