Tag: truth

The Contents of a Heart

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

He is red-hot angry. “When Mama dies, I’m going after him with everything I have. I’m going to make him pay.”

 “You’re seventy years old.” I tell him this because I like him and because I adore his mother, my patient.

Her son, this man, furious because he believes his brother has stolen from the family, has told me how splendid his life is, how he’s been married for forty-nine years to a woman he loves completely, how he has a successful business, a wonderful family, how they’ve traveled the world enjoying great adventures. “So,” he snaps, “what does my age have to do with anything?”

“Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned working as a hospice chaplain it’s that life is short. Do you really want to spend your time consumed by this anger? Do you really want your life to be about that?”

In his book, The Exquisite Risk, Mark Nepo writes about an Egyptian myth that explains an end of life ritual. The Trial of Heart is a ceremony in which the heart of every deceased person is weighed on a scale, balanced against one ostrich feather, the symbol of truth. If the heart is lighter than the feather, it is believed that the person did not recognize and honor truth, that it demonstrated a life not fully experienced. If the heart weighs more than the feather then it has carried too much. It has held onto the painful truths, giving them too much weight. The ceremony reveals the contents of one’s heart and unless the heart is balanced, the soul is unable to enter into eternal peace.

We cannot dictate all of the circumstances of our lives. We cannot control all of the things that enter and exit. People we love harm and help us and sometimes we are left flattened by the choices they make that deeply affect us. We cannot orchestrate all of this. We can, however, choose what we hold and what we let go. And we make those choices every day of our lives, from ages seven to seventy and beyond.

I’m not sure I believe there is a court of the dead waiting to measure the contents of our hearts; but I do believe that no heart can fully experience peace unless there is true balance, unless there is equality in what is gained and in what is surrendered. I do believe that if a person picks up and hangs onto anger, the heart has no room for love.

I have no idea what this troubled brother will choose, where he will ultimately land. I can only hope that when the day of death comes for him, as it will come for us all, that his last breath is taken with ease because he knows his heart is at peace, because he has chosen forgiveness, because he has surrendered to love. And I hope when we face our own days of death, it may be so for us all.

You are the light of the world!

To Tell the Truth

It’s More Than Just a Game Show

by Rev. Dave Klingensmith, Church of the Palms UCC

I have always enjoyed the game show “To Tell the Truth.” I’ve seen it through several different versions, even was at a taping in NYC once. It has always been fun for me to try to decide, along with the panelists, who is really the one contestant sworn to tell the truth.

Most of us learned from a young age that it was important to tell the truth. Those who raised us drilled it into us. “Don’t lie, tell the truth.” We may have learned it in Sunday School. The Ninth Commandment specifically forbids lying in terms of bearing false witness or what is called perjury today. And though we may have been told that a “little white lie” is sometimes OK, almost all cultures and religions discourage lying of any sort.

But while we are often quick to tell someone else to “tell the truth,” we often don’t like to hear the truth, or face the truth, about ourselves or someone else. Some time ago I discovered in doing some genealogy research that my paternal great-grandfather had committed suicide in the early 1900’s when some investments went bad. It was shocking and surprising. Often families don’t want to face the truth when this happens. People often don’t want to face the truth that a family member is LGBT, or that someone has a mental illness. These days using Ancestry.com or other websites, sometimes people may discover that they have siblings they never knew they had, or even that they may not be the race or nationality they thought they were. Doing other historical research might lead us to discover that our families owned slaves or took land from indigenous people.

It can be hard to face up to this. We may want to brush it under the rug, to tell ourselves “That was a long time ago.” But by doing so we deny ourselves a significant, if challenging, part of our history. To acknowledge it may result in significant growth and even healing for us, and for the descendants of those who were wronged.

Likewise, the information we learned in school about our nation’s history may not always have been totally truthful. I learned about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor but didn’t learn until much later how we put Japanese-American U.S. citizens in internment camps. We learned about the Civil War and slavery, but textbooks downplayed the cruelty inflicted on slaves, and how our entire society capitalized on the backs of people who were bought and sold. We have often glossed over how even Christian missionaries treated Native Americans as “savages.”

Telling the truth about our nation’s history, especially in regard to racial issues, is important. The term “Critical Race Theory” is an explosive one right now. I would argue for a different term – Critical Race History – or even just Telling the Truth About Our History. When we do not acknowledge painful or troubling events or try to say they have no relevance today, we are denying the humanity of someone’s great-great grandparent who was a slave. We may have to tell the truth, that someone we may have admired was really a brutal plantation owner or a ship owner who transported slaves from Africa.

When school districts, or states, maybe even religious groups, try to deny painful parts of our history, we all lose. We lose the opportunity to acknowledge the truth, to admit our complicity in that history, and to see how we can do something today to atone for the past.

