Eulogy for a Friend
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/eulogy_for_a_friend_20150823/
Posted on Aug 23, 2015
By Chris Hedges
The Rev. Terry Burke. (Kathy Bangerter)
On Wednesday, Chris Hedges delivered this eulogy at the funeral of his
friend and former divinity school classmate, the Rev. Terry Burke, who spent
31 years as the pastor of the First Church Jamaica Plain, a Unitarian
Universalist church in a working-class neighborhood of Boston. The service
was held at the church.
The night Terry died it was raining. Lightning streaks rent the sky. I
walked after I left the hospital in the downpour to Harvard Divinity School
on Francis Avenue. I did not go there because of nostalgia for the divinity
school. Terry and I had more than enough of Harvard's elitism-which he had
already got a good taste of as a Harvard undergraduate-and the university's
propensity to turn the poor and the oppressed into airy abstractions. Most
divinity students and nearly all divinity school professors stayed clear
from the inner city of Roxbury [a poor, primarily African-American
neighborhood in Boston], where Terry and I lived and worked. Being an
intellectual, Harvard showed us, is morally neutral.
But I wanted to look at the darkened Gothic stone face of Andover Hall
because it was where Terry and I were young. It is where we studied to be
pastors. It was where we built a lifelong friendship. It was where we tried
to fathom what it meant to live a life of faith. It was where we understood
that if truth was to be heard, as Theodor Adorno wrote, suffering must be
allowed to speak. It was where our ministry began.
It does not seem that long ago. I can still see him making his massive pot
of red beans that we kept in the refrigerator in Roxbury and ate night after
night, sometimes cold, because we had no money and because it was the only
thing he or I knew how to cook. We were readers. Money, when we had it, was
spent on books. We traded books back and forth, Will Campbell's "Brother to
a Dragonfly," Daniel Berrigan's "No Bars to Manhood," Paul Tillich, Reinhold
Niebuhr, the work of our great mentor at Harvard James Luther Adams, James
Cone's "Black Theology & Black Power," Cornel West's "Prophesy
Deliverance!," Flannery O'Connor, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Samuel Beckett, James
Joyce, William Stringfellow, and poems by Emily Dickinson, William Butler
Yeats, W.H. Auden, T.S. Eliot, Langston Hughes, and the works of William
Shakespeare. As Terry was nearing death he told [his wife] Ellen: "I am
shuffling off this mortal coil."
Ellen's arrival into Terry's life-I heard a lot about her before I met
her-made him giddy with joy. He talked about her incessantly, her red hair,
her warmth, her love of music. He told me that when they were walking in
Central Park in New York City a man shouted to him that he should marry that
"big, beautiful woman." Which Terry, being Terry, probably decided was a
commandment from God. And perhaps it was. As his health declined, he folded,
physically and spiritually, into Ellen's embrace. She was his angel. And he
knew this. Never, he told me, did he love Ellen so much as when he knew he
was facing death.
Ellen, miraculously, knew how to cook things other than large vats of red
beans. And not only that, she was willing to teach this culinary knowledge
to Terry, including how to bake bread. Yes, he may not have graduated much
beyond pasta and overly steamed carrots, but this was still a great leap
forward. I had the habit of arriving, usually unannounced, at dinnertime to
visit Terry and Ellen at their basement apartment in Cambridge. There was
always another plate on the table. I still feel a little guilty about this,
Ellen.
Terry and Ellen-she played the organ and handled the music-have given 31
years of their lives to this church. They have been here on Sundays. They
have presided over weddings, baptisms, funerals, church suppers, retreats,
Sunday school, Christmas pageants and the blessing of the animals, including
the stuffed animals. They made this church a real church, where all-trans
and straight, men and women, from those who were healthy to those struggling
with HIV, from black to brown to Asian to white, from the disabled to the
abled, from the young to the old, the well-off to the destitute, the sober
and those trying to become sober-found respect, reassurance and community.
The remarkable intertwining of the lives of Ellen and Terry to create a
thing of beauty, a thing we cannot see or touch but can only feel and sense,
is what ministry is about. If there is a more meaningful way to spend a life
I do not know it.
Terry had a fondness for puns, which I do not share, and he looked somewhat
askance at my nocturnal carousing and membership on the Greater Boston YMCA
boxing team. He loathed disharmony and violence. He had the seriousness of a
scholar, and while I admired him for it, I was too easily distracted by the
passions of the world.
