What happens when a government decides that one

of the greatest threats to its future isn't an armed force

— but a cultural institution?

On July 4th, America's 250th birthday, the White House Domestic Policy Council released a 162-page report accusing the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History of "ideological capture."

Twenty days later, the President signed a second executive order directing federal agencies to force the museum to change how it tells the country's story. Host Bill Cleveland lays out the specifics: the named exhibits, the named staff, the quiet stall in confirming new members of the Smithsonian's governing board — and asks what it means when a nation stops trusting itself to hold a complicated history.

Drawing on decades of work with artists in Serbia, Cambodia, Northern Ireland, and Watts, California, and revisiting labor leader Ken Grossinger's conversation about Bryan Stevenson's Legacy Sites in Montgomery Alabama, Cleveland makes the case that culture is never a side issue. Authoritarian movements go after artists first, not for their political power, but because artists shape imagination itself. This episode is about why museums, memorials, and community art aren't warehouses of old objects, but living civic spaces where democracy is practiced, one story at a time.

In this episode we explore:

1. How an government report, an executive order, and a quiet stall in board appointments aren't three separate stories, they're one strategy for defining and controlling America's history moving through official channels.
2. Why authoritarian movements attack culture first because stories shape what people believe is possible, before governments can control people, they go for the imagination.
3. Democracy isn't only a system to defend; it's a creative practice — rehearsed in murals, story circles, museums, and neighborhood theater as much as in legislatures.

If this show sparks your curiosity we invite you to visit this ART IS CHANGE Collection: Art In Action: Stories of Artists Making a Difference in These Tumultuous Times

Notable Mentions

People

• Lonnie G. Bunch III — 14th Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution; responded to the White House report by defending the museum's commitment to "scholarship, accuracy" and telling the fullness of America's story.

• Bryan Stevenson — Founder and Executive Director of the Equal Justice Initiative; led the creation of the Legacy Museum, National Memorial for Peace and Justice, Freedom Monument Sculpture Park, and Montgomery Square in Montgomery, Alabama.

• Ken Grossinger — Labor and social-justice strategist, author of Art Works: How Organizers and Artists Are Creating a Better World Together, and guest on a prior Art Is Change episode discussing the EJI Legacy Sites.

• Alice Lovelace — Atlanta-based poet, performer, and cultural organizer; a recurring voice on the podcast, quoted here on how every generation believes it's living through unprecedented times.

Organizations & Institutions

• The Charles F. Kettering Foundation — The Charles F. Kettering Foundation, headquartered in Dayton, Ohio, is a nonpartisan, nonprofit, operating foundation with a mission to advance inclusive democracies worldwide by fostering citizen engagement, promoting government accountability, and countering authoritarianism.

• Democracy and the Arts — The Kettering Foundation’s focus area for integrating the power of the arts into democratic life locally, nationally, and globally.

• Center for the Study of Art and Community — The producing organization behind Art Is Change, founded by Bill Cleveland in 1991 to build partnerships between artists and communities.

• Smithsonian Institution / National Museum of American History — The federal museum complex, and specifically the history museum, at the center of the report and executive orders discussed in this episode.

• Smithsonian Board of Regents — The 17-member body that governs the Smithsonian, including the Vice President and the Chief Justice; currently has unfilled seats amid an unusually slow confirmation process.

• White House Domestic Policy Council — The office that produced the "Saving America's Story" report and is directed, under the July 24 order, to help enforce its recommendations.

• Charles F. Kettering Foundation — Nonpartisan foundation whose Democracy and the Arts program partnered with Art Is Change to produce this Art in Action series.

• Equal Justice Initiative — Montgomery, Alabama-based human rights organization founded by Bryan Stevenson; operates the Legacy Sites referenced in Part Two.

Publications, Exhibits & Curricula

• "Saving America's Story: How Ideological Capture at the Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of American History Erases Our Heritage" — The 162-page White House Domestic Policy Council report released July 4, 2026, that touched off the events discussed in this episode.

• Executive Order 14253, "Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History" — Signed March 27, 2025; ordered the review of the Smithsonian that produced the July 2026 report.

• "Restoring Trust in the Smithsonian Institution" — The second executive order, signed July 24, 2026, directing federal agencies to act on the report's findings.

