―Werner Herzog

**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

Early on in the pandemic, during the period known as lockdown, the hiking trails in Los Angeles County were closed for a month and a half. Since moving to L.A. a few years before, I’d gotten into the habit of hiking a strenuous 4-mile trail in Griffith Park at least once a week. When that hike was made unavailable to me, it became apparent just how much I needed it - for both my physical and mental health. I had to find a new place to hike, and soon.

I was living in a neighborhood called Atwater Village and, when driving home at night, would often notice a lit-up cross on top of a seemingly nearby hill. I never gave it much thought until one morning in March of 2020. With no hiking trail to trek upon, I decided to - without the use of a map - make the top of that hill my destination. Not knowing where or what it was exactly, I set off walking toward it.

After a mile of streets and sidewalks, passing by several closed shops, I arrived at the grand entrance of Forest Lawn Memorial Park & Cemetery on the border of Glendale. The cross on the hilltop ceased being my specific destination when I realized just how much more there was to explore in that sprawling place - a labyrinth, a replica of a 17th century Scottish chapel, a wishing chair, sculptures of all sizes, the graves of many Hollywood luminaries, and a garden named “the Mystery of Life.”

Outside of the Great Mausoleum - which was, of course, closed to visitors at the time - I became particularly captivated with an enormous stone tablet that was engraved with the Builder’s Creed. It reads in part, “On this New Year’s Day, 1917… I shall endeavor to build Forest Lawn … as unlike other cemeteries as sunshine is unlike darkness … filled with towering trees, sweeping lawns, splashing fountains, singing birds, beautiful statuary, cheerful flowers, noble memorial architecture with interiors full of light and color … I believe these things educate and uplift a community. Forest Lawn shall become a place … where artists study and sketch … where the sorrowing will be soothed and strengthened.”

The long proclamation is signed simply: “The Builder.”

So just as I was adjusting to the confining strangeness of lockdown, isolation, and a virtual social life, I happened upon a place designed-visioned-intended over a century ago to uplift the spirit and delight the senses, even in the presence of death.

I returned there often that year.

***

Though we are not in the time of lockdown & social isolation anymore, there is a very real pent-upness to life in 2026. We, individually and collectively, are restless & overwhelmed & angry & devastated & inspired all at the same time.

We may not be pent up in our homes as much as in our minds these days. That’s what happens with information overload, compassion fatigue, helplessness in the face of pervasive wrong-doing, and having damn good ideas that we - for whatever reason - cannot implement.

Last fall, a high school counselor in Maine made national news when she did something radical. She offered the teens in after-school detention the option of going on a hike in the woods with her instead of sitting for hours at their desks. Several kids took her up on that offer and, afterward, described the experience as awesome.

Perhaps this counselor could see that there’s something precious about the pent-up energy in us humans. That we must treat it with respect, turn it into fuel, and give it space & time to move about and discover - take in - the world around us. (What a gift she gave to those kids!)

I can’t help but wonder if this precious pent-up energy of 2026 - yours & mine & ours - is ready for new vistas, metaphoric and otherwise. Maybe all we have to do now is walk out the door.

―Werner Herzog

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―Arundhati Roy

**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

I was born on George Washington’s birthday in the year of our country’s bicentennial: February 22, 1976. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been fascinated by - and a student of - American history all my life. It has always felt kind of personal to me.

This year, during the week of my 50th birthday, on President’s Day of all days, I got results from a CT Scan that revealed I had a large mass in my pelvis. The shock and the fear in that moment was disorienting, inducing a pervasive anxiety that quickly became my new normal.

My forties were coming to a close just as I was embarking on an unpredictable - perhaps long, perhaps fatal - medical journey. As the birthday wishes began to trickle in, I was making those tedious calls that only we in America have to make: Does my primary doctor need to make the referral for the MRI and will my insurance fully cover an “in network” MRI and how soon can the MRI be “authorized,” etc.

In between those tedious calls, in a moment when I could be still and quiet, wondering what is this large pelvic mass and what is it I need to know to steady myself, a voice from deep within said, “I’m okay. I’ll be okay.” The anxiety didn’t go away in that moment but, amazingly, a feeling of real trust was born alongside it.

Despite the stressful - and as yet unknown - health situation, I managed to celebrate my big birthday and, thanks to friends and loved ones, feel celebrated on my big birthday.

But starting a whole new decade of life during a time of fear and waiting was disappointing and strange. I wasn’t ready for my 50th birthday to be over. I needed to pause this new beginning somehow. So I decided to stash a huge piece of birthday cake in the freezer, promising myself that I’d eat it only when this mysterious medical journey was over.

Three months later, after the MRI, the various blood tests and exams, the mistaken diagnosis, a surgery that my doctor described as quite unusual, and the final post-op appointment, I got the good news that I was healthy and well on my way to recovery.

And so, it was at the end of May when I took that February cake out of the freezer and happily, gratefully, devoured it.

***

This summer, of course, marks the 250th birthday of the United States of America. It was on July 4, 1776, near the start of the Revolutionary War, that the Second Continental Congress adopted the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia, announcing to the world the formation of a new nation free from monarchical and theocratic rule.

Every man who signed the document put his life at risk by doing so, for it was considered an act of treason against the British crown and, therefore, punishable by death. The Declaration of Independence was groundbreaking, visionary, and incredibly idealistic in 1776.

Let’s face it. It still is today.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.

It’s been 250 years and the United States has yet to thoroughly fulfill the promise of this Declaration. Given that 41 of the 56 signers were enslavers of their fellow human beings, the document has been - from its inception - more aspirational than applicative. Though certainly, in a variety of important ways, we have made marked progress in these two and a half centuries toward a more perfect union.

But dammit, here we are in 2026, approaching this milestone birthday while in the middle of a dangerous “rolling coup” as recently described by The Nation magazine. Everything about this fascist oligarchy is the antithesis of that 1776 Declaration.

I wonder, then, how do we celebrate this birthday? What exactly are we celebrating?