Terry knew early on, as Montaigne wrote in "To Philosophize Is to Learn How
to Die," that we must constantly examine and slay the old self to create a
better self. This is the act ritualized in the Eucharist. A constant death.
A constant rebirth. And it is why the Eucharist meant so much to him. The
ancient church rituals, icons and saints, the liturgical music, the
formality of high Mass buttressed this death and rebirth. These props,
symbols and rituals offer guidance and support that many Protestant
denominations, stripped down to a dangerous intellectualism and rationalism,
often fail to provide.
In the Dark or Middle Ages Terry would have been an abbot, singing Gregorian
chants in a long black robe before sunrise, leading high Mass with rows of
candles and incense no doubt wafting upwards from a swinging thurible. He
would, much as he did in this church, have provided refuge to pilgrims,
nurtured the sick, fed the poor, educated the children, comforted the
bereaved, denounced the oppressor and copied out Aristotle, Cicero, Virgil
and Catullus so it would not be lost to human civilization. ...
I loved Terry for his brilliance, his deep intellectual curiosity, his
humility and his incredible compassion and gentleness. He hated emails. He
sent handwritten notes, often on cards he had taken the time to pick out, to
say thank you or express condolences or tell you he was thinking of you. I
expect that nearly everyone in this church today received such notes, along
with books he thought you should read or small gifts he wanted you to have.
There was something very human about this practice in an age of instant
electronic communication. I will miss his handwritten messages. I will miss
the books he sent. One of his last gifts to me were the three volumes of
"The Gulag Archipelago." And when I came to Boston this past year to visit,
we would talk about Solzhenitsyn's insight into human nature, oppression,
resistance and faith.
Solzhenitsyn writes of a Serb, a teacher in forced exile in the Soviet Union
named Georgi Stepanovich Mitrovich. He had been recently freed from the
camps. Mitrovich would not give up his dogged battle with local authorities
for justice for his students. The description of Mitrovich is a description
of Terry.
"His battle was utterly hopeless, and he knew it," Solzhenitsyn wrote. "No
one could unravel that tangled skein. And if he had won hands down, it would
have done nothing to improve the social order, the system. It would have
been no more than a brief, vague gleam of hope in one narrow little spot,
quickly swallowed by the clouds. Nothing that victory might bring could
balance the risk of rearrest-which was the price he might pay (only the
Khrushchev era saved Mitrovich). Yes, his battle was hopeless, but it was
human to be outraged by injustice, even to the point of courting
destruction! His struggle could only end in defeat-but no one could possibly
call it useless. If we had not all been so sensible, not all been forever
whining to each other: 'It won't help! It can't do any good!" our land would
have been quite different. Mitrovich was not even a citizen-he was only an
exile-but the district authorities feared the flash of his spectacles."
Terry, who came from a working-class family in Flint, Mich., and whose
fierce loyalty to workingmen and -women and the destitute never waivered,
chose sides. He stood with the oppressed. Life was about making the world a
more humane place. It was about treating everyone with dignity.
He knew the dark side of human nature and the tragedy of human history. He
knew the propensity of human beings to do what we should not do. He wanted
to save souls, which meant saving people from squandering their lives
chasing wealth, power or fame. And this was only possible, he knew, if we
placed the sacred at the center of existence, if we realized that in the end
it is not about us but about our neighbor, about the stranger, about the
outcast and about this precious planet that we must protect.
If you stand with the oppressed you get treated like the oppressed. You have
enemies. You evoke hatred. You can be killed. Terry, when he visited with me
in El Salvador during the war, was profoundly moved by the mortal danger
church workers, who documented and denounced the savagery of the death
squads, faced daily. Many paid for this witness with their lives. This is
what it means to lift up the cross. It is the fundamental call of the
Christian gospel. It was why Christ accepted suffering, why Christ was
abandoned, beaten and left to die alone on a cross. There is no justice
without self-sacrifice. Loving deeply hurts. And Terry bore this hurt.
Confronting evil has a price. And we must be willing to pay this price. And
this is why Terry was willing to go to jail in acts of civil disobedience
for workers who had lost their jobs and to defy fossil fuel corporations
that are destroying the Earth.
