Stories

I'm a conservative Christian who initially dismissed the HELM as liberal theology. But my pastor encouraged me to read it carefully, and it shook me. The question "Do you aspire to love everyone?" exposed my conditional love—I'd carved out exceptions for people I deemed dangerous or immoral. The framework on tribal loyalty made me confront how I'd prioritized political allegiance over Christ's commands. I still hold traditional views on many issues, but I can't weaponize them anymore. I can't support cruelty toward immigrants, LGBTQ+ individuals, or political opponents while claiming to follow Jesus. It's cost me friendships, but I'm finding a deeper, harder, truer faith.

I'm a pastor who's watched my denomination drift toward the Power Ethos for years. The HELM gave me language to name what I've been witnessing and tools to resist it. When I preach about aspiring to love everyone—including immigrants, LGBTQ+ folks, political opponents—I get pushback. But I also see eyes light up in people who've felt this same tension. We've started a small group studying the Heaven Ethos framework together. It's become a refuge for those of us trying to reclaim authentic Christianity from those who've married it to political power. The prophetic voice is lonely, but necessary.

The HELM helped me understand why my grandmother, who marched with Dr. King, is now drawn to politicians who contradict everything he stood for. She's not evil—she's been captured by fear-based messaging that exploits her legitimate concerns about safety and change. The framework on the Law of Diffusion of Innovation showed me how imposters use trusted early adopters to spread captivity. Now I can talk to her without judgment, helping her see the contradiction between her values and her votes. It's slow work, requiring patience I don't always have. But I've seen moments where her conscience breaks through the propaganda, and it gives me hope.

I left my evangelical church after they endorsed candidates whose policies directly harmed my LGBTQ+ friends. The HELM explained what happened—how churches became permission-granting structures for the Power Ethos, prioritizing political power over Christ's teachings. But it also gave me a path back to faith. I found a church community that actually aspires to love everyone without exceptions or conditions. We're small, sometimes struggling, often questioned by both progressive and conservative Christians. But we're free—free from the captivity of choosing tribe over truth, comfort over compassion. This is what church was always meant to be: a community practicing radical, uncomfortable, transformative love.

The HELM raises important questions, but I find its treatment of political conservatism reductive. It assumes that traditional values around authority, order, and national identity automatically align with the Power Ethos. But many of us hold these values out of genuine moral conviction, not manipulation or fear. We believe strong institutions, clear boundaries, and cultural continuity serve the common good—that's not tribalism, it's prudence. The framework would be stronger if it acknowledged that people of good faith can disagree about how to balance competing values like freedom and order, diversity and cohesion, change and tradition. Not all resistance to progressive Christianity reflects moral captivity.

I'm a prison chaplain, and the HELM perfectly describes what I see daily: people who made terrible choices but who aren't beyond redemption. The Power Ethos says some people are disposable, irredeemable, worthy only of punishment. The Heaven Ethos says everyone deserves dignity, even those who've done harm. Aspiring to love everyone doesn't mean excusing violence—it means refusing to give up on anyone's capacity for transformation. I've watched men and women find their way back to their humanity, often for the first time in their lives. The question isn't whether they deserve love—it's whether we have the courage to offer it anyway.

I teach high school in an economically struggling area, and the HELM's analysis of economic gaslighting resonates deeply. My students' families are told constantly that we can't afford better schools, healthcare, or infrastructure—while watching wealth concentrate at the top. Teaching them to question these narratives, to understand that scarcity is often manufactured, is revolutionary. The aspiration to love everyone includes refusing to accept a system that devalues some lives as expendable. My students are learning they deserve dignity not because of their economic utility, but because they're human. That's the Heaven Ethos in action, and it's changing how they see their futures.

I grew up in a church that talked about love but practiced exclusion. Reading the HELM was like coming home to something I'd always felt but couldn't articulate. The diagnostic question—"Do you aspire to love everyone?"—hit me hard. I realized I'd been trained to draw circles that kept people out instead of bringing them in. Now I ask myself that question daily. It's not easy. Some days I fail. But aspiring to universal love has transformed how I see strangers, political opponents, even family members I've clashed with. It's freed me from the exhausting work of deciding who deserves my compassion.