***

On the evening of June 14th, as the bizarre, pay-per-view “UFC Freedom 250” fight was taking place on the desecrated lawn of the White House, the Committee for the First Amendment held an event at New York City’s Town Hall.

The Committee was first formed during the McCarthy Era when artists in the Entertainment Industry were being blacklisted, intimidated, and silenced. Jane Fonda (whose father had been a leading member of the original) resurrected the Committee last year when the current administration began openly assaulting those fundamental First Amendment rights (freedom of religion, speech, press, assembly, and the right to petition the government).

Because the “Rise Up” event was held on Flag Day, Fonda declared in her opening speech, “We want to take back our flag and fight for a multi-racial democracy in which everybody will feel represented.”

Fifteen hundred of us were packed into the historic Town Hall that night, a building commissioned by the League for Political Education as a forum for civic discourse over a century ago. There were hundreds of “Rise Up” watch parties held across the country too, and the event was streamed on C-SPAN, the Indivisible/ No Kings YouTube channel, and various other platforms. A multiplicity of voices was represented on the stage that evening - from a Black journalist to a queer rabbi to a Texan child to Patti Smith’s sing-a-long performance of “People Have the Power.” The event was lauded as being “star-studded” with the stars utilizing this platform to bring attention to social justice history and our growing solidarity in the face of unprecedented corruption.

The juxtaposition of the high-minded “Rise Up” event with the simultaneous cage match on the White House lawn was as stark as could be.

***

The country’s big birthday, like my own big birthday before it, is taking place during an unsettling time. And yet, just like the “I’m okay, I’ll be okay” voice that spoke up - and took up space - alongside my fear and anxiety back in February, the voices from the Town Hall stage provided me with a similar steady trust in the tough, tough journey of our citizenry right now: We’re okay, we’ll be okay.

Perhaps this July 4th is the perfect occasion to recognize that a revolutionary spirit has been reborn in us in recent months, that it is currently coursing through the collective at an unstoppable pace, that it is mysteriously uniting us during the throes of revolutionary change. (How incredible that, last weekend, there was an enormous gathering of diverse voices in DC announcing a Declaration of INTERdependence!)

As Thomas Paine wrote in his galvanizing Common Sense pamphlet back in 1776: “We have it in our power to begin the world over again.”

Now that’s something to celebrate.

―Arundhati Roy

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**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

For twenty years, Elizabeth Wilson split her time between a one-bedroom apartment in New York City and a two-bedroom condo in Branford, Connecticut. She’d purchased the Manhattan place in 1977 while performing in Three Penny Opera at Lincoln Center. She’d purchased the condo in 1988 while performing in Ah, Wilderness! at Yale Rep, before it moved to Broadway. Both were modest, middle-class homes that suited her sensibilities.

By early 2008, as she neared age 87, “Mama Liz” (as I called her) found it difficult to stay in the city without assistance. She had resigned herself to living full-time in the Connecticut condo, having already welcomed her sister there to do the same.

So with the place on East 57th Street being essentially uninhabited, and with me in the midst of losing my Brooklyn roommate situation, we decided that I would sublet. This arrangement worked wonderfully for both of us. I’d have affordable rent in East Midtown and she’d have a paying tenant who’d provide live-in support whenever she wanted to spend time in her beloved NYC.

We got into a good routine. I did my various part-time jobs, got acting work occasionally, and went about my city life. And then, once or twice a month, Mama Liz would stay for a long weekend: I’d move to the couch so she could have the bedroom, I’d run errands for her, I’d escort her to a dinner or a play or a friend’s home, I’d do whatever I could to make her time in the city easy and enjoyable. It made her “feel a part of everything again,” is how she phrased it.

But then we hit a snag. A letter arrived from the coop board scolding us for not getting their permission for me to sublet. I was to fill out an extensive application and pass a board interview or be forced to vacate the premises.

I complied with their request and even went a little overboard. Rather than the three required letters of recommendation, I provided several. Mama Liz herself sent in a long hand-written note explaining that this was no ordinary sublet, that I was like a daughter to her, and that my living there meant she could stay in her own home too sometimes.

In the 30+ years since Liz’d purchased the small apartment for a mere $35,000, the residents in that neighborhood and in the building itself had shifted from middle-class to affluent. I was not affluent myself so there were entire sections of the sublet application that I left blank. I could not provide, for example, a list of assets or details of a stock portfolio. But I did have a high credit score and a longstanding part-time job as an accounts manager for a small business. Surely the application made it clear that I was a responsible human being?

The interview was in a board member’s fancy, dimly-lit apartment. My stomach dropped when not one of them greeted me with a smile. I recognized immediately that I had entered an unfriendly environment and was being viewed as a suspicious interloper in a building that had already become my home.

Expressionless, the board members flipped through my application and asked me probing questions. I reiterated that Liz and I were chosen family, that the only way she could, at her age, comfortably stay in her apartment was if I was there too. I also apologized for neither of us knowing about their strict sublet regulations.

When they got to the financial portion of the application, when those affluent strangers silently glanced over my scrappy bank balances and the descriptions of my various odd jobs and unimpressive acting career, I felt immense shame. It was humiliating to be under their judgment and at their mercy.

They did, ultimately, accept the application, deeming me worthy of living in the apartment but, after a few years went by, I was ordered to vacate once and for all. Apparently I’d reached their non-family-member sublet term limit.

Mama Liz was devastated. My forced departure signified the loss of her home base in New York, a city where she’d been a resident since the early 1940s, a city that had been at the center of her life and career. Regretfully, she decided it’d be best to empty and sell her beloved home. Given that I was her acting Power of Attorney by that time, all of those duties fell on my shoulders.

So I, the scrappy interloper, single-handedly orchestrated the sale of a Manhattan coop apartment in which I could not legally reside.

***

Looking back on that experience, what stands out to me is the immense shame I felt at that meeting. It remains a visceral memory for me all these years later and I’m trying to understand it, trying to get to the heart of it.

