Tag: Liberation theology

What Is Democracy For? China’s Whole-Process Democracy and the Common Good

My recent OpEdNews article, “China’s Example and the Need to Rethink Democracy Itself,” prompted an interesting response from editor-in-chief Rob Kall. He agreed that America’s inability to think beyond the next election is becoming one of our greatest national weaknesses. But he asked me to explain more fully what the Chinese call “whole-process people’s democracy.” How does it actually work? Is it merely another name for one-party rule, or does it embody a fundamentally different understanding of democracy?

Those questions deserve a careful answer because most Americans—including many progressives—know surprisingly little about China’s own explanation of its political system. We generally define democracy almost entirely by its procedures. If citizens vote, if competing parties contest elections, if freedom of speech is protected, and if power changes hands peacefully, we call a nation democratic. If those conditions are absent or limited, we usually do not.

Chinese political theory begins somewhere else.

Its proponents argue that democracy should be judged not only by how governments are chosen but also by what governments accomplish for ordinary people. The legitimacy of government lies not simply in electoral competition but in reducing poverty, expanding education, building infrastructure, protecting public health, caring for the environment, and planning for future generations. In that sense, China’s theory of “whole-process people’s democracy” is consequentialist. It asks citizens to judge government by its results.

Whether one ultimately accepts that understanding or not, it raises a larger question that reaches far beyond China.

What is democracy for?

As I reflected on Rob Kall’s question, I found myself thinking not only about Chinese political theory but also about Jesus, liberation theology, Catholic social teaching from Leo XIII to Pope Leo XIV, and even the Marxist ecological economist John Bellamy Foster. Strange as it may seem, these very different traditions converge around a remarkably similar principle. Political institutions should ultimately be judged by what they produce for human beings, especially for those who are most vulnerable.

Jesus expressed the principle with characteristic simplicity. “By their fruits you shall know them.” That sentence may be the clearest statement of consequentialist ethics ever uttered.

Jesus repeatedly judged persons and institutions by their consequences rather than by their claims. Good trees produce good fruit; bad trees produce bad fruit. In the parable of the Last Judgment, nations are evaluated not by their constitutions or political procedures but by whether they fed the hungry, welcomed the stranger, clothed the naked, visited prisoners, and cared for the sick. The decisive question is always: What happens to “the least of these” (Matthew 25: 31-46)?

Liberation theology extends precisely that biblical insight into politics and economics. Gustavo Gutiérrez famously defined theology as “critical reflection on praxis.” Orthodoxy must be tested by orthopraxis. Correct ideas alone are insufficient. A society is judged by the lives its institutions make possible, especially for the poor.

Enrique Dussel sharpened the point by distinguishing between what he called formal and material democracy. Formal democracy concerns procedures: elections, constitutions, legislatures, political parties, and legal rights. These are indispensable achievements. But they are not enough. Material democracy asks whether those institutions actually reproduce and enhance human life. Do they enable communities to flourish? Do they defend the excluded? Do they protect future generations? If they do not, procedural legitimacy alone cannot redeem them.

That distinction helps explain what Chinese theorists mean by “whole-process democracy.”

According to its proponents, democracy is not exhausted by election day. Citizens directly elect representatives at the village level, while higher-level people’s congresses are chosen through successive representative levels. Consultation continues throughout the policy process through congresses, advisory bodies, professional organizations, universities, business associations, workers’ organizations, and representatives of China’s many ethnic communities. Chinese scholars argue that democracy therefore consists not only of elections but of consultation, planning, implementation, evaluation, and revision.

Western observers frequently challenge aspects of this account, raising important questions about political pluralism, freedom of expression, and civil liberties. Those questions deserve serious discussion. Yet the Chinese model also asks a question Americans too seldom ask ourselves: What has our own democracy actually accomplished?

For decades Americans have watched infrastructure age, political polarization deepen, homelessness increase, life expectancy stagnate compared with many peer nations, and public confidence in institutions decline. Elections continue on schedule. Campaigns become ever more expensive. Every election is described as the most important in our lifetime. Yet many structural problems remain stubbornly unresolved.

One reason, I believe, lies in the nature of our political system itself.

The permanent competition between Democrats and Republicans makes sustained national planning extraordinarily difficult. Policies begun by one administration are often dismantled by the next—not necessarily because they have failed but because they belong to political opponents. The electoral calendar becomes stronger than the planning calendar.

China’s political system has evolved differently. Its supporters point to Five-Year Plans embedded within much longer strategic visions extending over decades. Whatever one thinks of particular policies, this institutional continuity makes it easier to pursue infrastructure projects, industrial strategies, poverty reduction, and technological development that require sustained public commitment.

Its advocates also note that senior leaders typically accumulate extensive administrative experience before reaching national office, usually serving at county, municipal, and provincial levels over many years. The underlying ideal is that governing capacity should be demonstrated before greater authority is entrusted.

Perhaps the greatest difference between the two systems concerns the relationship between political power and economic power.

Supporters of China’s system argue that the Communist Party’s historic responsibility is to ensure that concentrated private wealth does not capture the state. Whether contemporary China consistently fulfills that aspiration is a matter of legitimate debate. Yet the aspiration itself points toward an issue Americans can scarcely avoid.

Who governs our republic?

Increasingly, I fear it is what I have elsewhere called the “Epstein class.” By that phrase I do not mean wealthy people as such. Wealth honestly earned has enriched every civilization. I mean something more dangerous: an oligarchic class capable of converting immense private wealth into political influence, legal privilege, media power, and practical immunity from accountability. Jeffrey Epstein became, in my view, not the cause of this phenomenon but its most recognizable symbol.

Seen from this perspective, the defining political question of the twenty-first century is not capitalism versus socialism. Every major economy employs markets. The deeper question is whether markets govern society or whether society governs markets.

Here an unexpected convergence appears.

Beginning with Leo XIII’s Rerum Novarum, Catholic social teaching has consistently rejected both collectivist absolutism and laissez-faire capitalism. It has defended private property while insisting that ownership always carries social obligations. Markets are valuable instruments. They are not sovereign moral authorities. Economic life exists to serve the common good.

Pope Leo XIV develops that same tradition in Magnifica Humanitas. Reflecting on artificial intelligence, technological power, and global finance, he insists that technology, markets, and capital must remain subordinate to human dignity, ecological responsibility, and the integral flourishing of humanity. They are servants, never masters.

Remarkably, John Bellamy Foster reaches a strikingly similar conclusion from an entirely different intellectual tradition. He warns against what he calls the “fetishism” of artificial intelligence and of the market itself—the tendency to treat technological and economic forces as though they were beyond democratic control. Democratic societies, he argues, should consciously direct economic development toward ecological sustainability and human well-being rather than allowing markets alone to determine humanity’s future.