• "Many Voices, One Nation" — Permanent NMAH exhibition exploring how many communities have shaped the nation; named in the White House report as an example of the museum's approach.

• "Upending 1620: Where Do We Begin?" — NMAH exhibit examining early encounters between Wampanoag peoples and English colonists, also cited in the report.

• "American Democracy: A Great Leap of Faith" — NMAH exhibition on the evolving American experiment in self-government.

• "Becoming US" — NMAH's national education curriculum teaching U.S. history through the lens of migration; criticized in the White House report.

• "Block Bridge Build: Stories of Activist Artists and Cultural Organizers Making a Difference in These Tumultuous Times" — A collection of ART IS CHANGE episodes that explore how arts activism and cultural organizing function as pro-democracy infrastructure.

Historical Events & Movements

• The Milošević era in Serbia (1989–2000) — The period of authoritarian rule in Serbia during which Cleveland worked with Belgrade theater artists engaged in public, improvisational protest.

• The Khmer Rouge and its aftermath in Cambodia — Referenced for the post-genocide work of recovering traditional dance, music, and storytelling as part of rebuilding the social fabric.

• The Troubles in Northern Ireland — The decades-long conflict Cleveland draws on for the idea that shared curiosity about other communities' stories, not just agreement, is where peace begins.

• The Equal Justice Initiative's Legacy Sites — The Legacy Museum, National Memorial for Peace and Justice, Freedom Monument Sculpture Park, and Montgomery Square, tracing the line from the transatlantic slave trade to mass incarceration.

This transcript has been lightly edited for readability.

Bill Cleveland

Hey there. So what happens when a government decides that one of the greatest threats to its future is not an armed force, but a cultural institution?

From the Center for the Study of Art and Community, this is Art Is Change, a chronicle of art and social change where activist artists and cultural organizers share the strategies and skills they need to thrive as creative community leaders. My name is Bill Cleveland.

This episode is part of a special Art in Action series produced in partnership with the Charles F. Kettering Foundation's Democracy in the Arts program. In these episodes, we'll be speaking with artists, cultural organizers and arts leaders who are navigating and challenging current efforts to limit free creative expression and free speech. Together, we'll explore what freedom of expression means in practice, not as an abstract right, but as a lived responsibility at the heart of democratic life.

Part One: Another Headline

Every once in a while, something happens that looks like just another political controversy, just another story in an endless news cycle. Then, if you stop long enough to look beneath the headlines, you realize that you're seeing something much larger. I think we're living through one of those moments at this time.

And American: A Great Leap of Faith, which the report objects to for suggesting that Americans inherited beliefs and institutions that perpetuated inequality. It also criticizes the museum's own education curriculum, a program called Becoming Us. And it names people, the museum's Under Secretary for Education, the museum's director, by name, not by title.

The report's bottom line is that the museum cannot be trusted to tell America's story, not honestly, not in a way that its authors considered appropriately inspiring, unifying or worthy of the republic. Now, in response, the Smithsonian Secretary, Lonnie Bunch III, wrote back to his own staff. He did not hedge. He said the report was not a fair characterization of the museum's work, which he said is, quote, “driven by scholarship, accuracy, and an uncompromising commitment to tell the fullness of America's story.” That's the disagreement in its plainest form. One side says, “You've distorted the country's story with a divisive characterization of our history.” The other side says, “No, you are distorting our long-established commitment to shaping the future by preserving heritage and discovering new knowledge.”

Here's why. This isn't just a report sitting on a shelf. Twenty days later, July 24th, the President signed a second executive order. This one is called Restoring Trust in the Smithsonian Institution. And it does something the first order did not do. It directs specific federal officials, the Secretary of the Interior, the Director of the Office of Management and Budget, the head of the General Services Administration, and the President's own domestic policy staff, to use, in the order's words, “all available authorities,” to make a fundamental shift in how the Smithsonian tells the American story, a shift away from what it calls social justice and ideological interpretations toward a narrative centered on patriotism, the Founders, national achievement, and American exceptionalism. That's not commentary anymore. That's the sound of the machinery of state making real change. And there's a quieter piece of this, too.

The Smithsonian is governed by a board of regents, 17 people. Reporting out of The New York Times has described an unusual holding pattern confirming new independent regents, a process that used to be routine. Sources point to Vice President Vance, who sits on the board, as the reason for the delay, the idea being that the administration would rather wait and seat people more aligned with its own view of the museum's mission. So you have three things happening at once.

