There is a German folktale that goes like this: There was once a man whose ax was missing, and he suspected that his neighbor’s son had stolen it. The boy walked like a thief, looked like a thief, and spoke like a thief. But one day the man found his ax while digging in his valley, and the next time he saw his neighbor’s son, the boy walked, looked and spoke like any other child. (Feldman, Christina and Jack Kornfield, eds. Stories of the Spirit, Stories of the Heart, 1991).
Have you ever thought about how you look at someone else? Do you meet them and size them up as this thing or that thing? Do you hold the image of someone in your mind based upon their worst action or maybe just the worst action of someone they remind you of? Or are you able to look at others with grace?
And how about yourself? Is it possible to imagine how God must look at you and find yourself using that lovely pair of mercy glasses?
I confess I tend to make judgments on others based upon what I think I see, what I choose to remember, what I imagine to be true. Sometimes I forget that more than one thing can be true about others, about myself and that maybe I have chosen the wrong thing to hold in my heart while in conversation, while at work, while in a relationship.
I like this folktale because it reminds me that too many times I make a judgment about another person and I hold that judgement to be true. Maybe they did steal my ax or maybe I just think they did; regardless, I greet them, speak to them, think of them based upon the narrative I created or cling to.
Sometimes I have been surprised. Sometimes I am face to face with my prejudice, my too-quick sizing up of another, my misguided perception, when someone altogether different from my expectations shows up.
This week, I invite you to try and look at yourself and at others with a new pair of glasses. I invite you to see yourself, other people, other beings, as God must see us all, with love, acceptance, and delight.
You might just be surprised at how wrong you have been. And you might finally recover or find the very thing that has been missing.
“You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19b)
Some version of that verse is typically said as the sign of the cross is being made with ashes on someone’s forehead on Ash Wednesday.
For example, as I was “ashing” folks who came to White Rock Presbyterian Church last Wednesday, I said this: “Remember–you came from dust, and to dust you will return…”
[Each year I think maybe I’ll use the late Rev. Eugene Peterson’s interpretation as found in The Message: “You started out as dirt, you’ll end up dirt.” That strikes me as even more powerful! It is, in fact, what I said when I blessed the horses of a friend the next day, using actual dirt from the ground on which we were standing… Maybe next year I’ll use it with the two-legged creatures, and see how it lands for us all…]
“Tempranillo, remember that you came from dirt,
and to dirt you will return…”
And since this year Ash Wednesday happened to also be Valentine’s Day, here’s another way to think about it:
At first glance, it seemed strange to have those two holidays (or more better, perhaps, holy days) fall on the same date, but looking back, I can’t help but reflect that perhaps it was truly a gift…
Might the occurrence of our cultural celebration of loving and being loved on the same day that we who are people of faith intentionally acknowledge our mortality, somehow enhance both of those central aspects of our humanity–the relational albeit finite nature of our existence?
None of our human loves—whether of a child, parent, partner, sibling, cousin, friend, etc., or a non-human companion—will last forever. We will all someday die, and those loves in their present form will come to an end. All living things are mortal and finite.
And while that truth can be heartbreakingly painful to acknowledge, might it also make our loving more sweet? Might it make our time together more cherished? Might it make our conflicts more critical to resolve? Might it generate more urgency for us to show up more fully and more authentically? Might it make us more grateful for the opportunities we have to love and be loved?
Hmmm…
We are approaching the second Sunday of Lent already; Ash Wednesday feels like a distant memory. Perhaps as we move further into this holy season, we can not only consider our mortality, not only allow greater recognition of our sin, not only attempt to see with greater clarity the ways we hide our true selves, not only make more deliberate efforts to turn back to God… But we can also hold on to and celebrate that in the midst of our flawed, finite, and finicky humanity, we love and are loved by the humans and non-humans in our lives, and by God.
Yes, we are dust and to dust we will return. Yes, we started out as dirt and we’ll end up dirt. Yes, we were born and we will die. We. will. die.
And…in the midst of that—and before that, and after that, and beyond that—we are loved. We are loved absolutely, and unconditionally, and unceasingly, by the God who created us out of dust, and who created the dust.
Kay Klinkenborg at Church of the Palms UCC sent us this article and knows Elie Pritz, the author of this piece, who lives and works in Jerusalem. She was raised there and is a Christian who, 10 years ago, founded a NGO to work on peace curriculum in teaching children K-12 non-violent options and peace building. Elie has lived her entire life in Jerusalem, has an American father and Swiss mother. Her pain about the issues in Palestine/Israel is palpable. She wrote this for her December newsletter.
