I didn’t know how she would respond. I feared the worst but couldn't let that stop me. I had labored over my last blog post, mostly pruning the many-limbed tree of my ideas  around Donald Trump as a Cult Leader. But I couldn’t publish it until I saw her in person. 

Face masks in hand, we air-hugged and started walking. A gentle breeze off the Hudson River swirled around us as we shifted from brisk walking to ambling along wooded paths. As kin, our conversation pivoted with ease: there was so much to talk about: kids, mom, our other sisters. We skirted the hot topics. 

When she called her husband about dinner logistics, I knew our time was running short. I took a breath and asked if we could change topics to something I needed to talk to her about. 

“You and I have different political views,” I start, “and you know that I have this odd passion around cult education.” 

With a quizzical nod, she says, "Yeah, so what?" 

“Well, I am about to publish an article that includes my views of Donald Trump as a cult leader and…,” I pause. I see her wince and my throat clenches. I force myself to go on. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you over this.” 

Her response brings me to tears - then and now. 

She looks at me, scrunching her smiling face and says, “Every fiber of my being wants to pounce you and give you a big hug! I will never let our differences divide us!” 

My little sister has one of the biggest hearts I know. 

A few days later, a friend helps me to see this sisterly exchange is an example of one of my core beliefs: no matter what outer conflict or dissonance may exist between people, when we step towards each other with love, doors open. 

Rather than focus on what polarizes us as individuals and as a nation, can we pause and recognize the many links of our shared humanity? 

It’s not easy to stretch across the divide.

When I sit in the comfortable, justified room of my liberal mindset, my sister’s devout Christianity can become a walled-off fortress in my mind. But it isn’t. 

She and I are simply—and profoundly—two human beings who are courageous enough to step out of the illusionary fortress, breathe deeply in the plein air gazebo and gaze with new eyes into the importance and beauty of being alive at this very moment.

​

An apocalyptic mindset has been growing since the earliest days of Donald Trump’s presidency. As a cult awareness educator, I have watched in horror as coercive, cultic techniques I study and have personally experienced, are delivered to the American public by our President. His self-importance, dismissal of staff whose loyalty wavers and his compelling, but derisive ideology has been strengthened by pushback from those who oppose him. Opposition fuels a cult leader. So does a narrative that flaunts death and the destruction of the earth and its inhabitants.

The Trump re-election campaign just touted, in all caps: Biden Would Let Antifa Destroy Our Nation! American citizens have been barraged by similar unfounded statements that are designed to gain compliance rather than to engage in thoughtful debate.

By making grandiose promises, dismissing science and reason, and inculcating an ‘us versus them’ dynamic, Mr. Trump has accomplished what many cult leaders before him have done. He has captured the minds, hearts and psyches of devoted followers who systematically, but unknowingly, surrendered their grasp on reality and replaced it with a new cosmology-one that primarily benefits Trump himself. He is revered for his business know-how and his supporters feel as if they are participating in something important, something historic. His cultic techniques are fueled by QAnon and a well-endowed propaganda machine that targets the far right and the far left and impacts all of us. These controlling tactics are eroding America’s capacity for balanced critical thinking and civil discourse. This is by design. The instability that he actively promotes, is precisely the platform necessary for a good cult leader to stand on.

Two of America’s better known cult figures are Jim Jones of Jonestown and David Koresh of Waco TX. When followers adopted their leader’s apocalyptic ideas it resulted in 909 people drinking cyanide-laced kool aid and dying in the jungle of Guyana and 76 others choosing to perish in flames with their leader in Texas.

There was an unimaginable tragedy in Guyana and in Texas, but their leaders were wrong: the apocalypse never happened.

Although we do not hear President Trump making predictions for the end of the world, his rhetoric promotes apocalyptic thinking in both his supporters and opponents. Social psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton created the phrase ‘the dispensing of existence’ to describe how authoritarian leaders use an apocalyptic narrative to control people.

Whether or not preacher Jim Jones truly believed armageddon was upon the earth is irrelevant. He used this complex biblical passage to capture the minds, hearts and ultimately the lives of his followers. The same devastating pattern has been repeated innumerous times by cultic groups throughout the geologically brief period that humans have dominated the earth.

But the earth exists today. This is reality. It is reasonable to believe the earth will be here while you finish your cup of coffee. It is reasonable to believe the earth will endure beyond the US 2020 election. It is reasonable to believe the earth will be here for our grandchildren and for theirs.