Franz Hinkelammert anticipated both arguments decades ago. He warned that modern capitalism easily transforms the market into an idol demanding endless sacrifice. Workers become expendable. Communities become disposable. Nature becomes merely another commodity. Against this idolatry, Hinkelammert proposed what he called “the criterion of life.” Every institution, every economy, every political system must finally answer one question:

Does it serve life?

Conclusion

Rob Kall asked me to explain China’s understanding of democracy.

In the end, I found myself confronting a much larger question, Viz., What is government for?

If its highest purpose is merely to organize elections, then the American model has much to teach the world. But if the purpose of government is to secure the common good, protect the vulnerable, subordinate economic power to democratic authority, preserve the earth for future generations, and enable human beings to flourish, then elections are not the end of democracy. They are only one of its instruments.

That is the challenge posed by China’s theory of whole-process democracy. Whether or not one ultimately accepts its answer, it forces us to ask whether democracy should be judged only by its procedures or also by its consequences.

Jesus had no hesitation about the answer.

He never said, “By their constitutions you shall know them.”

He never said, “By their elections you shall know them.”

He said, “By their fruits you shall know them.”

Perhaps that is the question the twenty-first century can no longer avoid. Not simply which nation is more democratic, but which political institutions consistently bear the fruits of justice, peace, sustainability, human dignity, and the common good.

Until we are willing to judge every political and economic system—including our own—by that standard, democracy will remain little more than a procedure. It will never become what it was always meant to be: a way of organizing society so that life, especially the lives of “the least of these,” may flourish.

July 4th: What Made Me Stop Loving “America”

Every Fourth of July Americans are invited to celebrate freedom, democracy, and the birth of the republic. This year, on the nation’s 250th anniversary, I find myself unable to join the celebration.

A few days ago, listening to Amy Goodman’s Democracy Now!, I heard Princeton historian Eddie Glaude utter words that startled me by expressing exactly what I had been struggling to admit to myself: “I do not love America, and never have, especially now.” Those words open his new book, America, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries, which examines what our official commemorations leave out as much as what they include.

Unlike Professor Glaude, however, I cannot say that I never loved America. Quite the contrary. I was raised to love it instinctively. My journey has not been one from radicalism to disillusionment. It has been the reverse: from unquestioning patriotism to reluctant dissent. It was a conversion I resisted almost every step of the way.

I grew up in what I would call a quietly Republican family. My parents usually described themselves as independents, but I suspect they voted otherwise. I admired my Uncle Ben because, unlike my other uncles, he worked downtown in Chicago at the First National Bank. Success, respectability, and patriotism all seemed to fit naturally together.

My education reinforced those assumptions. I spent nine years in Catholic elementary school, thirteen more in Catholic seminaries, and another five years studying theology in Rome as a young priest. When Martin Luther King Jr. publicly opposed the Vietnam War, I remember wondering why he had wandered into foreign affairs. As far as I was concerned, civil rights were one thing; Vietnam was another.

When Senator Joseph McCarthy died, one of my favorite seminary professors remarked, “A great man died today.” That simple sentence reveals how conservative my early formation really was.

My first presidential vote was cast for Barry Goldwater.

Reality, however, has a way of intruding on ideology.

The Vietnam War was my first great awakening. I remember reading in Time magazine—of all places—that American leaders opposed internationally supervised elections in Vietnam because Ho Chi Minh would almost certainly have won. I can still remember arguing with my father about what that implied. If democracy was our highest value, why were we preventing democratic elections?

At almost the same time Pope John XXIII convened the Second Vatican Council and announced his intention to “open the windows” of the Church to the modern world. I resisted that as well. I defended traditional Catholicism against classmates who seemed eager to dismantle it. I even found myself defending Thomas à Kempis‘ The Imitation of Christ against criticism.

Yet resistance gradually gave way to curiosity.

I immersed myself in the documents of Vatican II. I read theologians like Edward Schillebeeckx, Karl Rahner, and even the young Josef Ratzinger, then one of the Council’s progressive voices. Even more important were the scripture courses taught by our remarkable professor Eamonn O’Doherty. Under his guidance I learned that the Bible is not a single literary form but a library containing myth, poetry, legend, law, debate, parable, apocalypse, and theological reflection. To read every passage as straightforward history is to misunderstand Scripture itself.

That realization liberated me from biblical literalism. More surprisingly, it also taught me to read secular history differently. If biblical texts required careful attention to genre, perspective, and purpose, why should national histories be treated as transparent accounts of objective fact?

That question changed everything.

History came first. Howard Zinn‘s A People’s History of the United States, Oliver Stone and Peter Kuznick’s The Untold History of the United States, Walter Rodney‘s How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, and Frantz Fanon‘s The Wretched of the Earth revealed an America I had never encountered in classrooms. Economics followed. Frances Moore Lappé‘s Food First and Jack Nelson-Pallmeyer‘s The Politics of Compassion exposed structures of hunger and inequality that conventional economics preferred to ignore. Then years of teaching Great Books at Berea College required me to wrestle seriously with Marx alongside Adam Smith, David Ricardo, Thomas Malthus, and Charles Dickens. Little by little, assumptions I had once regarded as self-evident dissolved under the weight of evidence.

But books alone did not transform me.

Liberation theology did.

After earning my doctorate in moral theology, I became fascinated by a movement that insisted theology must begin not from the perspective of the powerful but from that of the poor. Faith, it argued, should be judged by whether it liberates those who suffer, not by whether it justifies existing institutions.

That conviction took me far beyond libraries.

My wife Peggy and I studied and worked throughout Latin America and the Global South—in Brazil, Nicaragua, Cuba, Costa Rica, Mexico, Honduras, Zimbabwe, South Africa, India, and Israel-Palestine. We became friends with Paulo Freire, whose understanding of education as liberation profoundly influenced both of us. In Costa Rica we joined the Departamento Ecuménico de Investigaciones, where Franz Hinkelammert and Helio Gallardo became two of my most important teachers.

Neither man simply gave me new information. They taught me something much more valuable: how to see.

They invited me to view history from below—from the perspective of those who bear the consequences of imperial decisions made thousands of miles away. Peasants, workers, indigenous communities, political prisoners, refugees, and theologians throughout Latin America repeatedly described the United States in ways that initially seemed exaggerated to me. Gradually I realized they understood my country’s history far better than I did.

Liberation theology completed what Vatican II had begun. It taught me that the decisive question is never whether a nation calls itself democratic, Christian, or free. The question is always: What happens to the poor? Everything else is secondary.

Seen from that perspective, a different America emerged.