• A report that names specific exhibits and specific staff as a serious problem,

• An executive order compelling federal agencies to force compliance, and

• A slower moving effort to change who governs the institution from the inside.

There is no debate about it. This is an ongoing strategy.

I would assert that for most Americans, the Smithsonian still feels almost beyond politics. It's where families wander through dinosaur halls, where children stare up at the Wright Brothers Flyer, where we encounter everything from the Star-Spangled Banner to the history of jazz, immigration, civil rights, and legendary space exploration. But these museums don't simply preserve objects. They nurture the stories that link those things to ongoing conversations about who we are and what that means in a changing world. Every exhibit, every collection asks, “Well, who were we back then? And who are we becoming?”

Notice what this fight is actually about. The report doesn't argue the museum got its history wrong so much as it stipulates that the museum chose the wrong emphasis, too much on slavery, on conquest, on inequality, on immigration, not enough on what it calls unity and pride. That's not a factual argument. It's an argument about which version of the truth gets funded, staffed, and displayed for current and future generations of Americans, young and old. The assumption here is that Americans can't handle our complex and often contradictory history. So to avoid upset, the administration has decided to provide a single, smoothed-out story, backed by an executive order with named agencies attached to it.

One [story] invites curiosity, the other compels agreement. There's an important difference. One of America's great strengths has always been its willingness, however vexing, to explore and question its own story. There was a time when the experiences of enslaved Americans, Native peoples, and women were basically absent from our public narrative. Bringing those stories into view didn't weaken the country. It made our understanding more complete, more honest, and ultimately more democratic.

Because democracy doesn't depend on everybody sharing the same past. It depends on our willingness to wrestle honestly with our differences and celebrate our common ground together.

Part Two: Culture Is Never a Side Issue

Over nearly 50 years of working alongside artists in communities around the world, I've noticed something: Authoritarian movements often begin by attacking artists, not because of their political or economic power. They do it because artists influence imagination.

They complicate simplistic narratives, they ask uncomfortable questions, and perhaps most importantly, they help us imagine alternatives. That's extraordinarily threatening to anybody trying to craft and control how a society sees itself.

When I first began working internationally, I assumed authoritarianism was mostly about censorship, police or prisons. These things certainly mattered. But over time I realized something different, something deeper. Before governments control people, they often try to control stories, because those stories, that history, quietly shapes what people believe about how the world works and their place in it. Whose voices matter, and what kind of future people believe is possible.

That's why culture is never a side issue. It's often the first battleground in the fight over both who defines the future and interprets the past. The question is whether we encounter the past as a closely filtered collection of events and artifacts or as living experience.

I was reminded of this working on last month's Art in Action episode in which labor leader Ken Grossinger talks about Bryan Stevenson's extraordinary work creating the Equal Justice Initiative's legacy sites in Montgomery, Alabama.

​Ken Grossinger

​Bryan understands in his bones that art and culture are central to organizing and

​

​dealing with racism. And what he did is he created art centers that connected the dots.

Bill Cleveland

These four sites, the Legacy Museum, the National Memorial for Peace and Justice, Freedom Monument Sculpture Park and Montgomery Square, use art, interactive media, and original artifacts to trace the historical line from Atlantic slave trade to mass incarceration and racial terror.

Those sites don't simply tell visitors what happened. They invite us to feel history, to hear voices that were silenced, to stand in places where memory becomes tangible. That's the work that artists do. We often say artists imagine the future. They do, but they also illuminate the past. They translate history into human experience. They uncover connections between yesterday and today that scholarship alone sometimes cannot reveal. They help us understand not only what happened, but why it still matters. That's why debates over history inevitably become debates over culture. Not because artists replace historians, but because artists help societies remember. They transform archives into empathy. They make abstractions personal. And in doing so, they expand our capacity to imagine what comes next. As Bryan Stevenson reminds us, hope isn't built on forgetting. It's built on truth.

Bryan Stevenson

I think we're at a moment where the politics of fear and anger are raging. And when people allow themselves to be governed by fear and anger, they start tolerating things they should never tolerate. About a decade ago, I began to fear we were moving into this era where there was a retreat from the rule of law. We realized we were going to have to continue our legal work but also get outside the courts and start doing this narrative work. And the space we're sitting in and the work that we're doing here in Montgomery is very much a manifestation of a commitment to engage narratively with the history of America, the identity of America, what it means to be free, what it means to advance justice, what it means to create a better future. You know, I often talk about the great evil of American slavery.