Having grown up in a materialistic, capitalist, neoliberal society, I had definitely internalized the belief that one’s value is intrinsically tied to one’s income, that one’s worth is intrinsically tied to one’s wealth. So obviously the shame had a lot to do with money. Also, having my unfulfilled acting career inherently compared to Elizabeth Wilson’s celebrated acting career in that probing interview was a part of the shame as well.

But perhaps the most crushing was the shame I felt for not measuring up, for not making it on my own by my early 30s in the way I’d set out to. I felt shame that, despite my enormous efforts and unquestionable competency, I was struggling within dysfunctional systems not of my making - the cost-of-living economy, the NYC rental market, the entertainment industry, etc. I felt shame that I needed Mama Liz. I felt protective of her shame of needing me.

And I was angry that we needed permission from strangers to care for one another.

***

The world has changed a great deal in the 18 years since Elizabeth Wilson and I made our mutually beneficial sublet agreement. She died in May of 2015, before there was a pandemic or a fascist regime or the existential crisis of AI. She died before this era of great upheaval and great awakening.

I wonder if one of the gifts of our current time is that we are, as a collective, unlearning the shame of struggle. Whether at town halls or on social media or in private conversations, we are more openly sharing our common - and connected - struggles of economic insecurity, career displacement, chronic overwhelm, housing instability, and social isolation (to name but a few).

Our shame falls away when we recognize that we are not alone in these struggles, that they are caused by broken, unjust systems and not by flaws in our character.

Our power, then, is in the collective awareness that these struggles are not inevitable, that a better world is possible.

By unlearning the shame of struggle, we bolster our solidarity. Not just for the tearing down of old systems but for the building up of new ones.

***

I know what would be touching to Mama Liz about life in 2026: We are looking after one another in new ways. We are consciously seeking out and cultivating community. We are beginning to see that each of us is beautifully wired for interdependence.

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- Adrienne Maree Brown

**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

In March of 2017, on the eve of International Women’s Day, a statue called Fearless Girl was erected in the Financial District of Manhattan. She was placed opposite the iconic - and much larger - Charging Bull statue and seemed to be facing off with him. She has since been moved and now stands directly across from the New York Stock Exchange.

When the image of this statue first began to circulate online, it was met with jubilation. Perhaps Fearless Girl was seen as embodying the spirit of the Women’s March that had taken place only weeks before. Perhaps her “girl power” spunk gave people hope after Hillary Clinton’s electoral defeat. Perhaps it was just refreshing to have a new female statue in New York City, a place where male statues are, by far, the majority.

Right away, she became an icon of sorts. New Yorkers and tourists alike - women and girls especially - waited in line to get their picture taken with Fearless Girl like they would any other celebrity who inspired them.

While I can agree with the feminist sentiment (“more women in the boardroom”) that she supposedly represents, my immediate reaction to the statue was one of discomfort. It unsettled me in a myriad of ways:

I felt strangely protective of the girl who was placed directly in the path of a charging bull. I was irritated that the statue was essentially an advertising campaign for a male-dominated investment firm. I was bemused at the attempt of a Wall Street entity worth trillions to commandeer International Women’s Day (which was started by the labor movement and the Socialist Party).

But mostly I was disturbed by what I perceived as the insinuated message of capitalist Fearless Girl: “I can dominate & exploit & commodify the earth and its people as well as you can!”

She wasn’t standing up to the Bull of Wall Street, she wasn’t fearlessly fighting against an oppressive system, she was saying, “I am determined to join you.”

***

The following year, in August of 2018, a real-life fearless girl started skipping school to sit outside the Swedish Parliament, holding a sign that translates to “School Strike for Climate.” This simple act by Greta Thunberg initiated massive international youth involvement in climate protests (“the Greta effect”) and granted her an opportunity to speak at the UN Climate Action Summit in 2019. “People are suffering. People are dying. Entire ecosystems are collapsing. We are in the beginning of a mass extinction. And all you can talk about is money and fairy tales of eternal economic growth. How dare you!” the girl railed.

***

In our society, in our supposed “civilized world,” we have these atrophied notions of what is considered progress: Technological advancement no matter how unethical, economic growth for a few no matter the cost to the many, and identity diversity within existing systems no matter the harm the systems cause those same identities.

I wonder if, during this unprecedented era of collective awakening, we are finally moving beyond those atrophied notions of progress, readily reimagining what progress - what moving forward - can be. (Perhaps that’s an essential component to our awakening!)

***

In the same way that the technological advancement of nuclear warfare became an existential threat in the 1940s, Artificial Intelligence has become an existential threat today. Not only is AI already replacing a myriad of jobs, livelihoods, and entire industries, the growing number of AI data centers is absolutely catastrophic for the environment and the communities that they displace.

Yet AI “progress” - and the enormous profit it provides a few - mindlessly continues.

A few weeks ago, a family in my home state of Kentucky made the national news when they firmly refused an offer of $26M from a tech company for their land so the company could build an enormous AI data center on it. “26 million dollars doesn’t mean anything,” the family said, describing their land as “priceless.”

Their neighbors and community members - all strongly against any AI data center being built in the area - formed a coalition called “We Are Mason County Kentucky” Their motto? “People over profit. Always.”

Those folks in Kentucky are rightly declaring that environmental conservation - not technological advancement - is the progress they wish to make.

***

A newly imagined progress is a “do as little harm as possible” progress. It’s a healthy growth progress. It’s a progress that honors human diversity, bio-diversity, and a diversity of innovative possibilities. It’s a progress that is sustainable, that recognizes our interdependence with the earth and with one another. It’s a progress driven by conscience and conscientiousness. Maybe even by love.

Artemis II was a beautiful example of this newly imagined progress. The success of its mission wasn’t measured by profit for profit’s sake. The achievement didn’t require harm to or domination over anyone. There was nothing threatening about it.

A post that went viral on social media spoke about the progress Artemis II represents: “My daddy picked cotton in Mississippi. The KKK burned my grandmama’s school down. I just saw a Black man navigate a SPACESHIP. And a brilliant woman led the dispatch… All of these astronauts are extraordinary… This was a marvel. I’m so deeply moved and motivated by this mission. This is who America is supposed to be.”