It was a republic built upon slavery and the dispossession of Native peoples. It repeatedly overthrew governments that threatened American corporate interests. It armed dictators while speaking eloquently about democracy. As Martin Luther King Jr. concluded near the end of his life, it had become “the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today.”

Eventually I encountered an admission even more startling than King’s. In 1948, George Kennan—the architect of America’s Cold War strategy—explained privately what U.S. foreign policy actually sought:

“. . . we have about 50% of the world’s wealth, but only 6.3% of its population…. Our real task…is to devise a pattern of relationships which will permit us to maintain this position of disparity…. We should cease to talk about vague…objectives such as human rights…and democratization…. The less we are then hampered by idealistic slogans, the better.”

For me, that memo confirmed what liberation theologians had already been teaching for years.

So today I find myself agreeing, though for reasons different from Professor Glaude’s opening declaration.

No, I no longer love what is commonly called “America”—if by that we mean an empire built upon military supremacy, economic domination, and stories that conceal as much as they reveal.

But neither have I become cynical.

I still love the American people. I love those who organize, protest, teach, tell the truth, and refuse to surrender the country’s unrealized promise. I love the constitutional ideals that have so often been betrayed. And I love the generations of Americans who have struggled to redeem the republic from its own mythology.

Perhaps that is what Jesus would have understood as well. He loved neither the Roman Empire nor the religious establishment that collaborated with it. His loyalty belonged instead to what he called the Kingdom of God—a social order measured not by wealth or military power but by the well-being of the poor, the hungry, the imprisoned, and the stranger. Liberation theology taught me to ask of every nation, including my own, not whether it proclaims itself exceptional, but whether it stands with those people.

If my understanding of America changed, it was not because I became more cynical. It changed because teachers, colleagues, friends, and ordinary people throughout Latin America, Africa, Asia, and the Middle East patiently taught me to see history through the eyes of those who pay the price for empire.

For that gift—and especially for the friendships that made it possible—I remain profoundly grateful.

On this Fourth of July, perhaps genuine patriotism begins not with celebration, but with truth.

The Commandments and the Epstein Revelations: Whom Does God’s Law Really Protect?

Readings for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time: Sirach 15:15-20; Psalm 119; 1 Corinthians 2:6-10; Matthew 5:17-37

Let me say it straight out: the Epstein affair is not primarily about sex. It is about law. It is about whether the commandments — and the legal systems supposedly derived from them — apply equally to everyone.

For decades, Jeffrey Epstein moved among billionaires, politicians, royalty, financiers, academics, and cultural elites. His crimes were known. Complaints were made. Investigations occurred. Yet he received an extraordinary plea deal. Associates remain shielded. Documents remain sealed. Networks remain largely untouched.

Meanwhile, poor defendants fill prisons for far lesser crimes – and in the case of immigrants and asylum seekers, for no crimes at all. Petty theft, drug possession, probation violations, and “illegal” border crossings — these are prosecuted with relentless enforcement of law.

If you want a relevant commentary on such two-tiered systems of “justice,” look no further than today’s liturgical readings. They are explosive in their contemporary application.

Sirach: God Commands No Injustice

 Start with Sirach 15: 15-20. There the book’s author says: “If you choose, you can keep the commandments… He has set before you fire and water… life and death.”

At first glance, that sounds like individual moral exhortation. Choose good. Avoid evil. But Sirach adds something devastating: “No one does he command to act unjustly; to none does he give license to sin.”

That line destroys every attempt to sanctify unjust systems like ours. I mean in the United States, injustice is routinely protected by law. After all, Epstein’s plea deal in 2008 was legal. The shielding of his powerful associates has been legal. Non-disclosure agreements are legal. Sealed records are legal.

But Sirach says God commands no injustice.

If the law functions to shield predators when they are rich and well-connected while punishing the poor with mechanical severity, then the issue is not simply moral failure. It is structural perversion.

Liberation theology (i.e. non-literalist biblical interpretation supported by modern scripture scholarship) reminds us that “choice” is structured. The poor do not choose within the same field of protection as billionaires. There, fire and water are not distributed evenly. Life and death are not equally accessible.

The commandment is not merely “Don’t sin.” The deeper question is: Does the legal order reflect God’s refusal to legalize injustice?

Psalm 119: Blessed Are Those Who Follow the Law

Now look at today’s responsorial psalm. It’s refrain proclaims: “Blessed are they who follow the law of the Lord.”

But what is the law for?

As José Porfirio Miranda and Norman Gottwald argue, the Decalogue emerged not as abstract piety but as social protection. It arose among people resisting royal systems that accumulated land, wealth, and power in elite hands.

Both theologians remind us that biblical law was a shield for subsistence households. “You shall not steal” originally meant: the powerful may not confiscate the livelihood of the vulnerable. “You shall not covet” meant desire backed by power must be restrained.

In that light, now ask the uncomfortable question: when billionaires operate in networks of mutual protection and the law seems reluctant to expose them fully, is that still Torah? Or is it what the prophets called “corruption at the gate?”

Psalm 119 blesses those who follow God’s law — not those who manipulate civil law to protect privilege.

Paul: The Wisdom of the Rulers

In the same spirit of Sirach and Psalm 119, Paul speaks of “a wisdom not of this age, nor of the rulers of this age… who are passing away.” He also adds something chilling: “None of the rulers of this age understood this; for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory.”

The cross was a legal execution. It was state-sanctioned. It was justified under Roman law and enabled by religious authority.

That’s Paul’s point.

The rulers always believe their system is rational and necessary. Franz Hinkelammert reminds us that ruling ideologies present themselves as inevitable. Markets are inevitable. Elite networks are inevitable. Certain people are untouchable.

When the Epstein affair reveals how proximity to wealth and power appears to blunt accountability, we are witnessing what Paul calls “the wisdom of this age.” A wisdom that protects itself.

The rulers crucified Jesus legally. Legality is not the same as justice.

Jesus: Fulfilling the Law by Protecting the Vulnerable

In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus declares:
“I have not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it.”

Then he radicalizes it. “You have heard it said, ‘You shall not kill.’ But I say to you, whoever humiliates…”

Jesus’ point is that dehumanization precedes violence. When victims are dismissed because they lack status, when their testimony is doubted because they are young, poor, or socially marginal, contempt is already at work.

“You have heard it said… You shall not commit adultery. But I say to you, whoever looks with lust…”

Could these words be more pertinent to the Epstein Affair? In a world where wealthy men are allowed to treat vulnerable underage girls and women as property, lust backed by power means coercion. Jesus targets the interior logic of such domination.

His teaching on divorce does the same thing. It sides with the economically vulnerable spouse. Legal permission did not equal justice.