We can tell the truth about our history so that injustices don’t happen again. If we don’t tell the truth and acknowledge injustices, we can expect to repeat them.

The Story of the Ashes

by Abigail Conley

I confess, I’m struggling with the idea of Lent this year. It’s likely the onslaught of news right now, from deportations to Jewish cemeteries desecrated. My early morning ritual of reading the news is no longer a pleasant way to wake up. If I’m completely honest, though, that’s why I need the ashes.

On Ash Wednesday, if I’m preaching, I tell the story of the ashes. Fresh palm leaves, dried palm leaves, and ashes are placed in a box. Kids are invited to come stand at the front so they can see, too.

It’s a terrible story and it’s a beautiful story, this story of the ashes. I’m sure you know it: the leaves were once green and beautiful, used to welcome the future king. We used them on Palm Sunday, shouting out, “Hosanna!” By the time Ash Wednesday rolls around, the leaves are faded, dry, brittle, and long past the time to be thrown out. In fact, one year, the landscapers did throw mine out before they could be burnt. Assuming the palms survive the landscapers, they are, indeed, burned just as trash is (or used to be). We put trash on our bodies to remind us of our mortality, and as a sign of repentance.

Yeah, the story I tell in worship is a bit more elaborate, but you get the gist. I reread what I use in worship to tell the Story of the Palms. The story’s simplicity and profundity get me every time. This year, though, a few lines that I wrote several years ago now hit especially hard: “But, God told Joel, as bad as this all is, it’s not too late. Come back to me—repent, is usually what we say. Repent, God says; you can always come back to me.”

It’s God’s truth, not mine. It’s God’s truth, “You can always come back.”

The hope in that truth remains deeper than any other I carry; it’s a truth we don’t experience in human relationships. I could sing a country song about “when you leave that way you can never go back,” but that would reveal more about my misused brain space than anything else. I do remember a children’s sermon by a lay leader in the church I was serving at the time. She took a hammer, some nails, and a piece of lumber. She talked about the things we do to hurt each other. With each thing she named, she hammered a nail into the wood.

Then, she talked about forgiveness, and pulled the nails out one by one. Of course, the holes were still there. Of course, even with forgiveness, the scars are still there.

Some days, I am so aware of the scars. Some of them I caused. Some of them I didn’t. All of them might end up a little more tender, a little less healed, than I thought they were.

There are scars from the break-up with the person I later ended up marrying. There are scars from the girl who commented on the size of my butt in high school. There are scars from the man who hit on me while his wife and baby were sleeping in a nearby room. There are scars from neglecting to give a woman food as she sat in my office crying about her poverty; I had forgotten there were bags of food for the food bank just outside the door.

How long could we sit and name our scars?

No matter how well adjusted we become, no matter how many hours of therapy we participate in, the scars remain. Maybe, in our human relationships, we have a few places we can always return to, but they’re not the same. Often, they’re not as good as we remember. It’s a lot like sleeping in your childhood bedroom when visiting over Christmas; the return isn’t as sweet as you hoped. In our broken humanity, we can never fully reclaim what we lost.

A deep hope remains: God gets it right. The tenderness of the scars disappears. The pain caused by what was broken dissipates. This forgiveness is deeper reaching, more thorough than we ever experience from each other.

That is the story of the palms: our lives are caught up in God, from beginning to end. And we can always return to God—no exceptions.

Hope in a Child

by Abigail Conley

“I think you have a kid in there,” I said, nodding toward his truck, and taking his empty cart back to the return for him.

“Thank you so much,” he answered, looking relieved.

Both of us were crazy enough to go to Costco in the week before Christmas and just happened to park near each other. I confess, I second guessed taking his cart for him. Mostly, I second guessed because women doing things like that for men in public space isn’t expected. I almost did it as soon as I headed toward the return with my own cart, but walked past him just a little bit. I looked back to talk to him, to offer to take his cart for him. In that split second, I might have seen his hesitation to walk away from the truck where his child was safely strapped in a car seat. I don’t know. I do remember what was expressed more deeply than usual, “Thank you so much.”

I’m quite certain he didn’t know that I’d seen him earlier, along with his son, inside the store. I was sitting at the restaurant, quickly scarfing down a slice of pizza before heading on to my next task. He walked by, between my cart and the wall, pushing his cart with both purchases and son. I noticed him because his son was crying. When I say crying, I mean that horrible version of crying that children do when they’re just done.

I’d taken notice because of the crying, and then I saw a father being a very good father. They had a smoothie, and the child wanted some. As he cried, the father gently coaxed, “Use your words.” Over and over, again, “Use your words.” The phrase is familiar, one often heard spoken by teachers and parents of young children. Those words struck me differently today, though, as the man spoke them to his son.