One of the astronauts described what was, for him, “the pinnacle moment of the mission.” It was when they named a moon crater after his late wife. “We all pretty much broke down. That was where the four of us were the most forged, the most bonded.” The video footage of the four of them holding each other in space is extraordinary.

Artemis II was a stunning achievement in science and human ingenuity. It represented a step forward in our long journey toward equality.

And what if the televised emotional tenderness and the recognition of compassion as strength were also signs of progress? What if the incredible sense of awe and the heightened awareness of the cosmos that the mission provided us were markers of progress, too?

***

I am reimagining, for myself anyway, the symbolism of that adorable, future-focused Fearless Girl statue. May she represent the visionary, the transformer of systems, and a healthy, hopeful progress.

Let’s move forward, y’all.

- Adrienne Maree Brown

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**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

Ten years ago, in the spring of 2016, I got a “breaking news” email from the New York Times announcing that Daniel Berrigan had died at the age of 94. Upon reading that headline, I burst into tears and uttered, “But I was supposed to meet him.”

This strong emotional reaction and those automatic words completely took me by surprise. I had never attempted to meet Daniel Berrigan. It had actually never occurred to me to do so. And, until that email announcement, I wasn’t even aware that he’d lived - and died - a mere ten miles from me.

Yet that response - “but I was supposed to meet him” - was so visceral.

Having grown up in the social justice lineage of the Catholic tradition, Daniel Berrigan - a Jesuit priest - was, for me, a name synonymous with bold anti-war activism. Over the course of his life, he was arrested hundreds of times for participating in acts of civil disobedience and nonviolent resistance. He spent significant time in prison and was the first priest to be named on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. In 1968, he and his brother Philip were part of the legendary Catonsville Nine who broke into a federal building, stole hundreds of draft card files, and ceremoniously burned them in protest of the Vietnam War.

That gentle, courageous man - a prolific writer and poet - embodied Peace (was devoted to Peace) in a world that desperately longs for it.

***
I, personally, cannot fathom war. I cannot fathom the visceral experience of it, either as an armed soldier or as a civilian target. I cannot fathom glorifying war or propagandizing it. I cannot fathom the terror of war or the violence. And I certainly cannot fathom the sociopathic pursuit of profiting from war.

I also, honestly, cannot fathom devoting my life to the cause of ending war.

Since I was a little kid, I’ve been fascinated - and profoundly inspired - by the bona fide activists and organizers in our history and in our midst. These are people who are so passionate, so courageous, and so devoted to righteous causes that it is truly astounding to me. As I write this, I’m thinking about Linda Sarsour, Greta Thunberg, Fanny Lou Hamer, Eugene Debs, Susan B Anthony, Rose Schneidermann, Grace Lee Boggs, Larry Kramer, Ron Kovic… My list is long and spans centuries.

These are human beings who awe me, and I’ve been wondering what to do with that awe.

***

Back in the spring of 2016, with the “but I was supposed to meet him” regret still lingering in me, I felt compelled to attend Daniel Berrigan’s funeral. Getting there became a kind of pilgrimage.

I woke early - maybe 5am - to catch a train to New York City. (I was living in Hastings at the time.) And I made my way to the Catholic Worker house on East 3rd Street. Dozens of folks were gathered there that morning - friends & family & students & associates of Father Berrigan - to form a procession to the funeral mass being held a mile away.

For over an hour, we processed rather boisterously along the rainy sidewalks of downtown Manhattan. Songs were sung. Instruments were played. I mostly kept to myself and didn’t make much conversation with anyone. I just wanted to be there and participate. At one point, someone asked me to hold the edge of a colorful banner near the front of the procession. Sewn onto it in block letters was a quote of Daniel Berrigan’s: “The gift we can offer others is so simple a thing as hope.”

Our lively procession arrived at St. Francis Xavier on 16th Street about thirty minutes before the service was to begin. We congregated on the front steps and sang “Study War No More” in his honor before walking in, spontaneously inventing a new verse: I’m gonna stand with Dan Berrigan down by the riverside…

The grand church was filled beyond capacity, overflowing with people who’d come, like I had, to pay their respects and to celebrate a life well-lived.

At the end of the service, as his casket was carried down the long aisle, passing all of us by, the whole crowd erupted into a spirited standing ovation.

So - in some special way - I guess I did finally get to meet Daniel Berrigan.

***
I wish I was one of those powerful, prophetic, radical, bona fide activists. I wish I could count myself among them. (I admire them so.) I wish my life was righteously driven by a clear vision and singularity of purpose. But that’s simply not in my makeup. It’s not who I am.

And yet, here we are! During this unprecedented time of extreme destruction, lawlessness, crisis, corruption, and madness, we are all called to participate in the healing of the world. We are all called to be active - even creative - in our citizenship. We are all called to be mindful constituents, recognizing our part in the greater whole.

What a blessing it is, then, to have the inspiration from those activists in history and in our midst, to gain understanding from their moral leadership, to be energized by their example.

***
Springtime is finally here, giving all of us a much needed boost of beauty and fresh air and new life.

Tucked in a poem by Daniel Berrigan is this invitation:

So the rose is its own credential, a certain unattainable effortless form: wearing its heart visibly, it gives us heart, too.

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**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

Fifty-five years ago, in February of 1971, astronaut Edgar Mitchell served as the Lunar Module Pilot for space mission Apollo 14. On that incredible journey, the one and only space flight of his career, Mitchell explored the moon for several hours. He was the sixth human being to ever walk upon that majestic surface.

It was during the return trip home, however, when Mitchell had his most profound experience.

Looking out the window of the spacecraft, at the awesome sight of the earth and the stars, he pondered the scientific knowledge that all matter in our universe is made up of the same material. In a flash, in one precious moment, from that unique vantage point, Mitchell suddenly understood the interconnectedness of all things. Like he really understood it… not with his intellect but with his entire being, with a newly awakened consciousness.