Notice the pattern: every intensification of the commandment in today’s readings closes loopholes that allow the powerful to exploit the weak.

That is fulfillment of the law. If a legal system permits exploitation through influence, money, and secrecy, it has not fulfilled the law. It has hollowed it out.

Two Systems

The Epstein affair is not an anomaly. It is a revelation.

It reveals what liberation theology has long argued: sin is social as well as personal. Structures can be sinful. Systems can crucify.

When poor defendants encounter swift prosecution while elite networks encounter delay, protection, and opacity, we are not witnessing isolated moral failure. We are witnessing two systems.

Sirach sets before us life and death. The death-dealing system is one where law bends upward. The life-giving system is one where law protects the vulnerable first:

  • “Blessed are they who follow the law of the Lord.”
  • Blessed are those who refuse to equate legality with justice.
  • Blessed are those who demand that commandments function as protection for the powerless.
  • Blessed are those who see through the “wisdom” of powerful elites

Jesus did not abolish the commandments. He sharpened them until they pierced hypocrisy.

Before us remain fire and water. The question is not whether we personally avoid wrongdoing.

The question is whether we will accept a system where justice is negotiated by wealth — or insist that the law once again become what it was meant to be: protection and good news for the poor.

AI, Environmental Justice, and Who Pays the Bill

I recently wrote an essay suggesting that artificial intelligence might serve as a kind of moral companion in our political and spiritual confusion. Not a burning bush. Not divine revelation. Just a disciplined interlocutor — one that helps clarify arguments, test assumptions, and deepen moral imagination.

I’ve experienced that personally while writing Against All Odds. AI has helped me structure ideas, sharpen analysis, and think more clearly. That led me to wonder: might this technology assist moral discernment in a fractured age?

A former student of mine at Berea College answered with a bracing reality check.

He wasn’t interested in metaphors. He was interested in data centers.

He described attending a town hall meeting after a hyperscale data center opened in a predominantly Black and poor community near him. Residents were worried about air quality, water consumption, constant noise, diesel backup generators, and long-term health effects. Wealthier neighborhoods had blocked similar facilities. This one could not.

His point was simple and unsettling:

How can you call AI morally promising when its infrastructure burdens marginalized communities?

He added that AI consumes far more energy than a standard web search. It requires massive computational power. It uses water for cooling. It relies on an electrical grid still heavily dependent on fossil fuels. And these facilities are rarely built in affluent suburbs.

In short: Who pays for your moral imagination?

That is not a frivolous question. It is a liberation theology question.

And he’s right to ask it.

If we celebrate the benefits of AI without naming its environmental footprint, we risk drifting into technological romanticism. It is easy to praise illumination while ignoring cooling towers and diesel generators.

But here’s where the conversation deepens.

AI did not invent the data center economy. Streaming services, cloud storage, cryptocurrency, social media, Zoom calls, online shopping — all of these already depend on massive server farms. Most of us participate in that system daily.

AI increases demand. It accelerates the curve. But it sits inside a digital infrastructure we were already using without much moral scrutiny.

So the real issue isn’t “AI versus no AI.”

The issue is how the digital economy externalizes its costs onto communities with the least political power.

That’s the environmental justice problem.

And it doesn’t disappear if we stop using chatbots while continuing to stream movies and store photos in the cloud.

The AI system I consulted about my student’s critique did something interesting. It didn’t defend itself. It acknowledged the material burden — and then widened the frame.

The core problem isn’t whether AI can clarify moral thought.

The core problem is governance.

Who regulates data centers?
Who decides where they are built?
Who enforces environmental protections?
Who ensures the transition to renewable energy?
Who protects poor communities from becoming sacrifice zones?

If AI use is not accompanied by advocacy for sustainable energy, fair siting practices, and strong environmental regulation, then my student’s critique stands.

But here’s the tension we cannot ignore.

AI is also uniquely capable of analyzing environmental injustice. It can process zoning data, identify discriminatory siting patterns, correlate health outcomes, expose regulatory capture, and help activists build evidence-based arguments.

The same technology that depends on infrastructure can help scrutinize that infrastructure.

That is not hypocrisy. It is the modern condition.

Every industrial system carries costs. The question is not whether costs exist. The question is whether we are honest about them — and whether we organize politically to reduce them.

My student was not telling me to stop thinking. He was telling me to widen the moral frame.

He was right.

If I speak about AI as morally useful, I must also speak about its environmental footprint. I must name who bears the burden. I must advocate regulation, renewable transitions, and community protections.

Hope without cost-accounting is naïve.

But cost-accounting without imagination is sterile.

The real challenge is integration.

AI is not a miracle descending from heaven. It is an industrial artifact embedded in an unequal economy. Any moral use of it must include political responsibility.

At the same time, dismissing AI as irredeemably immoral risks abandoning a tool that can assist critical thought and even environmental justice itself.

So where does that leave me?

More cautious.
More grounded.
But not retreating.

The exchange clarified something important.

The moral question is not: “Is AI good or bad?”

The moral question is: “Who benefits? Who pays? And what are we willing to change?”

If this technology is to be morally serious, it must be paired with environmental reform. If we use it, we must demand cleaner energy, tighter regulation, and just siting practices.

Otherwise, we are merely consuming another invisible convenience while someone else breathes the exhaust.

That is the debate.

And it is one worth having — not to score points, but to raise the standard of our moral speech.

Because in the end, the most important thing AI did in this exchange was not generate prose.

It forced a deeper conversation about justice.

And that conversation — not the code — is where moral progress begins.

Liberation Theology as Critical Thinking: Why God Talk Still Matters

I recently found myself in conversation with a young activist—brilliant, earnest, morally serious—who made a claim that was both understandable and unsettling. Young people, he said, simply don’t want to hear from old people like me, especially old white men. We’ve had our turn. We made a mess. And whatever we call “wisdom,” grounded in our long lives and accumulated experience, feels to them less like insight and more like obstruction.

I understood immediately why he would feel that way. My generation was born during the Great Depression and its aftermath; the boomers who followed presided over imperial wars, environmental devastation, runaway capitalism, and the hollowing out of democratic institutions. Zoomers have every reason to be suspicious of elders who lecture them about patience, realism, or incremental change. The house is on fire. Who wants to hear a sermon about proper etiquette?

And yet, something about the conversation troubled me—not because I felt personally dismissed, but because of the assumptions beneath the dismissal. In particular, the identification of “young people” with young Americans struck me as dangerously parochial. Outside the United States, especially in the Global South, students and young intellectuals are often strikingly comprehensive in their critical thinking. They do not imagine that wisdom expires with age, nor that critique began with TikTok.