I thought about them after he left Costco, as I was finishing up my pizza and walking to my car. It’s the week before Christmas; the walk to the car in a Costco parking lot is extra long. I let the please, “Use your words,” roll over in my mind, thinking how different the world would be if we used our words, instead.

My mourning for Syria has been long and deep. A “complete meltdown of humanity” the news says. That might be the best summary imaginable if even half of the news making it to this part of the world is true. I fear we actually don’t know the half of it. My fear as leaders talk of the need for more nuclear weapons is deep, as well. Words, it seems, are always used to cry out for something more, too often, that thing is violence. It seems that’s the go-to answer right now, with no one quite sure how to put a stop to it all.

I don’t know any more about that father than what I just told you. Who knows what he’s like day in, day out. I have hope, though, that this father coaxing his very, very young son to use his words rather than have a tantrum might do even more good with that child in the long run. Use your words, not your fists. Use your words, not a weapon. Use your words, face to face. Use your words first, and finally.

It is the absurdity of the season, after all, that our deepest hope is in a child—a child called the Word, made flesh, and dwelling among us. The child, called Word, brought all sorts of hope along into that manger, including that swords would be beaten into plowshares, and we would not learn war any more. The beauty of that impossibility lingers deep these days, the promise that we will one day put away our many, many tools of destruction.

For today, while I still await the Christ child’s coming, I am comforted a bit by this man and his child. The hopes of this season run deep: the hope for peace; the hope for fear to subside; the hope that our words become enough. To this man who I’ll likely never see, again, thank you so much.

Constant Change and the Unchanging Truth

by Amos Smith

One comes to understand…the changeable nature of visible created things: how they derive from the earth and return again to the earth, thus confirming the words of Ecclesiastes: ‘Vanity of vanities; all is vanity’ (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

–Peter of Damascus

These lines come from an early Christian writer named Peter of Damascus who wrote a work called “Treasury of Divine Knowledge.” More or less one thousand years ago Peter wrote about how the only thing that is everlasting is the Creator. And so the only way to participate in life everlasting is devotion to the Creator through praise, written and spoken acclamation, and prayer.

The biological creatures of this planet and the dense matter that swirls through the cosmos all have their source in the Creator. According to Peter of Damascus when we go into the depths of prayer we perceive that all creatures arise for a time, then return to their Source. It is the Source that is timeless, eternal.

Worship in the most profound sense is acknowledgement that in the midst of all the numerous changes, in the midst of the institutions of society that were here for a time then vanished. In the midst of the tumultuous events of our times including global terrorism, climate change, and a flood of refugees, there is a constant that forms the universe and binds it together. It is enveloped in mystery, yet came to us in the fullness of time in the person of Jesus.

When the constant changes of life reach a crescendo may we recall that our Source is from everlasting to everlasting (Psalm 90:2). This Source is our ultimate security from age to age – not distant, but personal in the ministry of Jesus.

Summer Reading

by Amanda Petersen

Summer is the time I do most of my research and dreaming for the rest of the year.  When it is 110 outside I spend a lot more time indoors reading. As I stack up the books to read and create lists of blogs to read a constant theme keeps coming up. We are, as humans, always looking for that “thing”.  That part of our life or understanding that is going to make everything make sense. We have to go find it.

In this search we encounter obstacles that make it impossible to find this “thing”. There is a period of blaming the obstacles – parents, spouses, bosses, weather, money etc. If only they had not happened the thing would be here. And there is a time of wishing if only the right person, place or money would arrive then……

As I search these books, listen to others lives, and just observe, a central truth arrives. The “thing” is not out there. There are no big obstacles blocking us from reaching it. We already own it. The thing is Love, and it resides within us. Every teacher from every age points to this fact. If we would just stop and listen we would hear this Love saying we are already right where we need to be.

The problem is we need ears to hear, as Jesus would say. Learning to hear Love, really hear it, is not easy. There are so many other voices calling our name. We need other people through books, blogs, signs, notes, sermons, Ted talks, etc., to tell us in 100 different ways. We’re all saying the same thing. Love is big, Love is in us, Love is meant to be given away.

There may be someone in your life that you wonder if they will ever hear it. Or you may be wondering if you will ever know this Love. My encouragement is keep speaking it, keep writing it, keep living it if you want others to know. If you are looking, keep reading, keep journaling, keep connecting, keep listening. It’s already there; the right sounds just haven’t arrived. It’s vital we don’t stop learning to listen to and share Love.

In honor of this quest for awareness, please look at the summer groups we are offering. Many revolve around a book. All revolve around the quest of being aware of love!

Exercise: Send a note of encouragement and Love to someone.  See what happens.