Mitchell called it a “deep ecstatic experience,” this realization that “we are one.” He described it as an “explosion of awareness” and an “overwhelming sense of oneness and connectedness... accompanied by an ecstasy.”

“It was an epiphany,” he said.

This event was not only personally transformational, it altered the course of Mitchell’s career. He founded the Institute of Noetic Sciences in 1973. Its mission is “to reveal the interconnected nature of reality through scientific exploration and personal discovery.”

Edgar Mitchell was not alone in having a mystical experience when viewing our Earth from the Cosmos. It’s so common among astronauts that it was given a name.

The NASA website refers to it as the Overview Effect, stating that “many astronauts emphasize the importance of unity” after such an experience.

The Overview Effect is an awakening.

***

Reverend Rob Schenck was one of the most influential evangelical leaders of the Christian Right movement for 35 years. His organization, Faith and Action in the Nation’s Capital, created a secret initiative, “Operation Higher Court,” that wined & dined right-wing Justices and their spouses, lavished them with luxurious gifts, prayed over them, and assured them that God supported their extreme stances on abortion, health care, marriage, and gun ownership.

Reverend Schenck aided in the ascension of right-wing members of Congress and even Presidents but referred to the Supreme Court as “the pinnacle” of his success. The goal of his ministry, for those many years, was “to convert a secular culture into a God-fearing, socially conservative, and politically Republican one.” He and his allies fostered the political culture that gave rise to the Christian Nationalism of today.

Some time ago, Schenck took a leave of absence from his organization to pursue a doctoral degree. While researching the German Christian movement of the 1930s, he read the words of a respected Biblical scholar from that time period who referred to Hitler as a “gift and miracle from God.” Something pierced through Schenck’s consciousness in that moment. “I began to suspect that we evangelicals were similarly allowing our faith to be co-opted for political purposes.”

That was only the beginning of his awakening. As he says in his article for Mother Jones, “Confessions of a (Former) Christian Nationalist”: “It took years for the scales to fall from my eyes.”

Just a few weeks ago, while marching in the freezing cold with thousands of others on the streets of Minneapolis, Reverend Schenck was interviewed:

“I’m making up for errors of my past. Being in solidarity with all these folks is part of the repair work in my own soul but, more importantly, in the external world where people have to live with the consequences of my decades of harm and injury. So I have to own that and it’s painful but I’ve found the folks here more gracious than any of the so-called Christian leaders that I kept company with in those years, that I thought of myself as being. These folks are showing more grace in accepting me and inviting me to walk with them than I would have ever extended to them ten years ago or twenty years ago or thirty years ago. This is redemption. This is redemption. In the big picture and in my tiny little small personal picture.”

Reverend Schenck, thanks to his awakening, is a changed man.

***

We are living through an extraordinary time in history where the morbidly rich, puppet politicians, tech oligarchs, and depraved rapists - who have had their interlocking hands on every lever of power - are being exposed.

The amoral system itself is being exposed.

Journalist Ryan Grim said last week that, if we want to know “how the world works, and who the people are who run this world, this is the moment that the window is actually open.”

Journalist Anand Giridharadas, who’s been painstakingly reading through the Epstein Files, says the files themselves “are an unprecedented glimpse into how the super elite that governs your politics privately out of view, that employs you, that runs your economy, that decides whether or not your kids have healthcare… it is an unprecedented glimpse behind the curtain into how they actually think, what they actually think of you, what their actual goals are, what their actual morality is.” (Or isn’t.)

The system that enabled this super elite - a.k.a. the Epstein Class - to dominate has completely relied on, in the words of Congressman Ro Khanna, “popular indifference.” Indifference meaning our perpetuation of the status quo, our compartmentalization between politics and society, and our passive acceptance of the way things are headed.

Well… We aren’t indifferent anymore.

The sleeping giant is waking up. The sleeping giant is us… millions and millions of us, in our country and around the world.

Our adherence to power structures is shifting. Our susceptibility to propaganda is slipping away. Our priorities are becoming clear.

This collective awakening - much like Reverend Shenck’s experience of the scales falling from his eyes - is painful, disorienting, and deeply uncomfortable. And, like the astronaut’s overview effect, this collective awakening is a thrilling recalibration. After all, it’s the power in our unity and the reality of our interconnectedness that are driving our mass mobilizations, our demands for accountability, our sharing of illuminating information, and our new visions of what’s possible.

***

On the very same day that the names of six co-conspirators were revealed on the House floor, nineteen Buddhist monks walked into D.C., wearing robes the color of fire.

The light, my friends, is on.

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- Michael Jochum | January 7, 2026

**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

In the story of Pinocchio, during his journey to becoming a real boy, whenever he tells a lie, his nose grows quite long. I remember as a kid having such compassion for him in those story moments, when the lie would bring shame upon him and literally alter his being.

In the fable, The Emperor’s New Clothes, swindlers convince the vain emperor that his glorious robes are invisible to anyone who is disloyal, unfit for their position in the court, or just plain stupid. So the people of the court, all the townspeople, and even the emperor himself lie and claim that they can see the glorious robes. It’s a collective delusion that perpetuates until an innocent child speaks the truth, “The emperor has no clothes.”

Both of these world-renowned, classic stories frame honesty as a virtue and truth-telling as courageous. The stories teach us that lying is tangled together with fear and disorientation.

But, for Pinocchio, it is a lie that humiliates him. And in the fable, the emperor is humiliated by Truth.

***

There is a Judeo-Christian term that I find quite beautiful, something known as “the still, small voice within.” Because the still, small voice is, historically, a religious term, it is usually attributed to being the voice of the Holy Spirit or of God. But what if the still, small voice within is actually (or also) the voice of our deepest humanity.

After all, the still, small voice within is unique to each of us (just as our humanity is) while also connecting us to one another and to the collective.

It is the still, small voice within that speaks the language of conscience, inspiration, intuition, integrity, compassion, wisdom, and love.