Across Latin America, Africa, and parts of Europe, young activists routinely engage figures who are not only old, but long dead: Marx, Engels, Gramsci; Frantz Fanon, Simone de Beauvoir, W.E.B. Du Bois, Mary Daly, and Malcolm X. They read these thinkers not out of antiquarian curiosity, but because the structures those thinkers analyzed—capital, empire, race, class—remain very much alive. Ideas endure because oppression endures.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the tradition known as liberation theology.

Liberation Theology

Liberation theology is often caricatured in the United States as a quaint Latin American experiment, a left-wing theological fad that peaked in the 1980s and was later disciplined by Rome. That caricature misses the point entirely. Liberation theology is not primarily a set of doctrines; it is a method. More precisely, it is a disciplined form of critical thinking rooted in the lived experience of the poor. (In this connection, see my book, The Magic Glasses of Critical Thinking: seeing through alternative fact and fake news.)

At its core lies a deceptively simple question: From whose point of view are we interpreting reality? Classical theology asked what God is like. Liberation theology asks where God is to be found. And its answer—radical then, still radical now—is among the poor, the exploited, the colonized, and the discarded.

This shift has enormous epistemological consequences. It means that theology is not done from the armchair, nor from the pulpit alone, but from within history’s conflicts. Truth is not neutral. Knowledge is not innocent. Every analysis reflects interests, whether acknowledged or denied.

This is why liberation theologians insist on what they call praxis: reflection and action in constant dialogue. Ideas are tested not by elegance but by their consequences. Do they liberate, or do they legitimate domination?

That is critical thinking in its most rigorous form.

Beyond the American Youth Bubble

In Latin America, thinkers such as Gustavo Gutiérrez, Elsa Tamez, Leonardo Boff, Jon Sobrino, and figures like Franz Hinkelammert, Enrique Dussel, Paulo Freire, and Helio Gallardo pushed this method far beyond church walls. They integrated history, economics, philosophy, pedagogy, and political theory into theological reflection. They read the Bible alongside dependency theory and Marxist political economy, not because Marx was a prophet (he was!), but because capitalism is a religion—and a deadly one.

Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed remains one of the most influential works of critical pedagogy worldwide. Its central insight—that education is never neutral, that it either domesticates or liberates—could easily be applied to theology, media, or political discourse. What Freire called “conscientization” is nothing other than the awakening of class consciousness.

Contrast this with much of American youth culture, where “critical thinking” is often reduced to identity signaling or stylistic rebellion, easily co-opted by market logic. The phenomenon of Charlie Kirk and similar figures is instructive here. Kirk’s appeal to college students is not an aberration; it is a symptom. Young people are starving for meaning, for narrative coherence, for moral seriousness. Into that vacuum rush slick, biblically uninformed ideologues like Kirk who weaponize Scripture in service of hierarchy and exclusion.

The Bible as Popular Philosophy

For millions of Americans, the Bible remains the primary source of moral reasoning—and often of historical understanding as well. This is frequently mocked by secular intellectuals, but mockery is a luxury we can no longer afford. The Bible functions in the United States as a form of popular philosophy. People may know little about economics, geopolitics, or climate science, but they believe they know what the Bible says.

And what they believe it says shapes their views on Israel and Palestine, abortion, feminism, sexuality, immigration, and race.

The tragedy is not that the Bible matters, but that it has been systematically stripped of its prophetic core and repackaged as an ideological weapon. White, patriarchal, misogynistic, anti-gay, xenophobic, and racist forces have successfully co-opted a tradition that is, at its heart, a sustained critique of empire, wealth accumulation, and religious hypocrisy.

This is not accidental. Empires have always sought divine sanction.

Yeshua of Nazareth & Class Consciousness

What liberation theology insists upon—and what American Christianity has largely forgotten—is that the Judeo-Christian tradition is saturated with class consciousness. From the Exodus narrative to the prophets, from the Magnificat to the Beatitudes, the Bible relentlessly sides with the poor against the powerful.

Yeshua of Nazareth did not preach generic love or abstract spirituality. He announced “good news to the poor,” warned the rich, overturned tables, and was executed by the state as a political threat. His message was not “be nice,” but “another world is possible—and this one is under judgment.”

Liberation theology takes that judgment seriously. It refuses to spiritualize away material suffering or postpone justice to the afterlife. Salvation is not escape from history but transformation of it.

To say this today is not to indulge in nostalgia. It is to recover a critical tradition capable of resisting the authoritarian, nationalist, and theocratic currents now surging globally.

The Need for More God Talk, Not Less

Here is where my disagreement with my young interlocutor becomes sharpest. The problem is not that there is too much God talk. The problem is that there is too little serious God talk.

When theology abdicates the public square, it leaves moral language to demagogues. When progressives abandon religious discourse, they surrender one of the most powerful symbolic systems shaping mass consciousness. You cannot defeat biblical nationalism by ignoring the Bible.

Liberation theology offers an alternative: God talk grounded in history, class analysis, and the lived experience of the oppressed. It exposes false universals. It unmasks ideology. It insists that faith, like reason, must answer to reality.

This is not theology for clerics alone. It is a way of thinking—rigorous, suspicious of power, attentive to suffering—that belongs at the heart of any emancipatory project.

Old Voices, Living Questions

Perhaps young Americans are right to be wary of elders who speak as if experience itself confers authority. It does not. But it is equally short-sighted to assume that age disqualifies insight, or that the past has nothing left to teach us.

Outside the United States, young people know better. They read old texts because the structures those texts analyze persist. They mine ancient traditions because myths and stories carry truths that statistics alone cannot.

Liberation theology stands at precisely this intersection: ancient scripture and modern critique, myth and materialism, faith and class struggle. It reminds us that critical thinking did not begin with social media, and that wisdom does not belong to any generation.

If we are serious about liberation—real liberation, not branding—then we must reclaim every tool that helps us see clearly. Theology, done rightly, is one of them.

Not because God solves our problems.

But because the question of God forces us to ask, relentlessly: Who benefits? Who suffers? And whose side are we on?

When Bible Readers Like Charlie Kirk Ignore Its Class-Consciousness

The recent assassination of Charlie Kirk provoked a flurry of commentary about God, faith, and politics. Among the more thoughtful responses was David Brooks’ New York Times column, “We Need to Think Straight About God and Politics.” His essay reminded me once again how central theology remains for understanding today’s world—and how dangerous it is for progressives to ignore it.

But despite Brooks’ good intentions, his article was fundamentally flawed. He missed the Bible’s class-consciousness, a theme that runs through its central narratives and prophetic voices. In doing so, he overlooked the way modern biblical scholarship interprets scripture: as a profoundly political document that consistently sides with the poor and oppressed against the wealthy and powerful. Without acknowledging this, Brooks failed to resolve the very problem he set out to explore: how God and politics relate.