Flannery O'Connor, in a passage Terry loved, recognized that a life of faith
entailed a life of confrontation. "St. Cyril of Jerusalem, in instructing
catechumens, wrote: 'The dragon sits by the side of the road, watching those
who pass. Beware lest he devour you. We go to the Father of Souls, but it is
necessary to pass by the dragon.' No matter what form the dragon may take,
it is of this mysterious passage past him, or into his jaws, that stories of
any depth will always be concerned to tell, and this being the case, it
requires considerable courage at any time, in any country, not to turn away
from the storyteller."
For Terry, simple human kindness, divorced from creeds or freed from
ideology or religious doctrine, kindness that does not ask if the recipient
deserves this kindness, is, as Vasily Grossman wrote, "what is most truly
human in a human being." And this kindness, as Grossman wrote, "is powerful
only while it is powerless. If Man [or woman] tries to give it power, it
dims, fades away, loses itself, vanishes." The highest morality is the
morality of kindness. It is higher than a morality based on principles,
doctrines or creeds. It is one person reaching out because another is alone,
in despair or in distress. Nothing is nobler than a life dedicated to caring
for others. And kindness, as Rousseau wrote, is the single quality that
makes possible all other "social virtues." Terry lived by this. And because
of that, his life was magnificent.
Willow, Amelia and Lucy [Terry's children] were raised, as I was raised, in
the embrace of a church community whose beating heart was their mother and
father. And, years from now, you will run into someone who will tell you how
your mother or your father helped them to endure tremendous suffering or
showed them kindness when no one else would. These are the invisible acts
that go into a ministry. They are tiny miracles. And there are many, many
people in this church whose lives, if not made whole, were made endurable
because your parents cared. And this is what we are called to do.
We face today the mystery of life, death and love. In the great,
inconceivable span of time that is the universe, all of us are ephemerons,
creatures whose lights momentarily sparkle and then vanish. How to use this
brief gift of light. This is what Terry showed us. When you use your light
to sustain and nurture others, that light is eternal. It passes from soul to
soul. It is with you. It is with me. It is with everyone in this
congregation. It is Terry.
I want to speak especially to you, his beloved children, Willow, Amelia and
Lucy, who were the alpha and omega of his existence, of whom he was so proud
and whom he loved so deeply, to tell you this: The awful, gut-wrenching pain
you feel will transform into something beautiful. Your father, for the rest
of your life, will be your inner witness. His life will illuminate and guide
your own. When you stand up for the wretched of the earth, Palestinians in
Gaza, single mothers and their children in homeless shelters, those
discriminated against because of their race or their sexual orientation, the
impoverished and the neglected, those gunned down in the streets by police
because they are poor people of color, when you carry out simple acts of
kindness, when empathy makes you demand justice, you will feel your father's
spirit. He will be with you. I know this for a fact. I carry my own father's
presence within me. He was a pastor who, too, was good and kind. Every word
I utter, every act I make, is done in fealty to my father. It is my voice
you hear, but these are his words. And so it will be with you. And one day
there will be solace in this.
The light of goodness and justice that Terry passed to you, to all of us,
will be lit again and again through acts of kindness, especially to those
deemed unworthy of kindness. It will continue to multiply and ripple across
the landscape. This light has a name. It is love. It never dies. The
capacity to love this deeply, the capacity to know that love calls us to
take upon the suffering of others, is what made your father a great, great
man. It is why I believe in God. It is why I believe in the resurrection. It
is why I will always carry your father within me.
http://www.truthdig.com/ http://www.truthdig.com/
Eulogy for a Friend
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/eulogy_for_a_friend_20150823/
Posted on Aug 23, 2015
By Chris Hedges
The Rev. Terry Burke. (Kathy Bangerter)
On Wednesday, Chris Hedges delivered this eulogy at the funeral of his
friend and former divinity school classmate, the Rev. Terry Burke, who spent
31 years as the pastor of the First Church Jamaica Plain, a Unitarian
Universalist church in a working-class neighborhood of Boston. The service
was held at the church.
The night Terry died it was raining. Lightning streaks rent the sky. I
walked after I left the hospital in the downpour to Harvard Divinity School
on Francis Avenue. I did not go there because of nostalgia for the divinity
school. Terry and I had more than enough of Harvard's elitism-which he had
already got a good taste of as a Harvard undergraduate-and the university's
propensity to turn the poor and the oppressed into airy abstractions. Most
divinity students and nearly all divinity school professors stayed clear
from the inner city of Roxbury [a poor, primarily African-American
neighborhood in Boston], where Terry and I lived and worked. Being an
intellectual, Harvard showed us, is morally neutral.