It was about a month after the war started that I walked into Hand in Hand—a Hebrew-Arabic school in Jerusalem. We had originally planned to meet on October 9th, which clearly didn’t happen after the war broke out on October 7th. I was surprised when, a month later, they contacted me and asked if we could try again. Wasn’t their plate already ridiculously full, trying to keep a school like theirs running during a war? But we set a date and time, and two days later I was sitting inside the principal’s office, preparing to talk to her and one of the English teachers about our Peace Heroes program.
Bilingual schools (Hebrew and Arabic) are very rare in Israel. The vast majority of schools are sector based: secular Israeli Jewish schools, religious Jewish schools, Palestinian Israeli (Muslim and Christian) schools. Schools don’t integrate. The nine bilingual schools dispersed throughout the country are an anomaly—a place where Jewish and Palestinian Israelis can learn together in one another’s languages.
Peace Heroes’ founder and program director, Elie Pritz.
I could only imagine how recent events would have greatly strained this mixed school community. So I asked the Jewish Israeli principal how this war has affected them.
“Look,” she said, “we’re in a war. And our students represent both sides of this war. It’s hard. But unlike some other organizations, we don’t have the privilege of going into ourselves right now, to reflect on the situation and decide how to move forward. Our students are coming to school every day. We have to figure this out every day.”
The English teacher, a Palestinian Israeli, said: “After October 7th I didn’t want to come in to work. But I chose to come anyway. Every day I wake up and I make that choice all over again—the choice to be here…It’s not easy, but it’s my choice. It’s the choice every single one of us in this school is making.”
We spent the next hour talking about Peace Heroes, brainstorming ways they could make it part of their school program. It was the first time in a month I felt inspired and even hopeful. Here is a school that is doing the hard (hard!) work of figuring out how to live life together. Here is a school that understands, at an existential level, how crucial it is to raise the next generation of leaders in this land to be pursuers of peace and mutual thriving. They loved the idea of using stories of Peace Heroes from all over the world—as well as from the region—to not only model to their students how to navigate really hard things while still upholding the dignity of all people, but also to open up difficult conversations around identity, justice, and security within the safe space of storytelling.
At the end of the meetingthe principal told me that our hour together felt like oxygen to the soul. I understood what she meant. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe again, even if only for a moment. To be in the room together with people who, like me, were making a supreme effort to swim against the tide that in this moment is dividing not only the people of this land but also of the world, brought me to tears. Tears of relief in feeling that there are others who are doing what is possibly one of the hardest and most isolating things to do in a war: fighting to stay united, to be in relationship, to be mutually empathetic to and supportive of one another’s identity as well as experience of the nightmare we are all living through.
October 7th and its aftermath is changing our landscape in a way that will take us years to fully understand. In the days following the beginning of the war, people everywhere asked me to tell them how I was doing, to explain to them what was happening. It felt impossible. I was stunned into silence, completely unable to articulate the chaos, trauma, fear, and grief we were all suddenly plunged into. And yet, even while I sat in this stunned silence, I was completely taken aback by the onslaught of divisive and damaging words being spewed out by people around the world, aimed at one or other of the communities in this land. This tsunami of hate-filled words quickly spiraled me down into a despairing depression. I felt as voiceless as I’ve ever felt, and so alone in my desire to push forward another narrative, to tell a different story.
But slowly, I began to hear other voices speaking the words I could not speak—local peacemakers, both Israeli and Palestinian, whose stories I had written, whose organizations I had been following since the days I had started my journey with Peace Heroes more than a decade ago.* These people were articulating what I could not: the unbelievable pain of the moment we suddenly found ourselves in, AND the absolute necessity of upholding the dignity of all the people in this place. Their voices anchored me the way nothing else could. They gave me solid ground to stand on and brought me back to myself and towhat I knew to be true: that violence is our common enemy, and that taking a stand against violence and its dehumanizing effects is the only way we will ever come out of this moment with our humanity still intact.
Words matter. They matter so much. Words can break our world or they can remake it. It took me a few weeks to connect the dots (blame the war—it messes with one’s ability to think logically), but it finally dawned on me that I do have life giving words. I’ve been writing them for a decade, telling the stories of people from all over the world—as well as from Israel and Palestine—who have faced devastating situations and have chosen to be a light in the darkness, a force for healing rather than division, hate, and fear. Voices that will never stop trying to remake our world.
Hand in Hand school is one of these voices. They understand the toxicity of the space we are living in, and the urgency of raising our voice to tell (and live) a different story. Peacemakers are often the first to be sidelined in a war, but I believe it is precisely these people who are doing the hardest work of all: the work of daily choosing to live out a different reality. A reality that says to people across the divide: “You matter, and I will live my life in a way that manifests this conviction and upholds your dignity as well as mine, no matter what.” This is the only reality that promises any kind of viable and shared future in this land.
As this year comes to a close it is my deepest hope that we will all follow in the footsteps of these peacemakers. May we live a different story–one that daily chooses to remake our broken world.