The unpredictable and erratic statements President Trump doles out on a daily basis serve to keep the country in a state of imbalance to assure that he holds the power. This is a verifiable reality. The apocalypse is not.

I received an email from a friend who commented on the importance of connecting with each other in these unpredictable times. She closed with, “at least the earth is still on its axis!”
​
Indeed, it is.

​Many of my white friends struggle to understand how racial injustice is still so prevalent in 2020. “I thought we were beyond all this!” so many exclaim. I find myself oddly clear, despite my milky skin and European heritage.
 
Why, I hesitate to ask out loud, am I invigorated by the daily news about the uprising and protests for racial justice? I breathe deep into this question and hear: Because I am pretty sure I’m not in denial this time. I have been at least twice-blinded by profound denial: First: I grew up in the illusion of racial harmony. Then, as an adult, I devoted 18 years of my life to a puny Jewish guy who I thought was enlightened. When I snapped out of that trance, I saw the link between white supremacy and cult dynamics as clearly as I see the tree outside my window. 
 
Freud talked about denial as a defense against any external realities that threaten the ego. We often resort to denial in order to defend ourselves or to cope with a reality that is too threatening or simply too much to bear. In my own experience and through my studies of cult dynamics, I have come to believe that denial is a form of sensory deprivation—both literally and metaphorically—that leads to the loss of our most vital sensibility: conscience. 
 
In my early twenties, I lingered in caves so dark I could sleep with my eyes open. I heard a story then about a spelunking team that was deep in when they came to a squeeze in an area that had never been mapped. They passed their gear through the narrow passage, then all wormed their way deeper into the unknown. All except one member who never made it. Somehow—and I forget just how—he was left behind with no light, no food, no gear, five days deep into unchartered caverns. I imagine a part of him wanted to curl up and die, but he was a survivor who had other senses beside the sight he had just lost. His ears tuned into a colony of bats in flight so he decided to move with them. He figured they knew the way out. When the bats stopped, he stopped and waited for their return. He moved again only when they took flight. He scrounged for crawfish and algae and slurped what he hoped was clean water. Night after night, he repeated this pattern. Persistence paid off and he emerged, a mole blinded in the light. He was asked how long he thought he had been in the cave. He knew it was a long time. Two weeks? Maybe three? No, he was told. Three months. Three months. Time is a strange animal. We lose track of it all the more so, when we lose sensory input. Three months in a cave. Eighteen years in a cult. Five centuries since enslaved Africans were brought to North America in a Spanish expedition. Five centuries.
 
At birth, no one is a racist. We are sense organs, unfinished and forming ourselves into human existence. We interact with the world, our senses alert, but if we are not careful, unjust ideologies might capture our minds and dull our senses. We are all too capable of seeing without seeing. Hearing without hearing. “The Lord identifies his chosen ones by their blue eyes.” “They like to be controlled.” “Whiteness is a sign of purity.”  
 
Which sense did we lose that allowed our white European immigrant ancestors to rise each morning for centuries in our shiny white skins, wrapped in the security of sturdy homes, expecting black bodies to labor for our opulence while we dehumanize them? Did our eyes did not see the whips, the shackles, the scars? Was there cotton in our ears when our Constitution was amended, declaring blacks were valued at three fifths a human being? From the cushioned seat of our justice system, we can’t feel the cold gun in the backs of black men, locking them up in humanity’s largest prison. We can’t taste the terror that rises from the back of their throats when a siren signals to pull over for missing a red light. Or for buying cigarettes with a counterfeit $20 bill. 
 
The erosion of conscience is nearly imperceptible. Our parents spoon-feed us bias that tastes delicious. We are shown images that make us smile, learn lullabies passed on from our grandparents and theirs before us, soothing our worried minds. It does not need to be, nor is it very often true that any one spoonful, photograph or song is truly malicious. Their sum total is magnified by historical context, convenience, heredity, unnoticed authoritarianism and woven with a few nefarious strands to create a thought-proof doctrine. We unconsciously move to the far side of the street when a black youth approaches us.  
 