Ironically, Charlie Kirk—whose white Christian nationalism has been condemned by many—grasped something Brooks did not: that the Bible is not politically neutral. But Kirk twisted that insight. Rather than recognizing God’s solidarity with the marginalized, Kirk placed the divine firmly on the side of the dominant white, patriarchal class. His theology inverted the teachings of the Jewish prophet Jesus of Nazareth, who identified God with the poor, the dispossessed, and the oppressed.

In what follows, I want to clarify this point by (1) summarizing Brooks’ argument, (2) contrasting it with Kirk’s theological vision, and (3) comparing both with the insights of modern biblical scholarship, which I’ll describe as “critical faith theory.” My thesis is simple: without acknowledging the achievements of such theory with its implied class-consciousness, we cannot understand either the Bible’s meaning or its challenge to today’s politics.

Brooks’ Confusion

Brooks began by observing that Kirk’s funeral blurred the lines between religion and politics. Speakers portrayed Kirk as a kind of martyr, invoking Jesus’ example of forgiveness, while Donald Trump and his allies used the occasion to unleash vengeance and hatred. Brooks admitted he was disturbed and confused: why such a volatile mix of faith and politics? Shouldn’t religion stay in the private sphere, separate from political life?

To make sense of it, Brooks reached for the old notion of complementarity. Religion and politics, he suggested, are distinct but mutually supportive. Politics deals with power; religion provides the moral compass reminding us that everyone, regardless of ideology, is a sinner in need of grace. On this view, the Bible does not offer a political program. It simply sets the stage for moral reflection.

In short, Brooks tried to preserve a moderate middle ground. Faith should shape moral values but not dictate political programs.

The problem is that this neat separation has little to do with the Bible itself.

Kirk’s Fundamentalist Class-Consciousness

Kirk, unlike Brooks, made no such distinction. He declared openly: “I want to talk about spiritual things, and in order to do that, I have to enter the political arena.”

Brooks responded with incredulity, but Kirk’s reasoning is clear. His fundamentalist reading of scripture led him to embrace a particular worldview that has always been political. He believed the Bible is the literal word of God, with Moses, David, Solomon, and the gospel writers transcribing divine dictation. He accepted the traditional Christian narrative—codified since the fourth century—that humanity is fallen through Adam and Eve’s sin, redeemed by Jesus’ sacrificial death, and destined for heaven or hell depending on baptism and personal acceptance of Christ.

This theology, which became the official religion of the Roman Empire in the fourth century, was weaponized to support conquest, colonization, and oppression. From the Crusades to the slave trade to European colonialism, Christian rulers used this story to justify domination of Muslims, Jews, Indigenous peoples, Africans, and other non-white, non-Christian populations. Christianity, in its imperial form, became the religion of empire.

Kirk, then, was not wrong to insist that “spiritual talk” inevitably enters politics. But he saw Christianity as legitimizing the rule of a largely white, patriarchal elite. His class-consciousness was real—but inverted.

Critical Faith Theory: A Different Story

Modern biblical scholarship tells a very different story. Beginning in the late 18th and 19th centuries, historians, linguists, archaeologists, and literary critics began examining scripture using the tools of critical analysis. They discovered that the Bible is not a single book with one author but a library of texts written and edited over centuries. These texts include myth, poetry, law codes, prophecy, letters, gospels, and apocalypses. They contain conflicting theologies: some justifying empire, others resisting it.

What emerges from this scholarship is not the story of Adam’s sin and Jesus’ death reopening heaven’s gates. Rather, it is the story of liberation from slavery and God’s solidarity with the poor.

The central narrative begins with the Exodus, the liberation of enslaved people from Egypt. Israel’s God revealed himself as a liberator, entering into a covenant with the freed slaves to form a just society where widows, orphans, foreigners, and the poor would be protected. When Israel’s leaders violated that covenant, prophets arose to denounce them and call the nation back to justice.

Over centuries, Israel itself was conquered by empires—Assyria, Babylon, Persia, Greece, Rome. Prophets promised deliverance from oppression, not heavenly rewards in a distant afterlife.

Jesus of Nazareth stood squarely in this prophetic tradition. A poor construction worker from Galilee, he proclaimed the arrival of God’s kingdom—a radically new order of justice and peace. He challenged religious elites, preached solidarity with outcasts, and raised the hopes of the oppressed. Rome executed him as a rebel through crucifixion, a punishment reserved for political insurgents.

His followers, convinced he was raised from the dead, created communities that practiced what today might be called Christian communism. The Book of Acts records that believers shared possessions in common and distributed resources “as any had need.”

This was not an abstract spirituality but a concrete economic alternative. As I’ve pointed out elsewhere, it might be called “communism with Christian characteristics.” As Luke the evangelist put it in his Book of Acts 2:44-45, “All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.” In Acts 4:32, the same author writes: “Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common.”

This approach to scripture—often called liberation theology—describes God as having a “preferential option for the poor.” Far from being neutral, the Bible takes sides. It consistently identifies God with the marginalized, not the powerful.

Jesus as the Rejected One

The class-consciousness of the Bible is perhaps most powerfully expressed in the figure of Jesus himself who, remember, is considered the fullest revelation of God.

Think about who he was: the son of an unwed teenage mother, raised by a working-class father, living under imperial occupation. As a child he was a political refugee in Egypt. As an adult he befriended prostitutes, tax collectors, and drunkards. He clashed with religious authorities and was executed as a political criminal. His death—torture and crucifixion—was reserved for those considered dangerous to empire.

This is not the profile of someone embraced by elites. It is the life of someone MAGA nationalists like Kirk would reject as unworthy, threatening, or “vermin.” Yet Christians confess this despised and rejected man as the revelation of God.

Jesus himself underlined this identification when he said in Matthew 25:40, “Whatever you do to the least of my brothers and sisters—the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the prisoner—you do to me.” The divine is encountered not in palaces, temples, or megachurches, but among the poor and excluded.

That is the class-conscious heart of the Bible.

Why It Matters

The contrast between Brooks, Kirk, and liberation theology highlights three very different approaches to God and politics.

  • Brooks wants to keep religion in the realm of private morality, supplementing politics but never shaping it directly. The problem is that the Bible itself refuses to be apolitical.
  • Kirk recognizes the political dimension but twists it to sanctify empire, patriarchy, and white supremacy. His theology reflects the imperial Christianity that oppressed much of the world.
  • Critical faith theory insists that the Bible sides with the oppressed. Its story begins not with sin and guilt but with liberation from slavery, continues with prophetic denunciations of injustice, and culminates in Jesus’ solidarity with the poor.