(A prayer for anyone who feels sadness at this time)
As I write this (in the pre-dawn of a wintery day), I hear the dialogue of two owls close to my home; two different voices, quietly calling back and forth. What a blessing, to be in a space where this is even possible!
I’m grateful for my home and what it brings to me in terms of peacefulness and escape from the outside world where the busy-ness abounds, and where some of my former life remains without me.
I need to keep reminding myself that I’m in a good place…that being on my own isn’t horrible…that I’m loved and included, if not by a family that once filled my life with joy, then by many dear, generous (and patient!) friends who know me well – and love me anyhow. That, too, is a major blessing…a blessing I need to remember and be thankful for.
This is the holiday season, and, as it does for so many others, it has again brought me deep sadness that I’m struggling with.
All the ugly questions (why, why, why???) pop into my head randomly while the Christmas music in the stores offers triggers galore, and my head and heart are more than willing to respond to them. I step in-and-out of a dark space where much about this time hurts me, and my first instinct is to hide in this funny little house and tell all these days of “joy” to move on. They aren’t listening; these days don’t seem to fly by like the less-focused, supposedly “lazy days” of summer do.
So, in the darkness of predawn as my owl friends call to one another, I call out to You, Holy One.
I lie in my bed and pray to the overhead fan, knowing that you’re there, waiting to hear me. Often, there are tears to remind me that this time of remembering can cleanse my soul…sometimes, I even laugh when I think of something I said or did that was just so dumb.
But mostly, I pray for Peace, for my own heart and for so many other hearts who are not loving this time of year.
I pray for Peace, for anyone who needs a little glimpse of It this day – any day.
I pray for Peace, for a world full of people who are in much worse life-space than I am.
And I pray for Peace-full acts, that those who lead will consider consequences to the innocent, living in way too many horrible circumstances beyond my control or understanding.
I pray to You, Holy One, and we share my dark heart, my dark bedroom and a welcoming, dark silence of prayer, knowing that later, you will show yourself to me in little ways. You always do.
So, like the owls calling to one another, I wait for your response, and I crawl out of bed to begin the day again – with Hope, with more inner Peace, with Love.
The Church of the Palms used the following litany, written by Rev. Max Klinkenborg, at the dedication of the “Homeless Jesus” sculpture on Saturday, November 18, 2023.
Jesus said, ”I’m telling the solemn truth; whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me – you did it unto me.” Matthew 25:40
Leader: Once I saw a man eating from a buffet of leftovers in a dumpster.
All: That was me!
Leader: Once I smelled the urine soaked clothes of an old women wearing two coats on a city bus.
All: That was me!
Leader: Once I saw a frozen body covered in snow with no coat, hat, shoes or gloves.
All: That was me!
Leader: Once I saw a man fall to the street; his shoes were stolen before he could get up.
All: That was me!
Leader: Once I heard the screams of a man set on fire in a dumpster for stealing drugs.
All: That was Me!
Leader: Once I felt the despair of a man turned away on a cold night from an overcrowded shelter.
All: That was Me.
Leader: Once I saw a woman on a bike pulling two carriers filled with her earthly possession.
All: That was Me.
Leader: Once I heard a person arguing with themself at full volume as they pushed a grocery cart.
All: That was Me.
Leader: Once I gagged at an infected blister under a blood soaked sock on the sole of a woman’s foot.
All: That was Me!
Leader: Once I wept as I saw a boy and his sister eating ketchup on crackers, alone in a restaurant.
All: That was me!
Leader: Once I saw three adults, four children and a dog sleeping in a minivan.
All: That was Me!
Leader: Once I heard a shivering man in a wheel chair, stuck in snow, calling to no avail for help.
All: That was Me!
Leader: Once I saw a man asleep on a park bench covered by newspaper.
All: That was Me!
Leader: Once I smelled burning flesh when a woman fell on a steel grate in August and no one helped her get up.
All: That was Me!
Leader: Once I sent Christmas cards to a woman’s prison; a woman thanked me later for her only card or gift.
All: That was Me!
Leader: Once I heard a bone-rattling cough from a pile of rags holding a blood soaked rag to her mouth.
by Rev. John Indermark, written the day before the Hamas attack on Israel, and the crisis that has resulted
After Pilate attempted to deny his responsibility for putting Jesus to death, Matthew 27:25 records this: “Then the people as a whole answered, His blood be on us and on our children!” No other gospel records those words, only Matthew. But whatever reasons may have first led to their inclusion in Matthew and nowhere else, those words spawned disastrous consequences in the wholesale smearing of Jews as Christ-killers and the rise of anti-Semitism.