When I snapped out of a cult after 18 years of blind devotion, it was my conscience that woke me up. I heard a fellow group member and friend describe how she was being abused by the cult leader, whom I had placed on a holy pedestal. I knew she was speaking the truth. I could not reconcile the lofty place my psyche had created for our teacher with the fact that he had hurt my friend. This dis-connect caused a crack in the veneer of my indoctrination, letting in the light of conscience. My ability to see and hear reality cleared. I soon left my guru and turned my attention to self-healing from nearly two decades of manipulation and mind control. I also started studying cultic power dynamics where I was stunned to recognize that authoritarian patterns imbedded in the white supremacy movement parallel—in terms of power dynamics—my own experience of cultic abuse. This realization occurs in part through reading and re-reading Rising Out of Hatred, the story of Derek Black’s white flight. (If you have not read it, now is the time. Seriously.) Mr. Black was born into a system that formed his behaviors until his conscience awakened when he recognized that his beliefs were de-humanizing others. 
 
Throughout my years in the cult, I was deprived of uncensored interactions because much of what I did and thought was controlled by my teacher’s rules and/or his ideology. For the last four to five hundred years white American settlers have been deprived of sensory input through implicit bias, political lies, white-washed religion and many other hinderances—some valid, some bullshit. We thrived in our capitalistic society, never aware that our humanity was being systematically diminished. Deprived of conscience, we white Americans were scrounging in the dark while the centuries passed. We voted but did not see how our laws were creating a new form of slavery. Today, the video of George Floyd’s murder by the knee of a nonchalant white police officer is collectively snapping us awake. The light of conscience motivates millions to call out the injustice of our countless brothers and sisters have been harmed and killed. Now is the time to transform the oppressive systems that prop up the entitlement we hide behind. It’s time to truly recon with racial injustice. Let’s do this.  
 
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
Leonard Cohen

Sinking his teeth into a meaty barbecue rib, Sammy stops mid-bite. Self-conscious of his barely noticeable double chin, he’s trying to reduce his consumption of fatty foods. He holds it out towards my plate with a hopeful, messy smile but I’m quick to respond with an emphatic “No.” I’ve finished many of my kid’s suppers, but not this one. Lily would have taken that succulent bone like a prize, returning later with a satisfied grin and dirt on her snout and front paws. But we still ache too much from losing her in the fall to open our hearts to another dog. For now, we are a canine deprived household which is a dilemma for carnivores: what to do with the bones? Small ones go in the compost, worms eventually making magic soil of them. I’m determined to not let food waste end up in a landfill on my watch, so I snap at Sammy “Bring it out for the coyotes if you’re not going to finish it.”  
Too lazy to put on boots to clop through the spring snow out to the woods and me not quick enough to intervene, Sammy throws it off the front porch as hard as he can but it ricochets off a tree and lands just a few feet from the house. 
“Hmph. I guess the coyotes will have to come close to the house.” He mutters. 
“They won’t.” I assure him. We debate if it will be insects or rodents who will find it first. We were both wrong. 
 
‘Quarantining’ and ‘distancing’ are new verbs for modern America, made real by Covid 19. Both words embody restriction of activity, a sloughing off of what is no longer needed even when we had stamped our feet to acquire it. “What’s the scoop with Americans and toilet paper?” one Chinese stand-up comedian asks his Jewish New Yorker friend in an interview. Nervous giggles and a lame explanation turned to uncomfortable guffaws when the comic states frankly, “Like, umm… there areother options.”  I mean really. What distance do we hold from our bodies that we can’t simply wash up? The apocalypse is coming and we scramble for toilet paper, ripping it from our neighbor’s hands in an overcrowded grocery before the imminent shutdown. Today, ‘what can we do without?’, is a daily question and for many privileged ones, a sigh of relief. ‘Taking stock’ shifts from a figure of speech into a literal process of assessment. Need whittles down to truth instead of a gross overstatement. One person takes orders and makes a grocery trip for the whole neighborhood. We make do with a simpler life and learn to live with those we love. So far, I am distanced from personal loss, have food for the table and am in awe of a silver lining in the world’s largest pandemic. 
Beyond the fear and grief, there are miracles. A report from China states that cities, burdened by air pollution are now witnessing consistent blue skies for the first time in years or even decades. Coal burning factories shut down and the air clears itself. In a matter of weeks children who have rarely seen a blue sky now gaze upward in wonder. Elders who knew blue skies before, breathe deeply through their face masks and smile.  Nitrogen dioxide, a pollutant produced when fossil fuels are burned, has decreased by 100 million tonnes in a two-week period. * I don’t know what a tonne is but I read that it is approximately the same amount the entire country of Chile emits in a whole year. 
From Venice, Italy, a country shattered by grief, comes another miracle. After tourist boats and cruise ships clear out, blackened waters quietly settle to crystal clear. Millions of minnows can be seen flitting in these waters and larger fish and birds have ventured into the city’s waterways and sidewalks. Dolphins, their radar honing in on unimaginable despair, swim the rivers. Harbingers of hope for broken hearts. Even here in the United States, where we have been slow to respond, a friend snaps yet another photo from his apartment window of the San Francisco skyline with the ocean beyond. Having seen many a smoggy pic, this one is startlingly clear. He includes the caption: “Never, in 6 years of living here, has this view been thisclear.” One week into the Bay Area’s shelter in place order and air quality experts can measure the difference. 
The Earth’s capacity to rise and fall, expand and contract with whatever we take from her, whatever we dish out, is notmiraculous. It isnotextraordinary. It is her way, so ordinary we cannot see her lessons etched in every tree, every wave. So quiet we cannot hear her whispers murmuring from every stream. Cannot feel the pulse of her tide until it turns into a tsunami. A pandemic that is changing the face of humanity. 
 