For progressives, this matters enormously. Too often the left cedes the Bible to the right, assuming it is inherently conservative. But modern scholarship shows the opposite: the Bible is a revolutionary text. It challenges systems of exploitation and offers resources for building communities of justice, equality, and care.

Conclusion

The assassination of Charlie Kirk has sparked renewed debate about God and politics. Moderates like David Brooks remain confused, trying to maintain a polite separation between religion and politics. Kirk, by contrast, embraced a political theology but aligned God with the ruling class.

The Bible itself, however, tells a different story. Through the lens of critical faith theory, we see its central theme: God’s preferential option for the poor. From the Exodus to the prophets to Jesus and the early church, scripture consistently sides with the oppressed.

Progressives ignore this at their peril. To cede the Bible to the right is to abandon one of the most powerful sources of hope, resistance, and liberation in human history. If read with eyes open to its class-consciousness, the Bible remains what it has always been: not the book of empire, but the book of revolution.

2nd Report From Rome: Will Leo Show The Courage of Bishop Budde?

Tomorrow morning at 6:00, Peggy and I will drive to Vatican Square with some new Roman friends to attend the inauguration of Pope Leo XIV. The ceremony will begin at 10:00. That means we’ll be there four hours ahead of time. The attempt to secure good seats promises a long morning.  

As you may recall, what Carl Jung called “synchronicity” has brought us to Rome at this precise time. Our ostensible purpose for being here was simply to spend three weeks with our son, daughter-in-law, and three small granddaughters (ages 5, 3, and 1). We wanted to spend as much time as possible getting to know the girls, whose parents’ foreign employment patterns would otherwise make that far more complicated.

However, my real synchronic purpose for being here, I’m convinced, is to reconnect me with my deep Catholic roots for purposes of final evaluation before transition into Life’s next dimension.

With that process in mind and at the age of 84, I feel overwhelmed by Rome’s beauty – its tree-lined streets, omnipresent sidewalk cafes, its lavish fountains, statuary, Renaissance paintings and churches, its operas and ballets. Today all that seems even more wonderful than it did more than half a century ago when I spent five years here (1967-’72) getting my doctoral degree in moral theology.

Those were magic years for me, when after spending my teenage and early adult years in a seminary hothouse, I finally began waking up to the real world. It all shook me to the core.

And here I’m not just thinking of personal growth experiences, but of the dawning of political awareness about the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, Women’s Liberation, and of Liberation Theology which I’ve come to understand as “critical faith theory.” (By that last phrase I mean understanding the way Christianity has been used by western colonial powers to enslave, brainwash, and justify repeated exterminations of Muslims, “witches,” Native Americans, kidnapped Africans, and colonized people across the planet.)

Along those lines, being here in Rome during the ongoing holocaust in Gaza makes me think of Pope Pius XII’s virtual silence on the Jewish Holocaust in the 1930s and ‘40s. It has me wondering if Leo XIV will follow in his shameful footsteps.

I mean, the new pope will have a golden opportunity to confront his fellow American Catholics undeniably responsible for the ongoing slaughter in Palestine. I’m referring to J.D. Vance, Marco Rubio, and possibly Joe Biden. It’s as if during the Holocaust, Pius XII had the chance to publicly confront Hitler or Goering.   

Will Leo use this golden opportunity to call them (and the absent Mr. Trump) to task the way the courageous Episcopal bishop Mariann Edgar Budde did when presented with a similar opportunity in the early days of the Trump administration? Recall that as the episcopal leader of 40,000 congregants in the D.C. area, Bishop Budde had Trump and Vance squirming in their seats as she pled for mercy on behalf of the immigrants, refugees, Palestinians, and others whom those key members of her audience show every evidence of despising.

Will the papal leader of 1.2 billion Catholics show similar courage tomorrow? Or will he take refuge in “safe” generalities, “diplomatic” bromides, and empty platitudes about “peace,” justice, and mercy?

My guess is that it will be the latter. But we’ll see.

My Granddaughter Eva Gives a Speech about Her Grandfather

Here’s a picture of Eva and me at Granada’s Alhambra, where nearly a year ago the two of us attended a Bob Dylan Concert.

This past year, my 15-year-old granddaughter Eva completed her freshman year at Northfield Mount. Hermon college-preparatory school in Gill, Massachusetts. She finished at the very top of her class. And even more impressively received an A+ in a Philosophy and Religion course where the teacher is famous for never giving an A grade. In any case, part of that course’s requirement was for students to give a concluding speech on the topic “Who Am I?” The written text had to contain three text references.

With Eva’s permission, I’m posting her speech because (to my surprise) it was about her grandfather — about me whom she’s always called “Baba.” Here’s what she said.

Who Am I?

Who am I? Everything you know about me can be traced back in some way or another to my grandfather, Baba. He always had way more faith in me than anyone else I know. Without him I would not be globally aware, I would not understand religion (particularly Christianity and Catholicism) the way I do, I would not have the public speaking and argumentative skills that I do and, in general, I would not be myself. He trusted eleven-year-old me with the economic systems and had me memorize definitions like: Capitalism is private ownership at the means of production, a free and open market and unlimited earnings. Or: Marxism is the philosophy of Karl Marx that states that capitalism necessarily exploits its workers, the workers will inevitably rebel and capitalism will be replaced with socialism which will evolve into communism. Basically, he taught me about the world. I owe my entire personality to him.

Ever since I was a toddler I have thought that he is just about the coolest person of all time. We played Candy Land and foosball and he never once noticed when I cheated! He gave second-grade me books to read like The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States which made me feel smart and adult-like. We went on long walks through the neighborhood and I would scooter beside him to keep up. We still go on walks together to this day, though I ditched the scooter in about third grade. He has always treated me like my opinion matters equally to any adult. My relationship with him is probably the most meaningful thing in my life. It sounds weird to say an 84-year-old man is my best friend but it’s true.                                                                                                                                                           

When I first told my therapist about him and our relationship I remember so clearly she smiled grimly and said, “wow, it’s going to be awful for you when he dies.” I know it’s inevitable. Baba talks about it all the time. Unfortunately our walk goes by the cemetery which always brings that topic bubbling to the surface. I usually start crying. As the Stoics say, “we must appreciate that nature is an order transcending our efforts, and that [] [] death [is] to be respected.” (Samuelson 159). While I am not a Stoic, I agree that it’s important to be aware of the fact of death and respect it as an inevitable and important part of life because it’s part of being human. Part of loving is losing and part of joy is sadness. That doesn’t make it any easier.

