As a kid in the fifties, my
faith was informed by the
powerbrokers reeling from
Roosevelt’s form of faith
informed, perhaps, by com-
passion or, at least, an
understanding of the preamble
where it mentions the common
welfare — the seemingly lost
half to the much more popular
“common defense.” But the
beasty boys cunningly appeal-
ed to the vanity of politicians
and preachers who yearned for
recognition, fame and power
and so, were seduced by the
god of mammon and the gospel
of prosperity kicked into
high gear. In our tribal
god we trusted and under our
tribal God we lived our bless-
ed, capitalist lives. My dad
thought they were twins
and, for a time, I did, too.
Everybody in my lily-white
suburb did. I think back then
only blacks got Jesus. But
I had a really good Sunday
School teacher, who, surely
unbeknownst to herself, taught
revolution — the Sermon on the
Mount, and Jesus, the swarthy-
skinned, kinky-haired, short
guy eventually entered my “lily-
white” heart and I’ve been at
odds with most of my relatives
ever since.