A flash of blue outside my studio window catches my eye. A bluejay on my front lawn is pecking at the earth. I stand for a better view, wrapping fingers round my mug of steaming echinacea tea. It keeps pecking at the same spot while I take a long sip. What the heck is she after? I wonder. She swallows tiny unseen bits and then bobs her head with extra intensity and I remember Sammy’s barbecue rib! She whips her head to the side and I gasp at the marble sized hunk she wrestled free. I murmur out-loud to her, “Oh Sweetie, don’t eat too much, you’ll get sick!” But before I could finish my sentence, she flew off with her prize. She landed in a nearby tree before launching on a longer flight across the wide field, her trophy secure in her beak. 
Speechless, I realize I have become so immersed in excess that I assumed the blue jay would follow suit and overeat. I ponder this awhile before it dawns on me: over-consumption is not of Nature. It’s a symptom of dis-ease, a sign of imbalance. A question surfaces: has modern gluttony contributed to our tragic state of affairs today? I wince. I refuse to glorify Covid 19. The complexity of this crisis undoubtedly intersects all aspects of contemporary life: political, economic, environmental, spiritual to name a few, and I believe it will be years, maybe decades before we reallyknow the virus’s origins and full impact on humanity. This should not stop us however, from gleaning insight and consciously shifting our behavior to curb the immoral overuse of the Earth’s resources. The earth does not need us, but we need her. The March 2020 National GeographicThe End of Trash,makes this point in no uncertain terms. In 2015 alone, we extracted 93 billion tons of raw resources from the earth and reused/recycled a mere 9.3 billion. What happened to the nearly 84 billion tons of resources? Buildings, roadways and longstanding infrastructure account for less than a quarter of that. The large majority of what we take from the earth, becomes trash - entering the oceans, dispersed into the atmosphere and covering the land. Is it possible the Covid 19 tragedy can propel the circular economy movement and the conscience of humanity to emerge from this crisis with increased respect for our home, the earth? Air pollution experts warn of the likelihood of “reverse pollution” once the stimulus package kicks into gear. It is possible the environmental gains will be dwarfed once consumerism and overconsumption gets back on its feet. Can we avoid this if we are willing to learn from the birds around us? This bluejay discovered a juicy prize, a blip of enjoyment on life’s radar but possessed the innate wisdom to take only what she needed. And leave the rest. Her behavior heralds a lesson in moderation. 
 
I stop writing mid-sentence, curious to see who else may have benefited from Sammy’s mis-throw. Pulling a sweatshirt over my pajamas, I enter the freezing morning and search for the bone. I kick at dead leaves and fallen branches. I pace back and forth, scanning, noticing tiny holes burrowed into the earth by rodents and beetles. I can’t find the bone. A robin swoops so close to my head I could hear her wing beat. She settles in the maple tree. The sun crests the hill beyond and catches her beak, turning it to translucent amber. It opens and song sublime fills the blue-skied quiet as I imagine a coyote slinking this close to the house, enjoying a juicy springtime tidbit. 
 
*https://www.sciencealert.com/china-s-carbon-emissions-suddenly-dropped-recently-but-not-for-the-best-reasons

That’s a big question for those of us in recovery from spiritual or cultic abuse.  A friend from out of state, who is a therapist told a client, who is a cult survivor, about a support group he might be interested in. He laughed at her. “Join a group? Heck no. Never again. I’m done with groups!” 