It is the still, small voice within - the inner knowing - that tells the truth even when the truth is uncomfortable or inconvenient.

***

Sociopaths, by definition, have no still, small voice within. Sociopaths are also masters at coercing people into ignoring or discounting their own still, small voice. The still, small voice is, ultimately, a person’s inner authority and, therefore, a threat to an authoritarian/ sociopathic regime.

Sociopaths are also without virtue. So, truth being a virtue… they simply have no regard for it. That is why they can speak words of and commit acts of hypocrisy with such malicious ease. That is why they can lie with such abandon, enforcing their own rules and reality.

This Regime is being run completely by sociopaths and/or malignant narcissists. All of them - Vance, Vogt, Miller, Noem, Hegseth - take full advantage of the demented sociopath at the helm, the complicity of his enablers, the blind loyalty of his followers, the insatiable greed of the oligarchs, and the entrenched propaganda coming out of right-wing media.

The good news is that we, the sane and the virtuous, far outnumber them.

The good news is that Truth is on our side.

The good news is that Truth is ours to wield.

Robert Reich assures us of this: “The more Trump’s tyranny is exposed, the stronger the resistance and bigger the backlash. The more vicious his regime becomes, the more powerful the alliances being formed at every level of society to stop him.”

***

Last week, while the Regime was actively rewriting the story of the Insurrection on its 5th anniversary, Pamela Hemphill a.k.a. “MAGA Granny” spoke at a hearing. “Once I got away from the MAGA cult and started educating myself after January 6th, I knew what I did was wrong. I pled guilty to my crime because I did the crime.” She then made a heartfelt apology to the Capitol Police and ended by saying, “I want others who feel like me to know that we must stop the lies being pushed by many Republican leaders, and by Trump himself.”

This woman followed the command of her still, small voice within and - knowingly putting her life in danger - courageously told the truth. Just like the Epstein survivors. Just like Kilmar Abrego Garcia. Just like Mahmoud Khalil. Just like Jack Smith.

The day after Ms. Hemphill’s testimony, Renee Good was murdered in broad daylight by a masked thug in Minneapolis. Within minutes, the sociopathic Regime bombarded us with brazen lies about her, her killer, and about the incident itself. They’ve since doubled down on those lies, amplifying their outright propaganda.

In contrast, Renee Good’s widow made a public statement that was honest and humane. She said plainly, “We had whistles. They had guns.” She wrote that “the people who did this had fear and anger in their hearts, and we need to show them a better way.”

We The People responded immediately to the shooting with nationwide marches and vigils and acts of resistance. (The name Renee means “rebirth” - her name literally means the rebirth of good.)

This is a time when Truth is getting louder and louder. This is a time when Truth has taken to the streets.

The not so still, not so small voice of We The People has - out of necessity - become the loud and visible conscience of this country.

We are encouraged by the prophetic voices from our nation’s past. From George Orwell (“in a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act”) to Bayard Rustin (“speak truth to power”) to Maggie Kuhn (“speak the truth, even if your voice shakes”) to MLK (“unarmed truth will have the final word”).

***

So here’s what’s true at the start of 2026: Despair is not an option. Silence is not an option. Resignation is not an option. Looking the other way is not an option.

Truth-in-Action, in whatever form that takes, is all of ours to do now.

Marianne Williamson sums it up perfectly: “This is not the time for a soloist,” she says. “This is the time for a choir. And they cannot shoot a song.”

a piece just out today: How to Mobilize Americans Against Fascism by Robert Reich

“This is no longer left versus right. It is conscience versus collapse. This is no longer about winning elections. It is about whether a civilization remembers who it is supposed to be.”

- Michael Jochum | January 7, 2026

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**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

In December of 1914, just a few months into World War One, something remarkable happened on the Western Front.

It was a cold and dark Christmas Eve. British soldiers were hunkered down in their trenches and German soldiers were hunkered down in theirs. Between them was a narrow strip known as no man’s land. An eyewitness described the scene as “a beautiful moonlit night, frost on the ground, white almost everywhere.”

Huddled in their trenches, the German soldiers began to sing “Stille Nacht” and the sound echoed up into the winter sky. The British soldiers were close enough to hear their singing. It was a melody they were deeply familiar with, a song they knew as “Silent Night.” When the Germans finished the song, the Brits offered a response and sang “The First Noel.”

A soldier from the Fifth London Rifle Brigade wrote of this experience. “First the Germans would sing one of their carols and then we would sing one of ours, until we started up ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’ and the Germans immediately joined us in singing the Latin verse.”

The following morning, a few German soldiers emerged from their trench holding up a sign written in English, “You no shoot, we no shoot.” And so began what came to be known as the Christmas Truce.

On that brief winter day, early on in a war that would kill millions, soldiers from opposing nations gathered together in no man’s land. They exchanged gifts of food, hats, and cigarettes. They decorated little trees. They kicked around a soccer ball. They took photographs of one another. And they sang about peace on earth, good will toward men.

It’s said that as many as 100,000 soldiers participated in that Christmas Truce, something so unbelievable that many today dismiss the story as being only a myth.

But it did happen.

***

A few days after Thanksgiving, my sister and I were roaming the town of Damascus, Virginia, also known as Trail Town USA. Though the population is less than a thousand, five epic trails converge in Damascus, including the Appalachian Trail, so the town gets many a passerby.

We had already traipsed through the holiday fair and other shops when we came upon an artist’s woodworking studio. Something on the a-frame sign out front caught my eye. It was a large white sticker showing three red dots inside a red circle.

I went inside the studio to inquire.

Matt, the artist, an older fellow with unruly white hair and a warm, deep voice, told me that he’d been disgusted in recent years by the resurgence of the Confederate flag on people’s clothing and on public display. To counter that, he wanted to put out a different kind of message. Matt chose the Banner of Peace as his emblem, distributing the image on large stickers to anyone who might want one.

