Stories

The diagnostic question—"Do you aspire to love everyone?"—exposed something I'd been hiding even from myself. I'd built a whole identity around being compassionate and progressive, but I'd carved out exceptions for people I deemed irredeemable. The HELM forced me to confront my own permission structures, my own forms of dehumanization. Now I'm doing the hard work of extending compassion to people whose politics I find abhorrent, without compromising my commitment to justice. It's paradoxical and uncomfortable, but it's also liberating. I'm discovering that aspiring to universal love doesn't weaken my advocacy—it purifies it, removing the poison of hatred that was corroding my soul.

As an environmental scientist, the HELM's warning about technological power outpacing moral wisdom hits home. We're facing climate catastrophe because we've operated under the Power Ethos—extracting, dominating, accumulating without regard for consequences. The framework's urgency about acting before scarcity makes resource wars inevitable is exactly what my data shows. But it also gives me hope: if enough people embrace the Heaven Ethos—cooperation over competition, stewardship over exploitation, universal dignity over tribal survival—we might navigate this crisis with our humanity intact. The choice we make in the next decade will determine which ethos guides our response to the hardest challenges ahead.

The HELM helped me understand my own journey from evangelical culture warrior to someone who actually follows Jesus. For years, I believed loving everyone meant converting them to my worldview. The framework showed me I'd been captured by the Power Ethos, using Christianity as a weapon for cultural dominance rather than a path to liberation. Now when I ask "Do I aspire to love everyone?" I mean it differently—not "Do I want to change everyone?" but "Do I honor everyone's inherent dignity?" That shift has healed relationships I'd damaged, opened doors I'd closed, and given me peace I never had when I was fighting culture wars.

As a Black man in America, I've always understood the Power Ethos viscerally—it's been used to justify slavery, segregation, mass incarceration. The HELM gave me a framework to articulate what my ancestors resisted and what I continue fighting. But it also challenged me. Do I aspire to love everyone, including those who benefit from systems oppressing me? That's hard. Real hard. I'm learning it doesn't mean accepting oppression or pretending harm doesn't matter. It means refusing to let hatred consume me while still demanding justice. The Heaven Ethos isn't passive—it's the fierce love that fueled the civil rights movement and still drives me today.

The HELM's discussion of economic exhaustion as a control mechanism validated my lived experience. Working multiple jobs to survive leaves no time for civic engagement, moral reflection, or community building—exactly as the Power Ethos requires. But understanding the game doesn't mean I can quit playing; I still need to eat. What the framework gave me was solidarity. I'm organizing with other workers around both wages and time—we need economic security AND the leisure to be full humans. The Heaven Ethos isn't just spiritual; it's about creating material conditions where everyone can flourish. That's what aspiring to love everyone means in practice.

While I appreciate the HELM's emphasis on compassion, I struggle with the idea that aspiring to love everyone is the ultimate test of moral clarity. What about justice? What about protecting the vulnerable from active harm? Sometimes love looks like strong boundaries, even separation from those who refuse accountability. The framework risks becoming another permission structure—this time for tolerating abuse in the name of universal love. I've seen too many people, especially women and minorities, told they must love and forgive those actively harming them. Real love sometimes requires saying no, drawing lines, and choosing sides. That's not tribalism—it's discernment.

While I find value in the HELM's critique of power structures, I worry about its practical application. The emphasis on individual moral transformation can distract from the need for systemic change. Aspiring to love everyone is beautiful in theory, but it doesn't dismantle oppressive institutions or redistribute power. I've seen too many well-meaning people use personal piety as a substitute for political action. We need both—inner transformation and outer revolution—but the HELM's focus on conscience sometimes feels like it lets systems off the hook. Love without structural change can become another form of accommodation to injustice.

I'm a retired military officer who spent decades in a world that runs on the Power Ethos—strength, hierarchy, dominance. Reading the HELM was uncomfortable because it named truths I'd been avoiding. I'd told myself that serving my country justified any means, but the framework on permission structures and moral justification forced me to reckon with actions I'd rationalized. Aspiring to love everyone seemed weak at first, incompatible with national security. But then I thought about the young soldiers I'd led, the civilians affected by our decisions. True strength isn't domination—it's having the courage to choose mercy when you have the power to destroy.