It wasn't the bondage and the physical violence and the sexual violence and the degradation and humiliation. All of that was absolutely horrific, torturous, traumatizing. But I think the greatest evil was the narrative we created to justify enslavement, to justify that bondage. Because the people who enslaved other people didn't want to think of themselves as immoral or indecent or unjust or unchristian.

Well, you need a narrative. And so we created a false narrative that black people aren't as good as white people, that black people are less capable, less worthy, less human, less evolved. And that narrative was rooted in the fear of having to confront our cruelty, our indecency, the immorality of owning another person, of subjecting them to this torture.

The North won the Civil War. But the South won the narrative war. Those ideas that led to white supremacy, to racial hierarchy, they persisted, and it led to the collapse of Reconstruction. And that narrative continued throughout the 20th century.

During the time of terror, violence and lynching, during the Civil Rights Movement, we prevailed in tearing down the legal architecture of Jim Crow segregation, but the narrative still persisted.

Much of the work that we are trying to do is to save everybody from the false idea that you should hide from your history, that you should try to erase the parts of your past that are difficult and challenging, that you should use threat and intimidation and bullying to get what you want, that power is the only thing that matters in the world, that there's no place for mercy and justice and kindness, that you should ignore and disrespect those who disagree with you. We just are trying to — we're going to — push back. We're going to try to save everybody from what results when you embrace that world.

Bill Cleveland

And perhaps there is the deeper question raised by both the legacy sites and the Smithsonian controversy. Not simply who tells America's story, but how a democracy learns to remember honestly enough to imagine a future worthy of its noblest ideals.

Here is Sarah Weiksel, the [Executive] Director of the American Historical Association, making just this point in her comments on the administration's report on ABC News in late July.

Sarah Weiksel

One of the things that's really striking about the Domestic Policy Council's report is that it advocates for an unchanging view of American history that is celebratory and triumphal. But history is not a set of static facts or known certainties. History is an evidence-based interpretive discipline. And our interpretation constantly evolves as historians analyze evidence in light of an ever-expanding body of scholarship that helps to deepen and to enrich our historical understanding and requires recognition that our knowledge of the past evolves.

Bill Cleveland

Over the past 40 years, I've had the privilege of working with artists in countries wrestling with conflict, authoritarianism and deep social divisions about the interpretation of history. As I said, those experiences changed forever the way I think about culture and its relationship with democracy.

One theater artist said something I've carried with me ever since: The government doesn't really fear our performances. They fear the spreading ripples of conversation and argument and debate people have afterward in bars and around dinner tables. That stopped me in my tracks, because I know conversations create relationships and relationships create trust. And trust creates communities capable of imagining futures that power cannot completely control. That insight changed the way I understood art making; its greatest power isn't simply what happens in the gallery, on the walls, the stage, even in the streets. It's what happens after the lights dim and the curtain comes down.

One afternoon in Belgrade, I watched the Dah Theatre company transform an ordinary public square into a rush hour anti-war teach-in. Within minutes, hundreds of people had gathered. They watched, they learned together and imagined together. Then, just as quickly as they had appeared, the performers just disappeared. The costumes came off; the actors blended back into the crowd. By the time the police arrived, there was no one left to arrest. But for half an hour, imagination had occupied the square, instead of fear. It wasn't simply theater; it was civic practice. And you could hear the buzz.

Years later, I heard echoes of that lesson in Northern Ireland. One community artist told me, if we inherit only the stories of our own suffering, we perpetuate the seeds of this terrible conflict. The art we make across communities releases us from the tyranny of the single story. I've never forgotten that, because museums, memorials, public art, performance, wherever they happen, they don't simply preserve history. They shape emotional memory. They help decide whose stories are shared and when. Executive orders mandate a one-dimensional narrative whose remain invisible.

Cambodia taught me something different. After the terror of the Khmer Rouge, rebuilding wasn't only about roads or schools. It was also about recovering memory. Thousands of years of memory, traditional dance, music, storytelling, entire cultural traditions, had to be resurrected because they had been murdered, erased. The lesson was unmistakable: when culture is attacked, rebuilding culture, recovering the common voice, the shared stories, becomes part of rebuilding the social fabric of a place.