The Banner of Peace - which came about long before the more familiar peace sign - was the symbol of the Roerich Pact of 1935, an international treaty to protect artistic and scientific institutions as well as historic monuments during times of war.

Matt explained to me that the three dots represent Arts, Science, and Spirituality and the circle surrounding the dots represents the entirety of human civilization, all being the color red to symbolize the blood we share. The banner’s creator, the late Russian artist Nicholas Roerich, said the imagery was “directed from one heart to another, awakening the idea of Peace and Benevolence among peoples.”

The Banner of Peace has, for decades, been displayed outside cultural institutions around the world. It has been raised in both the North pole and the South. It has even made its way into outer space, being taken aboard orbital space stations with the intention that it encircle the earth.

And this Banner of Peace symbol can now be spotted by anyone passing through Trail Town USA, thanks to an artist named Matt.

***

Immersed in this winter season, I’ve been noticing how many Christmas songs, holiday cards, and yuletide sentiments mention the word Peace or describe peacefulness in some way. (All is calm, all is bright.) Even the stories we share over and over at Christmastime have that running theme. Whether it’s about Scrooge or the Grinch or George Bailey, the story concludes with him experiencing a new and profound inner peace that is then reflected outwardly as peace in his community.

I attended a lecture a few months ago in a church basement in Manhattan about the poet Robert Lax and his long friendship with the monk Thomas Merton. A few people spoke that afternoon, folks who’d known Robert Lax well. One of them told of a conversation they’d once had with him, when they’d asked Lax, “What’s the most important thing in your life?” And, without hesitation, he’d responded: “Peace.”

During his lifetime, Robert Lax (the poet, the contemplative) endeavored to define this most important thing. When his definition of Peace was shared from the podium that afternoon, I was physically startled by it. I guess that’s what happens when truth lands on a person. I scribbled it down in a little notebook so that I wouldn’t forget.

“Peace is the atmosphere where love can flourish.”

***

This longing for Peace, this longing for that atmosphere, is universal. Not just in the space between us but in our mysterious inner space as well.

As another year comes to a close, as we enter this annual time of reflection, as we hunker down in our own metaphorical trenches, may we realize again the joy of savoring Peace, however brief it is, however fleeting.

And may we carry that Presence of Peace into our shiny new year.

Happy Holidays to you and yours, dear readers.

E.M.

secular chaplain

**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

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Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around

As though with your arms open.” ― Mary Oliver

**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

I was shopping at Trader Joe’s on the Upper West Side a few weeks ago, winding my way through the crowded store and grabbing my few desired items and chucking them into a red basket. I paused for a moment to read the ingredients of egg noodles, resting the basket on the ledge of the refrigerated aisle, when a man approached me.

“Can I ask you something?” he said. I was startled so, admittedly, my first impulse was to say, “I’m in a hurry” or “I don’t work here” or something dismissive. But when I turned and looked at the guy, he had a real sincerity about him that made my defenses go down. So I replied, “Sure.”

I thought he would ask me about an item in the store or about directions to a place in the neighborhood. But he didn’t. Instead, he inquired with a hint of sadness, “Why don’t people talk to each other anymore? How are we supposed to connect with one another? Everyone’s in their own little world.”

The two of us, this stranger and me, slipped into a quiet conversation at that Trader Joe’s about the relational challenges of modern life while pop music played over the speakers and other shoppers bustled around us. He teared up at one point, saying, “Sorry, I cry easily.”

After we’d parted ways and I’d finished my shop, I was rushing out the door when I spotted him again in the packed checkout aisle.

“Bye, Glen!” I shouted over the crowd. “Have a good day, Glen!”

Now he was the one who was startled, glancing around for the person who’d said his name. He saw it was me and his face lit up. The guy was so glad - even relieved - just to be seen.

***

After the nationwide No Kings protests on October 18th, there were some cynics out there saying that the protests served no real purpose, made no specific policy demands, and ultimately didn’t change anything so what was the point. But what if the purpose was simply to see and be seen? Isn’t that a kind of demand?

The politicians, judges, and pundits who are standing up to fascism were surely galvanized to see that our numbers had greatly increased since the No Kings in June. People around the world were surely heartened to see that the American citizens, for the most part, do not support the malignant narcissist-in-chief. And we were surely relieved to - once again - see one another.

I read a quote from a woman in Ohio that’d gone viral. She found herself crying at the sight of hundreds of people in her little town who’d gathered for No Kings. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to see other people wanting to fight for our country,” she wrote. “It’s been such a painful and frightening time. I really needed this.”

That relief was surely shared by many, whether or not they themselves marched that day. (I mean, can you imagine how extra terrifying this time would be if we didn’t see a steady stream of protests and visible acts of resistance?)

***

The deep need to be seen - and the relief that comes from finally being seen - are felt not only by individuals but by communities as well.

The LGBTQ pride festivities and flags say, “We are here - and have always been here - among you. See us.” The demands for accommodations by people with disabilities say, “Acknowledge our rights and our dignity. See us.” The phrase “Black Lives Matter” says, essentially, “See the violence that has long been perpetrated on us. See us.” The now ubiquitous phrase “me too” says, “I am one of many who has survived sexual assault. See us.” Any picket line of striking workers has always been a statement to both bosses and consumers: “See us.”

In this moment in 2025, the Epstein survivors, the children of Gaza, immigrants of color, and Americans waiting in food lines are all saying in their own way, “See us.”

Solidarity with any marginalized community or advocacy on their behalf says emphatically to those people, “You are seen.”

Eleven days before being elected mayor, Zohran Mamdani addressed Muslim New Yorkers in a powerful video message, assuring them that he sees them. He spoke about the overt Islamophobia from his opponents as well as the pervasive Islamophobia that Muslims are forced to endure on a daily basis, especially since 9/11. His message as a fellow Muslim ended with a promise, “I will not change the faith that I am proud to belong to. But there is one thing that I will change. I will no longer look for myself in the shadows. I will find myself in the light.”

