On August 12th, 2017, I was standing on a corner in a quiet neighborhood in front of a Methodist church.

A white van pulled up, and a man about my age in a Vietnam-era Army fatigue jacket stepped out of the front passenger door.

The side door slid open and nine young white men in khaki pants and sports shirts flowed

out.

They lined up behind the older fellow, unfurled flags, and began to march in two lines as the van pulled away.

Less than ten seconds later, another van pulled up, and the same thing happened.

More young men following one older man, more flags, more marching.

That van pulled away, and within seconds, another came,

and another and another. The flags were Confederate flags. Don't tread on me flags. Flags of various

right-wing militia groups, and yes, there were Nazi flags, too. I never thought in my life

that I would see Nazi flags flying on American soil. I was standing in Charlestville, Virginia

that day, part of a multi-faith clergy witness on the day of the Uniter Right rally that left a young woman,

Heather Heyer, dead, the victim of killing by car. I was just up the street when the murder

happened. I remember the sound of my black leather shoes slapping on the sidewalk

as I and other clergy ran into the chaos of the crowd, helping the injured even before the first

responders arrived. In the days before and after that event, I was given access to the secret communications of the event organizers.

I read posts where they celebrated the murder of this young woman, and where they celebrated our

president for calling them good people. I'll never forget those days, because they taught me on a visceral level something

I cannot unsee. We may live lives in the same country or the same city or even under the same

roof, but we live in different realities, different universes. I saw those young men as

deluded white supremacists, blinded by their ideology, radicalized by radio talk shows, Fox

News, and white nationalist internet sites.

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