One thing I've noticed across all of these places is that authoritarian systems consistently underestimate artists. They understand journalists. They understand lawyers. They understand political leaders. What they often fail to understand is imagination itself.

Because our mind's eye conjures; it just refuses to stay put. Our hopes, our dreams, our weird ideas and stories will inevitably slip into songs. They'll appear in murals. They find their way into neighborhood festivals, community theaters, even podcasts and museum galleries. Institutions can be restricted if we allow it. Imagination is much harder to contain.

That's one reason I worry whenever public debate characterizes cultural institutions, you know, museums and libraries and universities, as static containers of settled history or warehouses full of old objects and ideas. If we protect them, these institutions can be vital civic spaces where communities negotiate memory, where difficult conversations become possible, where each generation encounters stories it may never hear anywhere else. You know, when cultural institutions become narrower, our democracy becomes narrower.

When they become more curious, our democracy becomes more curious.

None of this means that cultural spaces like the Smithsonian should become partisan. Quite the opposite. The healthiest of these ask more and better questions than politicians do. They invite complexity. Where politics often demand certainty, they encourage inquiry rather than conformity. That willingness to stay in conversation is one of democracy's quiet strengths. Which brings us back to today. The argument surrounding the Smithsonian isn't simply about one museum or a group of institutions. It's about something much larger.

Should a democracy encourage many stories or settle for one official narrative? That's not merely a dispute over history. It's a question about citizenship. Because stories don't just describe reality. They shape the future people believe is possible. And perhaps that's why artists matter so much right now. Not because they tell us what to think, but because they keep expanding what we're capable of imagining. Together.

Part Three: So Where Does All This Leave Us Now?

If stories matter, if museums matter, if imagination is under threat, then what exactly are artists and the rest of us being asked to do? Probably not what many people think.

I don't believe artists are being called to become politicians, although many are running for office, or propagandists, although many are very good at that, or even professional protesters. History suggests something much simpler. Artists are called to remain creators, explorers, inventors, and story makers, to notice what others overlook, to ask questions no one else is asking, to help communities see themselves more clearly.

Before I go further, I want to say something plainly, because I know how this can land.

It would be easy to hear Serbia, Northern Ireland, and Cambodia and file them away as stories about somewhere else, somewhere with a harder history than ours, somewhere that isn't here. I need to be clear. This is happening here and now, and it bears repeating.

On July 4th, a 162-page federal report was released naming one of the most respected cultural institutions in the world, its exhibits and staff members, as symptoms of a serious national problem. A threat, actually.

Twenty days later, the President ordered the Secretary of the Interior, the head of the Office of Management and Budget, and the head of the General Services Administration to use their authority and finances to bring the Smithsonian into line with that report. That is not a metaphor. That's not just a warning sign. That's the machinery already running. This month in Washington, D.C.

I shared the story of that public square in Belgrade. Not because our story is the same, but because I recognize the shape of it. In Serbia, the government decided that stories its own institutions and schools were telling were a bigger problem than it could tolerate. So they moved resolutely through official channels with real orders and real agents to change them. Here today, our administration is, in effect, betting on something: that people will hear about a report and an executive order once, feel a flicker of concern, and then move on, you know, because the next news cycle is already arriving. That bet is usually a pretty good one. Attention is short, outrage is exhausting, and there is always something else demanding our focus.

I don't have a tidy answer for how to beat that bet. I'm not sure anyone does. But I know that the first way it wins is if we let this become background noise. You know, a controversy rather than a specific, named, dated set of federal actions to control our understanding of our history. With programs and people's jobs being removed or reshaped and a specific order compelling specific agencies to act on it, we are ignoring tyranny. So I'm going to keep saying the details out loud on this program for as long as it takes. Not because repetition changes policy, but because forgetting is the human failing that tyranny depends on. And refusing to forget is something we can actually still do.

One of the reasons authoritarian movements become so uncomfortable around artists is that artists refuse to accept the world as inevitable.

They keep asking, “What if? Who isn't here? Whose story haven't we heard?”. These aren't simply artistic questions. They're democratic ones, because democracy depends on citizens who can imagine lives beyond their own experience. This is because imagination isn't an escape from reality. It's often the first step towards changing reality.