A group, a congregation, an organization, a collective, a community - whatever the setting - if violations take place where people who align with the same ideals gather,  you’ve got a complicated mess on your hands. The group surrounding a leader or ideology can exacerbate the trauma caused by abuse of power. In such situations, many of us were publicly shamed for things we did while striving to align with the goals of the group. This is excruciating and humiliating.  If you manage to extricate yourself from that network, Bravo! But even with good therapy and support from friends and family, we can continue to suffer quietly, making it far safer to steer clear of groups altogether. Aversion to groups can actually be a hard-earned survival mechanism. 

Group violation is especially challenging because we are such social beings - as Dr. Dan Siegel, a neuropsychologist, says,  'We are hardwired for connection'. But when that natural instinct has been turned against us and violation occurs in a group setting, be it verbal, emotional, sexual or spiritual, the added layer of pride and shame compounds the experience. By pride, I’m referring to the group think: “we are special” , “we know something others don’t know”  or “we are the chosen ones.” And shame, well, that is a primary means by which a nefarious leader controls his minions - by bringing attention to our failings and keeping us striving. All this, makes it totally understandable that many cult survivors don't want to be in groups.

However... Since we are indeed social critters, I believe that speaking in a group and/or sharing one's story with others in a safe container can be powerful and integrative. I experienced this in my own healing process when I joined Toastmasters, a group that supports members to develop their public speaking abilities. I will never forget my first introductory speech. I visibly shook like a leaf, standing in front of maybe a dozen very kind and supportive people while I stammered out a few sentences, then ran back to my seat and tried very, very hard not to burst into tears. But the next time it was slightly less terrifying. And now, I sometimes can feel amazingly calm and clear when I am talking in a group setting. I think Dan Siegel would attribute this progress to what he calls ‘creating a coherent narrative’ - that my neurological system has settled through the experience of telling, and repeating my story. And, I believe it is more than that. An emotionally safe group setting allowed me to heal and re-establish the positive aspects of tribal instinct. 

There is no question - having a one-on-one therapist who is well versed in spiritual abuse, has been essential to my own healing process. And for me, forays into groups have been equally important. Being seen and accepted as part of a group, and noticing and identifying when something is “off” has unequivocally restored some of my trust in humanity in a way that was not possible through individual relationships. And, as the late, writer and playwright Anton Chekhov, once said, “You must trust and believe in people, or life becomes impossible."  Sometimes, joining a group can rebuild trust in others, making what was once impossible, possible again. ​

​shoulders, restricted breath, hardened feeling in my chest/heart and a general sensation of wanting to break nefarious bonds that were holding me. Holy cow! These are exactly the same feelings I had when I was first working through cult related trauma. But this time, no one was doing anything to me. It was just me, myself and I.  I wasn’t protecting myself from someone who might hurt me and I wasn’t expressing valid anger towards someone who had manipulated me. I was mad at myself. 
 
Of course, this is a completely different level of anger but that fact remains, I was angry. No matter how you slice it, anger is anger. And, at least in my experience, anger tends to create those unpleasant body sensations, not to mention how it can impact those around me. This realization has prompted a new inquiry as I enter 2020. Does anger fuel haste? I’ve launched an unscientific research project on myself - to pay close attention when I’m feeling pressured by time. I’m curious what will happen if I breathe deeply, relax my shoulders, place my hands on my heart and imagine the shackles of time melting away. Can anger still exist? I mean, really, what’s the hurry anyway?!? 

For years, I chased peak experiences. The man who was my teacher for nearly two decades taught me how to grow, how to become more fully alive, how to manifest my true self - through his manipulative guidance. Week after week, I chased the thrill of new insight and labored over minutia that surely hid the key to my higher self. Not one to shy from hard work, I laced up my boots, eager to climb whatever obstacle his dubious guidance revealed. I’d slide into the mud of life only to rebound in my next session, where I would catch a glimpse of the glory that awaited me. 
 
“Come early” I’ve always told travelers, “because once it’s gone, it’s gone.” I knew the first sighting on Rt 14 was the beginning of the end. “One rain storm and it’s over.”
 
Peak experiences are, by definition, transitory. Unless, that is, you have been bitten by the snake of a religion or ideology that claims otherwise. And then you chase peak, like I did, in everything you do and say, poison seeping into your bloodstream, lulling you into a zombied existence and you mistake a cultic gerbil wheel for vistas of God’s glory. I know because I’ve done it.
 
 In cultic settings, there’s often a low-level hysteria that keeps everyone on their toes: alert for a flash of wisdom, or for the other shoe to drop. Perhaps this tension makes the dangling carrot omnipresent, maintaining ‘life in the pressure pot’. 
 