But I wanted to look at the darkened Gothic stone face of Andover Hall
because it was where Terry and I were young. It is where we studied to be
pastors. It was where we built a lifelong friendship. It was where we tried
to fathom what it meant to live a life of faith. It was where we understood
that if truth was to be heard, as Theodor Adorno wrote, suffering must be
allowed to speak. It was where our ministry began.
It does not seem that long ago. I can still see him making his massive pot
of red beans that we kept in the refrigerator in Roxbury and ate night after
night, sometimes cold, because we had no money and because it was the only
thing he or I knew how to cook. We were readers. Money, when we had it, was
spent on books. We traded books back and forth, Will Campbell's "Brother to
a Dragonfly," Daniel Berrigan's "No Bars to Manhood," Paul Tillich, Reinhold
Niebuhr, the work of our great mentor at Harvard James Luther Adams, James
Cone's "Black Theology & Black Power," Cornel West's "Prophesy
Deliverance!," Flannery O'Connor, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Samuel Beckett, James
Joyce, William Stringfellow, and poems by Emily Dickinson, William Butler
Yeats, W.H. Auden, T.S. Eliot, Langston Hughes, and the works of William
Shakespeare. As Terry was nearing death he told [his wife] Ellen: "I am
shuffling off this mortal coil."
Ellen's arrival into Terry's life-I heard a lot about her before I met
her-made him giddy with joy. He talked about her incessantly, her red hair,
her warmth, her love of music. He told me that when they were walking in
Central Park in New York City a man shouted to him that he should marry that
"big, beautiful woman." Which Terry, being Terry, probably decided was a
commandment from God. And perhaps it was. As his health declined, he folded,
physically and spiritually, into Ellen's embrace. She was his angel. And he
knew this. Never, he told me, did he love Ellen so much as when he knew he
was facing death.
Ellen, miraculously, knew how to cook things other than large vats of red
beans. And not only that, she was willing to teach this culinary knowledge
to Terry, including how to bake bread. Yes, he may not have graduated much
beyond pasta and overly steamed carrots, but this was still a great leap
forward. I had the habit of arriving, usually unannounced, at dinnertime to
visit Terry and Ellen at their basement apartment in Cambridge. There was
always another plate on the table. I still feel a little guilty about this,
Ellen.
Terry and Ellen-she played the organ and handled the music-have given 31
years of their lives to this church. They have been here on Sundays. They
have presided over weddings, baptisms, funerals, church suppers, retreats,
Sunday school, Christmas pageants and the blessing of the animals, including
the stuffed animals. They made this church a real church, where all-trans
and straight, men and women, from those who were healthy to those struggling
with HIV, from black to brown to Asian to white, from the disabled to the
abled, from the young to the old, the well-off to the destitute, the sober
and those trying to become sober-found respect, reassurance and community.
The remarkable intertwining of the lives of Ellen and Terry to create a
thing of beauty, a thing we cannot see or touch but can only feel and sense,
is what ministry is about. If there is a more meaningful way to spend a life
I do not know it.
Terry had a fondness for puns, which I do not share, and he looked somewhat
askance at my nocturnal carousing and membership on the Greater Boston YMCA
boxing team. He loathed disharmony and violence. He had the seriousness of a
scholar, and while I admired him for it, I was too easily distracted by the
passions of the world.
Terry knew early on, as Montaigne wrote in "To Philosophize Is to Learn How
to Die," that we must constantly examine and slay the old self to create a
better self. This is the act ritualized in the Eucharist. A constant death.
A constant rebirth. And it is why the Eucharist meant so much to him. The
ancient church rituals, icons and saints, the liturgical music, the
formality of high Mass buttressed this death and rebirth. These props,
symbols and rituals offer guidance and support that many Protestant
denominations, stripped down to a dangerous intellectualism and rationalism,
often fail to provide.
In the Dark or Middle Ages Terry would have been an abbot, singing Gregorian
chants in a long black robe before sunrise, leading high Mass with rows of
candles and incense no doubt wafting upwards from a swinging thurible. He
would, much as he did in this church, have provided refuge to pilgrims,
nurtured the sick, fed the poor, educated the children, comforted the
bereaved, denounced the oppressor and copied out Aristotle, Cicero, Virgil
and Catullus so it would not be lost to human civilization. ...