Over the years, I've come to believe that some of the most important democratic work doesn't happen in legislatures. It happens in neighborhoods and libraries, in museums and community centers, in schools and places where people gather on stages, not simply to consume culture, but to create it together. A community mural, a neighborhood theater project, a story circle, an exhibition that helps us see our history through another person's eyes. These aren't diversions from democracy. They're rehearsals for it. They're places where we practice curiosity, empathy, and the difficult work of living together.

That's why I think we need to be careful when we talk about defending democracy. Of course democracy needs defending, but that's only half the story. Democracy has to be made. It has to be practiced every day in countless ordinary acts of collective imagination and making: every time we listen before we judge, every time we make room for another story, every time we refuse to reduce another human being to a stereotype.

Democracy isn't only a political system. It's a creative practice. Which brings us back to the Smithsonian. The real question isn't whether every exhibit at the National Museum of American History gets every detail of history exactly right. Historians will always debate history. They should. The deeper question is when a 160-page federal report and a federal executive order are aimed at forcing a specific version of the past into a national museum, will enough of us notice and keep noticing because it matters?

Who wins that argument? Because if the answer is yes, our democracy remains alive.

Messy, argumentative, sometimes uncomfortable, but with a beating heart. If the answer becomes no, then we've begun shrinking something far larger than a museum. We've begun shrinking our civic imagination. Quietly, one report and one order at a time. Exactly the way the people writing those orders are hoping we will let them. The encouraging news is that stories are remarkably resilient. Throughout history, they've survived censorship, exile, governments that tried to erase them. Stories have an extraordinary habit of finding new ears and new voices.

Recently on this program, my friend Alice Lovelace reminded us that every generation believes it's living through unprecedented times. Then she smiled and said, well, you know, the world's always been on the brink of disaster. She wasn't minimizing the moment.

She was reminding us that every generation inherits uncertainty. And every generation also inherits the capacity to ask, “Okay, what's next?”. That may be the most hopeful lesson artists have to offer.

Years ago in Northern Ireland, someone told me that peace doesn't begin when the people agree. It begins when they become curious about one another's stories. And it's true. It's just plain harder to hurt someone else if you know their story. I still think about that because curiosity may be one of democracy's most overlooked civic virtues. Not certainty, not ideological purity. Curiosity, the willingness to ask another question before reaching another conclusion. For those of us who work in the arts and community, that may be our greatest responsibility. Not simply defending cultural institutions, but helping communities remain curious, helping people encounter stories that expand rather than narrow. That's work artists have always done, and I suspect it's the work we're being called to do now, right now, this month, while a specific report and a specific order are still working their way through a specific institution down the street from the Capitol.

Before we go, I'd like to leave you with three thoughts. First, whenever a society begins narrowing the stories it's willing to tell about itself, democracy becomes fragile. Healthy cultures make room for complexity. Second, America has never been a finished story.

The question is whether each generation, including ours, will have the courage, the curiosity, and the imagination to help write our next chapter. And finally, a reminder that artists are not standing on the sidelines.

Today, there are thousands of artists who are creating the conditions that allow democracy to flourish by revealing and resisting authoritarianism, by challenging assumptions, by expanding empathy, by organizing their neighbors and helping us imagine what's next.

And if that sparks your curiosity, I would invite you to go to our show notes where we share links to stories of activist artists and cultural organizers making a difference in these tumultuous times.

Art Is Change is a production of the Center for the Study of Art and Community. We'd like to thank the Charles F. Kettering Foundation for partnering with us for this Art in Action series. Please know that the views and opinions expressed in this podcast are those of the hosts and guests. They're not the views and opinions of the Charles F. Kettering Foundation. The Foundation's partnership with us for this podcast is not an endorsement of its content.

If you're interested in learning more about the Foundation and its Democracy in the Arts program, please visit Kettering, or go to the link in our show notes, which also includes links to the many people, places, events and publications mentioned in this episode.

Thanks also to the Art Is Change team. Our theme and soundscape spring forth from the head, heart and hand of the Maestro Judy Munson. Our text editing is by Andre Nebbe, our effects come from freesound.org and our inspiration comes from the ever-present spirit of Luke 2:35. So until next time, stay well, do good and spread the good word.

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