Stories

As someone who left organized religion years ago, I was skeptical of anything using Christian language. But the HELM's framework helped me understand what happened to my family. They're good people who've been captured by fear-based politics that contradict everything they taught me about kindness. The distinction between imposters and impersonators was revelatory—my parents aren't evil, they're following leaders who've weaponized their faith. Now I can have conversations with them without anger, focusing on the values we share rather than the politics dividing us. It's slow work, but I see glimpses of their conscience awakening.

I appreciate the HELM's moral clarity, but I'm skeptical of any framework that claims to have the answer. History is full of movements that started with beautiful ideals and ended in oppression—often because they believed their vision was the only righteous path. The confidence with which the HELM divides people into categories—imposters, impersonators, prophets, disciples—concerns me. Who decides which is which? Even aspiring to love everyone can become coercive if it's presented as the test of moral worth. I prefer pluralism—multiple ways of being good, multiple paths to justice. The Heaven Ethos might be one valuable approach, but not the only valid one.

As a Muslim woman, I found profound resonance between the HELM and my own tradition's emphasis on mercy and justice. The parallel between the Heaven Ethos and Islamic concepts like ihsan (excellence in faith) and rahmah (compassion) showed me this isn't just a Christian struggle—it's universal. When my mosque community debates how to engage with Islamophobia, I bring these frameworks. Do we respond with the Power Ethos—retreating into defensiveness and suspicion? Or do we embody the Heaven Ethos—maintaining dignity while extending compassion even to those who misunderstand us? It's transformed our approach to interfaith dialogue and community building.

The concept of aspiring to love everyone challenged my comfortable liberal bubble. I realized I'd been doing my own version of tribal loyalty—writing off anyone who voted differently as beyond redemption. The HELM pushed me to examine my own mechanisms of control, my own permission structures for dismissing others. Now I volunteer at a community center in a conservative part of town. The relationships I've built there have shown me that the Heaven Ethos isn't about political alignment—it's about recognizing shared humanity. I still disagree with many neighbors on policy, but I can't dehumanize them anymore.

As a historian, I appreciate how the HELM traces the alliance between church and state through history. It explains patterns I've studied but never named so clearly—how Christianity shifted from prophetic resistance to imperial chaplain. Understanding this helps me see current events not as unprecedented but as recurring dynamics. When I teach about the Crusades, slavery, or colonialism, I can now connect those historical permission structures to modern equivalents. The framework helps students recognize when religion is being weaponized for power rather than embodying the radical love of its founders. History doesn't repeat, but these patterns rhyme, and we need to learn the song.

The HELM came into my life during a dark period when I'd lost faith in both religion and humanity. Reading about prophets and disciples—not as formal titles but as anyone who chooses truth and mercy—rekindled hope. I realized I didn't need to be perfect or powerful to matter. I could be a disciple by simply living with integrity, speaking truth in my small circles, modeling compassion in daily interactions. I started with my neighborhood—organizing mutual aid, building relationships across political divides, creating space for honest conversations. The Heaven Ethos isn't waiting for a movement; it's built one small act of love at a time.

I'm a therapist who works with religious trauma survivors, and the HELM has become an invaluable tool in my practice. It helps clients understand they weren't crazy—they were responding to real contradictions between proclaimed values and lived realities. The concept of imposters and impersonators gives language to their experiences with manipulative leaders. But more importantly, the Heaven Ethos framework shows them a path back to spiritual wholeness that doesn't require abandoning their deepest values. Many have found freedom in aspiring to universal love without the tribal boundaries that wounded them. It's beautiful to witness.

I respect the HELM's intentions, but I'm concerned it oversimplifies complex theological and political realities. The binary of Power Ethos versus Heaven Ethos doesn't account for legitimate differences in how we understand justice, authority, and social order. Not everyone who disagrees with progressive Christianity has been "captured" or is following "imposters." Some of us hold different but sincere convictions about what love requires in a fallen world. The framework risks becoming its own form of tribalism—dividing people into enlightened Heaven Ethos followers and deceived Power Ethos captives. That's ironically the same exclusionary thinking it claims to oppose.