I loved Terry for his brilliance, his deep intellectual curiosity, his
humility and his incredible compassion and gentleness. He hated emails. He
sent handwritten notes, often on cards he had taken the time to pick out, to
say thank you or express condolences or tell you he was thinking of you. I
expect that nearly everyone in this church today received such notes, along
with books he thought you should read or small gifts he wanted you to have.
There was something very human about this practice in an age of instant
electronic communication. I will miss his handwritten messages. I will miss
the books he sent. One of his last gifts to me were the three volumes of
"The Gulag Archipelago." And when I came to Boston this past year to visit,
we would talk about Solzhenitsyn's insight into human nature, oppression,
resistance and faith.
Solzhenitsyn writes of a Serb, a teacher in forced exile in the Soviet Union
named Georgi Stepanovich Mitrovich. He had been recently freed from the
camps. Mitrovich would not give up his dogged battle with local authorities
for justice for his students. The description of Mitrovich is a description
of Terry.
"His battle was utterly hopeless, and he knew it," Solzhenitsyn wrote. "No
one could unravel that tangled skein. And if he had won hands down, it would
have done nothing to improve the social order, the system. It would have
been no more than a brief, vague gleam of hope in one narrow little spot,
quickly swallowed by the clouds. Nothing that victory might bring could
balance the risk of rearrest-which was the price he might pay (only the
Khrushchev era saved Mitrovich). Yes, his battle was hopeless, but it was
human to be outraged by injustice, even to the point of courting
destruction! His struggle could only end in defeat-but no one could possibly
call it useless. If we had not all been so sensible, not all been forever
whining to each other: 'It won't help! It can't do any good!" our land would
have been quite different. Mitrovich was not even a citizen-he was only an
exile-but the district authorities feared the flash of his spectacles."
Terry, who came from a working-class family in Flint, Mich., and whose
fierce loyalty to workingmen and -women and the destitute never waivered,
chose sides. He stood with the oppressed. Life was about making the world a
more humane place. It was about treating everyone with dignity.
He knew the dark side of human nature and the tragedy of human history. He
knew the propensity of human beings to do what we should not do. He wanted
to save souls, which meant saving people from squandering their lives
chasing wealth, power or fame. And this was only possible, he knew, if we
placed the sacred at the center of existence, if we realized that in the end
it is not about us but about our neighbor, about the stranger, about the
outcast and about this precious planet that we must protect.
If you stand with the oppressed you get treated like the oppressed. You have
enemies. You evoke hatred. You can be killed. Terry, when he visited with me
in El Salvador during the war, was profoundly moved by the mortal danger
church workers, who documented and denounced the savagery of the death
squads, faced daily. Many paid for this witness with their lives. This is
what it means to lift up the cross. It is the fundamental call of the
Christian gospel. It was why Christ accepted suffering, why Christ was
abandoned, beaten and left to die alone on a cross. There is no justice
without self-sacrifice. Loving deeply hurts. And Terry bore this hurt.
Confronting evil has a price. And we must be willing to pay this price. And
this is why Terry was willing to go to jail in acts of civil disobedience
for workers who had lost their jobs and to defy fossil fuel corporations
that are destroying the Earth.
Flannery O'Connor, in a passage Terry loved, recognized that a life of faith
entailed a life of confrontation. "St. Cyril of Jerusalem, in instructing
catechumens, wrote: 'The dragon sits by the side of the road, watching those
who pass. Beware lest he devour you. We go to the Father of Souls, but it is
necessary to pass by the dragon.' No matter what form the dragon may take,
it is of this mysterious passage past him, or into his jaws, that stories of
any depth will always be concerned to tell, and this being the case, it
requires considerable courage at any time, in any country, not to turn away
from the storyteller."
For Terry, simple human kindness, divorced from creeds or freed from
ideology or religious doctrine, kindness that does not ask if the recipient
deserves this kindness, is, as Vasily Grossman wrote, "what is most truly
human in a human being." And this kindness, as Grossman wrote, "is powerful
only while it is powerless. If Man [or woman] tries to give it power, it
dims, fades away, loses itself, vanishes." The highest morality is the
morality of kindness. It is higher than a morality based on principles,
doctrines or creeds. It is one person reaching out because another is alone,
in despair or in distress. Nothing is nobler than a life dedicated to caring
for others. And kindness, as Rousseau wrote, is the single quality that
makes possible all other "social virtues." Terry lived by this. And because
of that, his life was magnificent.
