Category: Donald J Trump

A Message of Hope — A story about friendship, courage, and the small ways hope still finds us.

I have a friend I’ve known since 1980, someone who used to listen to my overnight radio show when she was only sixteen. She would call me in the middle of the night, and we’d talk. I remember wishing her a happy eighteenth birthday at midnight. We met many years later in a grocery store when she was in her thirties, just before Halloween, at a time when my personal life was going through struggles as my wife battled cancer. I hadn’t seen her standing there, but I guess she remembered my voice, and I heard her say with a question mark in her voice, Sanders? And I then remember the voice that had kept me company through a phone so long ago. I like to tell her it was over the Candy Corn aisle, but she denies that memory. Still, I’ve always liked the idea that hope can show up in the corniest places. We’ve remained friends ever since. And before you get the wrong idea and think you know where this is going, here’s where it takes a sharp left.

My friend has been married and has a daughter and a granddaughter. I met her daughter once, when I think she was around eight years old—a beautiful young child. That daughter is now older than her mother was when she used to call that lonely late-night DJ. My friend comes from a religious upbringing, and her daughter, through her own choices, has been pursuing a life in the ministry as a student at a local school.

Here comes that left turn again. A few days ago, I got a message from my friend saying her daughter was preparing to go to Minneapolis, Minnesota, and that she was both proud and petrified. I told her I could understand both. Of course, we all know the horror unfolding in the city.

My friend is well aware of my resistance to the Vietnam War, my time in prison for refusing induction, my involvement with Phil and Dan Berrigan, as well as my own stay in seminary and a basic life of resistance to oppression in all its ugly forms. And I know that’s one reason she chose to tell me about her daughter’s upcoming adventure.

So why am I telling you this story? Because it’s a story of hope. In this world where ugliness is all around us—where women can be shot as their last words still echo in our minds, “I’m not mad at you, dude”; where our president tries to conquer the world and tear down democracy one White House brick at a time; where someone I’ve known and worked with can try to justify what ICE is doing and justify that shooting—when I’m at my darkest and it feels like everyone has lost all sense of morality and right or wrong… out of nowhere, I got a message of hope.

This beautiful young child I met so many years ago is heading into the belly of the beast to try to influence and bear witness to the truth. And I’m sharing this with you because I have friends who feel as scared and disappointed as I have—friends who, in their own ways, have tried to bring truth and hope into the world, who want things to change and get better, and who have felt disappointed, hopeless, and lost as things just keep getting worse.

And maybe part of why this hit me so hard is because this isn’t just anyone’s daughter. This is the daughter of a woman who has been woven through almost half my life—a friend who once called a lonely late-night DJ at sixteen, who somehow stayed woven through the fabric of my life through decades of change, disappointment, and small miracles. I care what happens to her. I care what happens to her daughter. And knowing that this young woman is stepping into the world with courage, conviction, and a sense of calling… well, that felt like a comforting hand on my shoulder in a dark room.

Hope doesn’t always arrive with trumpets. Sometimes it shows up as a message from an old friend, telling you her daughter is heading into the storm because she believes in something better. She leaves on Wednesday. And for a moment—just long enough—you remember that belief is still possible, and you feel yourself steady a bit. I hope this story offers the same small steadiness to anyone who’s felt their strength wavering.

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Matches and Money: A Sanctuary Strategy for Resistance

Tomorrow, Saturday, October 18th, is the nationwide “No Kings March”. And I’ve been beating myself silly because this time I’ve decided that I can’t go—not that I don’t want to, but that I can’t. The primary reason is that my back has been so bad this week, I’ve spent most of my time in what’s called the non-violent prone position. In this case, that means flat on my bed.

And while I was lying there, writing the great American resistance novel on my ceiling, I kept thinking about an article I’d just read by Brian Huba published in”The Hill” today, October 17th. He was talking about another form of resistance—one I’ve always believed in. The kind that hits them where it hurts: the pocketbook.

Now, I’m not pretending that my low participation in the general ebb and flow of the almighty buying power of the dollar will make much difference. And I’m not saying it can replace the power of demonstration—of people gathering to make our voices heard and to send a signal, both to each other and to the Gestapo in DC: ‘We are not alone.’

But I’ve been thinking about pressure. Not the kind that crushes, but the kind that carves. The type that reshapes stone into sanctuary. And lately, I’ve come to believe that the most potent pressure we can apply—politically, spiritually, economically—is a two-part ritual: matches and money.

Let me explain.

We’ve been taught to march. To chant. To gather in the streets with cardboard signs and aching knees. And yes, there’s power in that, and there’s power in the crowd. But maybe the real revolution isn’t in the march, but in the match? Not the kind that burns buildings. The kind that lights candles. That ignites awareness. That says: ‘I see what you’re doing, and I will not fund it.’

Because the truth is: the system doesn’t fear our voices. It loves our wallets, our money, and it fears losing them. It fears our cancellations, our divestments, our refusal to play along. When we cancel a subscription, we’re not just saving $14.99—we’re pulling a thread from the tapestry of complicity. When we stop feeding the beast, the beast gets hungry.

Brian Huba said it plainly: maybe the most radical thing we can do right now isn’t to protest in the streets, but to unsubscribe, to stop paying for platforms that profit from our pain. To match our outrage with economic consequences.

So, I’m lighting matches. Quiet ones. Symbolic ones. I’m canceling, redirecting, reimagining. I’m spending like a poet—every dollar a stanza, every boycott a verse. I’m building a sanctuary where resistance isn’t just loud, it’s strategic.

Because when matches meet money, we don’t just protest. We pressure. We don’t just speak. We shift.

And yes—I will march again.

But first, I get the MRI.

First, I listen to the good doctors—the ones I trust to tell me how to walk without pain, how to stand without flinching.

Because resistance isn’t just about showing up. It’s about showing up whole.

And when I do march again, and I will return, I’ll be carrying my flag and my banners, not just as protest, but as testimony.

Proof that healing is part of the revolution, too.

—Dan

Rambling Harbor, where even the receipts are revolutionary

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