Trees, on the other hand, cycle their presence with a grace of their own. They offer shelter from a blistering sun, a safe harbor for countless species. They provide sturdiness for a weary back and branches that reach for the stars. They communicate through a massive underground nervous system and drop a bounty of nutrients in their fallen ocean each autumn to nourish winter’s seeds. Humans hold sacraments of marriage and death beneath their wide refuge. The generosity of trees astounds me.
 
Cult survivors and seekers alike have much to learn from trees - to temper our lust for the heights, to welcome the ebb and flow of natural rhythms. Could we learn discernment, patience and gratitude from the leaf cycle? I watch leaves drift to earth, send you a silent prayer and breathe deeply. Through observing, tending and thanking the trees I can begin to see myself, and my brothers and sisters with humble eyes and honesty. No one can sustain peak experience year-round. We fall, we hunker down through winter, we bud, swell and leaf out. Can we also learn to recognize when the fool-hardy or dangerous ones present themselves, proselytizing and promising peak experiences? We can shake our heads and watch carefully. And we might still sometimes wish for never ending peak. But we know we won’t get it. And we do our best to find the beauty in stick season. 

Have you ever read a book and thought, if everyone read this, the world will be a better place? Me too.
 
I told Paula about Rising out of Hatred, the Awakening of a Former White Nationalist by Eli Saslow while sipping tea in the Williston Coffee shop.  The book describes the extraordinary journey of the former white supremacist Derek Black who, thanks to his college friends, came to denounce the ideals he was raised on.
 
“This book pierces my heart, speaks directly to our divided country,” I paused, “And it gives me so much HOPE!”. Paula looked at me with compassion, knowing how much Black’s story bores right into my life’s dilemma of awakening after 18 years of cultic involvement. She sighed and said “Yeah, once you see this stuff, you can’t un-see it. “
 
Rising out of Hatred expands on a scrap of news I happened upon just after my own awakening in 2014. “Derek Black, godson to David Duke (the KKK grand wizard), renounces the white supremist movement.”[1]  When I read the article describing Derek’s transformation, I was riveted, not by him, but by his Jewish friend Matthew.  Matthew’s dogged commitment to civil dialogue and refusal to turn his back on Derek, who still secretly hosted a daily talk show for his father’s Alt Right website, were essential to Derek’s slow release from an ideology that cultivates hate for non-whites.   Conversation was the weapon of choice used to ferret out the enemy for Matthew and the few others who gathered for Shabbat every Friday evening for over a year.
 
I too, believe in the immense power of civil dialogue. In my own quiet corner of Vermont, I now co-facilitate community discussion forums called Cults&Culture: exploring power, authority and control in groups. Our mission it to promote understanding and recognition of the power dynamics inherent in cults of all kinds.
 
Back in 2014, when I left a cultic self-help group, I looked around me with new eyes. I saw, felt, heard and witnessed cultic abuse all over:  in the news, in the self-help group a few towns over, in my neighbor’s complaints about the town council, in the pop-up church down the road- and in terrorist groups and gangs world wide. I coined the term Everyday Cults to describe this phenomenon – the existence of pervasive cultic dynamics through every level of society. Suddenly, I could not only relate to these diverse groups but also recognize core traits of my own personality reflected in the members. I could viscerally feel the power their leader held over their thinking and the choices they made.  The mysterious veil of humanity’s dark side lifted, and I realized I was one of a multitude. At first, I was unable to articulate what I knew to be true, but over time, that has changed. Clarity about coercive, cultic dynamics has become the air I breathe, the lens I look through much of the time. I don’t like what I see, but that does not stop me. I like seeing the truth.
 
Hearing one of my colleagues describe the specifics of how she was harmed by the leader of our group created a crack in my psyche’s well-crafted, 18-year framework. I knew she was speaking the truth but that truth did not fit with who I believed our teacher, whom I had placed on a pedestal, truly was. My entire world shifted. In a similar way, through honest dialogue with his friends, Derek Black began to see how his beliefs harmed others. Once he saw this, he could not un-see it.
 
Perhaps it will happen to you too. When you read Rising Out of Hatred, you too will see that which you can’t un-see. Together, as citizens of conscience, we can talk openly about the taboo subjects of cults and power dynamics, and perhaps our honest dialogue will help someone in need.
 
[1] Stormfront Poster Boy Derek Black Renounces White Nationalism, Landau, Erica, July 19, 2013, New Times, Broward Palm Beach.