For my 15th birthday, Baba was super excited about the present he had gotten me. He would not stop telling me that he had a surprise that I was going to love. The surprise? This yellow envelope. In it is a profile he wrote of his own mother, my great grandmother, and reading it was so impactful. It says that my great grandmother “retained a serenity which focused on the elements of life that do not change: God, family, domestic peacemaking, and optimism.” (Rivage-Seul 1). For some reason learning more of my history and imagining the generations before me was so powerful to me. I know that religion was a huge part of her life and my grandfather’s as well. Baba was a Catholic priest for ten years. As a non-religious person, I find this to be simply fascinating. Even though I don’t identify with Catholicism the way he does, because of him I appreciate theology and have a deep understanding of religion. Baba has taught me to agree with a lot of theological arguments like James Cone’s. For example, the idea that suffering is a profound theological problem and that “the more [] people struggled…the more they found in the cross the spiritual power to resist the violence they so often suffered” (Cone 22). These sorts of messages about liberation theology have been really influential to me and I know about them because of Baba.

Three weeks ago I found out that he was in the hospital. He was diagnosed with early sepsis. To say I was terrified would be the understatement of the world. I texted my grandmother at least three or four times a day asking how he was, I called him every evening to make sure he was doing alright. Luckily he’s doing incredibly right now. He is home and healthy. I absolutely cannot wait to see him again. The point is, though, I was seriously concerned for his health. For the first time I genuinely had to imagine what my life would be like if Baba weren’t with me every step of the way, supporting me, guiding and just being on my side. I hated it. 

Imagine losing an arm. You can technically live without it but your quality of life would decrease and you wouldn’t be the same person since that experience would be traumatic and painful. That, for me, is what losing Baba would be like. He is so crucial to my being. I need Baba the way I need my arms and legs. I need his support; I need to know he’s there for me and in my corner whenever I am upset or nervous. I am myself because of Baba. I am myself with Baba. Without Baba I am someone else. And I don’t like her.

I know he won’t always be around but because of that I don’t take him for granted. I don’t take anyone for granted. Thank you, Baba, for shaping your favorite granddaughter into the person she is.

Do They Think We’re Stupid? Maybe We Are. . .

Watching the news this morning on “Democracy Now” (DN) I couldn’t help feeling outraged, humiliated, and taken for a fool.

I mean, think about what’s happening in Haiti, Honduras, at our southern border, and in Gaza.

In each of those cases, the repeated refrain from Amy Goodman’s guests was that the U.S. is majorly responsible for the disasters in question.  All of them are marked either by State Department regime changes, support of drug dealers, and/or by U.S.-backed slaughters that beggar description.

But to my point here: in each of the cases just mentioned, the Biden administration and its predecessors have shown complete contempt for our ability to remember, think, or exhibit any sense of morality. Our leaders are evidently convinced that we’re all like them complete idiots without a trace of humanity or moral compass.

And perhaps they’re right because of constant brainwashing by our ahistorical schooling and unrelenting mainstream media (MSM) propaganda. I mean, which of us really cares about the history behind U.S. interventions in Haiti, Honduras, Gaza, or at the border in Tijuana?

Which of us really cares about learning our own history?

Haiti  

Begin with Haiti.

There we’re supposed to scratch our heads wondering why the country — the first in the world to be run by former slaves – is so out of control.

Why is it apparently run by “gangs?”

DN’s guest, Haitian American scholar Jemima Pierre, explains why.

It’s because in 2004, the Clinton administration regime-changed the country’s first elected president, Jean Bertrand Aristide – a former Catholic priest and liberation theologian.

Since then, the State Department has assisted in the complete destruction of democracy in the country. According to Professor Pierre, the country had 7000 elected representatives in 2004. Thanks to U.S. interference in the name of “democracy,” it now has NONE (Zero, 0).  

And right now, the United States gives its unquestioning support to Ariel Henry an unelected “president” who succeeded President Jovenel Moise who was assassinated in 2021.

You can’t understand any of that, Professor Pierre explained, if you don’t start your thinking with U.S. interference in Haitian politics in 2004 – and (I would add) since the Haitian revolution of 1791.

Bottom line: The U.S. is responsible for Haiti’s problems. We’re the main troublemakers there – and (I’ll add) virtually everywhere in the world.

Honduras

“We” did something similar in Honduras.

There, according to DN, “we” completely supported yet another regime change, under Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. The operation took place in 2014.

From then until two years ago Washington supported the presidency of Juan Orlando Hernandez who was well known as the head of a crime family of drug dealers. According to DN guest Dana Frank (professor of history emerita at the University of California, Santa Cruz) the Hernandez family was “legitimated and celebrated” by multiple U.S. administrations. Meanwhile its corrupt narco-regime created widespread havoc in Honduras and misery for ordinary people there.   

Now (over the objections of the Biden administration) the Southern District of New York has succeeded in bringing Juan Orlando Hernandez to justice. He was convicted of cocaine trafficking on Friday after a two-week trial. He now faces life imprisonment OVER THE OBJECTIONS OF THE BIDEN ADMINISTRATION!

Bottom line: “Our” government supports drug dealers! They’ve been doing it for decades.

Border Problems

Do you think any of what I’ve just mentioned has something to do with “American” concern about migration problems?

Do you think?

It’s a pattern:

  • You overthrow elected governments in “our backyard” by military coups or by application of sanctions aimed at making life miserable for ordinary people (to incentivize them to rebellion or revolution).
  • You replace duly elected bodies with corrupt criminals including drug dealers interested only in lining their own pockets and those of the country’s elite.
  • The latter flourish.
  • Meanwhile, the poor are miserable and seek exit from intolerable situations.
  • Then we’re left wondering why asylum seekers leave home and cross borders to where it’s safer and more promising.

Bottom line: All of this has characterized U.S. policy towards Venezuela, Nicaragua, and other countries in our hemisphere. That’s why Americans are prone to chant “Mr. Trump, put up that wall!”

Gaza  

And finally, there’s the worst expression of contempt for our intelligence. It’s unfolding in Gaza.

Who can believe it?

We’re supposed to accept “policy” that on one hand continues to send 5000-pound bombs to Israel to genocide Gazan women and children.

Then on the other hand our resulting outrage is supposed to be mollified by a few pallets of rancid food dropped on the victims who survive the bombing.

In fact, Genocide Joe even promises to build some kind of pier (taking months to erect) where the same rancid products will accumulate only to be inspected and (not) delivered by the IOF (Israeli Occupation Forces). It will be no better than the situation of the trucks of food that have been waiting for months on the Egyptian border.

What?  How is that supposed to help? Do they think we’re completely stupid? Are we? You figure it out.

Bottom Line: Benjamin Netanyahu has more political power in the U.S. than senile, weak, and evidently insanely dumb Genocide Joe.