Willow, Amelia and Lucy [Terry's children] were raised, as I was raised, in
the embrace of a church community whose beating heart was their mother and
father. And, years from now, you will run into someone who will tell you how
your mother or your father helped them to endure tremendous suffering or
showed them kindness when no one else would. These are the invisible acts
that go into a ministry. They are tiny miracles. And there are many, many
people in this church whose lives, if not made whole, were made endurable
because your parents cared. And this is what we are called to do.
We face today the mystery of life, death and love. In the great,
inconceivable span of time that is the universe, all of us are ephemerons,
creatures whose lights momentarily sparkle and then vanish. How to use this
brief gift of light. This is what Terry showed us. When you use your light
to sustain and nurture others, that light is eternal. It passes from soul to
soul. It is with you. It is with me. It is with everyone in this
congregation. It is Terry.
I want to speak especially to you, his beloved children, Willow, Amelia and
Lucy, who were the alpha and omega of his existence, of whom he was so proud
and whom he loved so deeply, to tell you this: The awful, gut-wrenching pain
you feel will transform into something beautiful. Your father, for the rest
of your life, will be your inner witness. His life will illuminate and guide
your own. When you stand up for the wretched of the earth, Palestinians in
Gaza, single mothers and their children in homeless shelters, those
discriminated against because of their race or their sexual orientation, the
impoverished and the neglected, those gunned down in the streets by police
because they are poor people of color, when you carry out simple acts of
kindness, when empathy makes you demand justice, you will feel your father's
spirit. He will be with you. I know this for a fact. I carry my own father's
presence within me. He was a pastor who, too, was good and kind. Every word
I utter, every act I make, is done in fealty to my father. It is my voice
you hear, but these are his words. And so it will be with you. And one day
there will be solace in this.
The light of goodness and justice that Terry passed to you, to all of us,
will be lit again and again through acts of kindness, especially to those
deemed unworthy of kindness. It will continue to multiply and ripple across
the landscape. This light has a name. It is love. It never dies. The
capacity to love this deeply, the capacity to know that love calls us to
take upon the suffering of others, is what made your father a great, great
man. It is why I believe in God. It is why I believe in the resurrection. It
is why I will always carry your father within me.
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/why_listening_to_netanyahu_on_iran_diplo
macy_is_just_plain_daft_20150824/
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/why_listening_to_netanyahu_on_iran_diplo
macy_is_just_plain_daft_20150824/
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/why_listening_to_netanyahu_on_iran_diplo
macy_is_just_plain_daft_20150824/
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/video_californias_corporate_welfare_prob
lem_20150823/
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/video_californias_corporate_welfare_prob
lem_20150823/
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/video_californias_corporate_welfare_prob
lem_20150823/
http://www.truthdig.com/eartotheground/item/islamic_state_destroys_ancient_t
emple_in_syria_20150823/
http://www.truthdig.com/eartotheground/item/islamic_state_destroys_ancient_t
emple_in_syria_20150823/
http://www.truthdig.com/eartotheground/item/islamic_state_destroys_ancient_t
emple_in_syria_20150823/
http://www.truthdig.com/eartotheground/item/study_suggests_traumas_effects_c
an_register_20150823/
http://www.truthdig.com/eartotheground/item/study_suggests_traumas_effects_c
an_register_20150823/
http://www.truthdig.com/eartotheground/item/study_suggests_traumas_effects_c
an_register_20150823/ http://www.truthdig.com/ http://www.truthdig.com/
http://www.truthdig.com/about/http://www.truthdig.com/contact/http://www.tru
thdig.com/user_agreement/http://www.truthdig.com/privacy_policy/http://www.t
ruthdig.com/about/comment_policy/
C 2015 Truthdig, LLC. All rights reserved.
http://www.hopstudios.com/
http://support.truthdig.com/signup_page/subscribe
http://support.truthdig.com/signup_page/subscribe
http://www.facebook.com/truthdighttp://twitter.com/intent/follow?source=foll
owbutton&variant=1.0&screen_name=truthdighttps://plus.google.com/+truthdight
tp://www.linkedin.com/company/truthdighttp://truthdig.tumblr.com/http://www.
truthdig.com/connect