***

In 2010, photographer Brandon Stanton began the Humans of New York blog, posting a photo of a New Yorker alongside a long quote from that person. The see-and-be-seen blog spread like wildfire, quickly garnering Stanton millions of followers, a best-selling book, and the inspiration to expand the project in a myriad of ways. Most recently, this epic endeavor culminated in the Dear New York community exhibit at Grand Central. For two weeks in October, millions of humans passed through there just to see gorgeous photos of other humans who live in their city.

In 2016, Amnesty International Poland took on another kind of see-and-be-seen artistic endeavor called “Look Beyond Borders.” They filmed individual refugees and Europeans sitting across from one another and simply looking into one another’s eyes and holding the gaze for a period of time. “We recorded these very human encounters and the short film speaks for itself,” the director said. (Morton Train readers, I highly recommend that you watch this powerful 5 minute video. Link below.)

Yes, the “Look Beyond Borders” project does speak for itself. It speaks to what we are all capable of: “The humanity in me sees the humanity in you.”

***

During this holiday season - whether at a Trader Joe’s or a protest march or a kitchen table or really anywhere at all - may we widen our capacity to see and be seen. And may we find some relief in that.

Peace,

E.M.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around

As though with your arms open.” ― Mary Oliver

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**The audio recording of this Morton Train is available to paid subscribers here.**

Right around when I turned 25 years old, I was ensconced in quite a dysfunctional situation. I was involved in a theatre company in New York City and the guy who ran it became verbally and emotionally abusive toward me. To this day, I’ve never again been in the presence of that level of rage. It was paralyzing.

Fortunately, I was able to escape the situation though it required that I cut ties, both personally and professionally, with several people. It was an incredibly difficult and confusing time in my life. My anxiety level was off the charts, especially because there was always a chance I’d run into him - this man who had hurt me - in our shared world of the NYC theatre scene.

Early on in my arduous healing journey, I discovered a special place where I could bring my anxiety and fear and traumatized sense of self. It was called Brooklyn Women’s Martial Arts. (Now called the Center for Anti-Violence Education and still going strong.) It was at that dojo where I learned to punch, kick, and kiai in the safety of community. It was there where I recovered and discovered my power.

For three years in a row, I marched in the NYC Pride Parade with Brooklyn Women’s Martial Arts, doing karate moves in sync down the middle of 5th Avenue. I took their self-defense class too, and even trained to be an assistant self-defense instructor, going with my karate teacher into a safe house and offering a self-defense workshop to women who’d left abusive marriages.

That dojo was like my own personal compost heap. It’s where I took the uncomfortable mess inside me and turned it into something else.

***

In November of 1985, human rights activist Cleve Jones was planning the annual candlelit march in San Francisco to commemorate the lives of Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone. Milk and Moscone had been assassinated in City Hall seven years previously. While planning for this annual event, Cleve Jones learned something that devastated him - over a thousand San Francisco residents had died of AIDS, the great majority of them being gay men.

Jones had been a close friend and mentee of Harvey Milk. Not only was Milk the first openly gay man elected to public office in California, he was a creative coalition builder and an outspoken advocate for the LGBT community.

As a torchbearer of Harvey Milk’s legacy, Cleve Jones was determined to honor those human beings who’d died of AIDS at this annual candlelit march. (This was at a time when widespread homophobia had stigmatized all those affected by AIDS, delaying medical funding and even the acknowledgment of the epidemic by President Reagan.)

Jones put out the word for anyone who’d lost a friend or loved one to AIDS: Write their names on a placard of some kind and carry it with you during the march.

At the end of the march on that November evening, Jones and his comrades taped those placards onto the walls of the San Francisco Federal Building. Someone commented that the arrangement of placards looked like a patchwork quilt.

The power of this image inspired Cleve Jones to create the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt, an actual quilt with each panel sewn as a tribute to someone lost to AIDS. The project grew rapidly with the help of hundreds of volunteers and supplies coming in from all over the country. Only two years later, on October 11th, 1987, the AIDS Memorial Quilt was displayed for the first time on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. It covered a piece of ground greater in size than a football field.

The grief that churned inside Cleve Jones became creative fuel that impacted the world.

***

Our current administration a.k.a. the authoritarian regime speaks the language of abuse fluently. The brazen lies, the systematic erosion of norms, and the pervasive unconstitutional actions are ultimately as dangerous as the actual physical violence they are perpetrating.

The abuser-in-chief and the abusers he’s empowered want us isolated, anxious, in chaos, overwhelmed, helpless, hopeless, and frozen into submission.

They’ve churned up some very big feelings in We The People. Our humanity, our love of country, and our sense of morality have been riled up, creating a deeply unsettling swirl of emotions.

The good news is that, as they continue to abuse their power, we are actively cultivating ours. The unsettling swirl of emotions that churns inside each of our bodies and in the body of the collective is transforming into a myriad of expressions. Some of those expressions are public - the protests, the civil disobedience, the social media outreach. Some are private - the prayers, the phone calls to representatives, the making a meal with a neighbor. And all are necessary.

I saw a video clip recently of an interview from the 1960s with existential psychologist Rollo May. He spoke of anxiety as a gateway of exploration. “When you have anxiety,” he said, “it’s as though the world is knocking at your door and you need to create, you need to make something, you need to do something. Anxiety is a stimulus toward creativity, toward courage. It’s what makes us human beings.”

Well, I say it’s not just anxiety that offers us a gateway of creative exploration during this trying time. It is our despair, our righteous anger, our incredulousness, our unease, and our fear - the whole messy swirl of it - that is fertilizer and fuel and life-giving energy for all of us. Let’s use it!

***

In April, I came across a narrow piece of wood in a keepsake box I’d had in storage. It was labeled “Board 1” and dated 12/17/01. This piece of wood was half of a whole piece that I had broken into two with the side of my hand at that karate dojo. I’d kept it all these years as a souvenir of sorts, a reminder of the power that I have to heal and grow.

But the time had come for that narrow piece of wood to be used for something else. So I tucked it between a few logs and I made a most beautiful fire.

In solidarity,

E.M.

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