The history of the Church’s active role in promoting anti-Semitism goes back at least to the time of the Crusades, when several massacres of Jews took place not in the battlegrounds of the Holy Land but in the homelands of Germany and France. While we may delight to the music of Fiddler on the Roof, its historical setting involved the violent pogroms that victimized Jewish communities in Eastern Europe and Russia. In the background of all these and other persecutions was a twisted lie known as “blood libel” – the claim that Christian boys were slaughtered so their blood could be used in secret Jewish rituals. Too often, the Church kept silent in the face of the lie – or worse yet, promoted it.
The power of that lie, and its association with “blood,” infested 20th century fascism. In 1930, the same year he joined the Nazi party in Germany, Richard Darre wrote a book whose title in English is A New Nobility Based on Blood and Soil. Darre, whose field was agriculture and eugenics, argued in it for a program of selective breeding (the blood part of the title) to insure Nordic and Aryan racial purity. And once again, except for the courageous witness of a small Christian movement known as the Confessing Church, much of the rest of the Church remained silent as Aryan purity transitioned from far-fetched ideas into concentration camps not only for Jews, but also for others deemed unfit – Gypsies, Gays, Slavs, the infirm, Bonhoeffer.
So why bring this up in a 21st century church newsletter? The leading presidential candidate for one of our nation’s parties made the following statement this week about migrants and immigration: “It is a very sad thing for our country. It’s poisoning the blood of our country.” Sound familiar? It is not an accident, and it is deadly serious.
Poisoning the blood. Its origins in anti-Semitism stretch now to include whoever is the stranger, the other, the outsider. We have seen its results before. In the past, too often, the Church has stood silent in such times, and the world suffered. We cannot do so again. Never again.
How the simple act of listening furthers the creation of God’s beloved community
by Christopher Schouten, Black Mountain UCC
Though many of us (including me) have grown up and spent much of our lives around others that look and behave very much like we do, in our ever-diverse world, the tapestry of human experiences is intricate and varied in ways we sometimes can’t even imagine. As Christians, we are called to navigate this tapestry with love, grace, and a willingness to listen and learn. Indeed, the act of listening is at the heart of true understanding, especially when we are confronted with stories and realities that are different from our own.
The Bible emphasizes the importance of listening time and time again. James 1:19 reminds us, “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” Proverbs 1:5 says, “Let the wise listen and add to their learning, and let the discerning get guidance.” The importance of these verses lies not just in the act of listening but in the transformative power it holds. Author Steven Covey said “Seek first to understand, then to be understood,” and this requires us to listen.
Especially in our diverse society, there are many situations in which we are called to listen.
Dialogues on racial justice demand our full attention and our ears. While the narratives of racial disparity and systemic injustice may be uncomfortable for many, listening to them is essential for fostering the change that brings equality to all God’s people. We must remember the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37), a story that emphasizes the love for one’s neighbor, regardless of racial or cultural differences. By listening to the experiences of our Black, Asian, Indigenous, Pacific Islander and Latino brothers and sisters and allowing them to transform our understanding of unjust, structural racism in our society, we get closer to fulfilling Christ’s call to love unconditionally.
Genesis 1:27 tells us, “God created humankind in God’s own image.” This means that people of all genders reflect God’s image. Our society is rife with gender biases and rigid gender norms, often causing hurt and misunderstanding. To bridge the gap, it becomes imperative to listen to the experiences of people of all gender identities, acknowledging their pains, struggles, and victories, thus appreciating the full spectrum of God’s creation and helping us to grow into wholeness and community.
Heteronormativity, the belief that heterosexuality and everything that is associated with it is the norm, is another area where listening is crucial. Jesus, in Matthew 19:12, speaks of eunuchs who have become so from birth, created by men, and by choice, urging us to accept those for whom marriage, in the traditional sense, isn’t for them. The experiences and the lives of LGBTQ+ people are often very different from other people – often in ways that aren’t immediately visible. By listening to LGBTQ+ stories, we begin to see the breadth and depth of God’s creation and the different forms that love and family can take in the world.
The road to understanding is not always comfortable. There will be moments when the stories we hear will shake us, make us confront difficult personal material, or challenge our worldviews. But it is in these moments of discomfort that growth occurs. Christ, too, often found himself in uncomfortable situations, whether dining with tax collectors or speaking with Samaritan women. His example reminds us that transformation often begins at the edge of our comfort zones.
As members of the United Church of Christ, we have chosen to be a people that provide an extravagant welcome to all, as Christ did. In Romans 15:7, Paul urges, “Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.” This acceptance starts with listening.
It is through the act of truly listening that we pave the way for understanding, empathy, and love. Let us commit ourselves to listen actively and then really HEAR what the other person is saying and let it impact our hearts, even when it challenges us. For it is through these challenges that we inch closer to a world that embodies Christ’s vision: a world filled with love, justice, acceptance, and unity; God’s beloved community.
by The Reverend Dr. Kristina “Tina” Campbell, Black Mountain United Church of Christ
I am standing on the shoulders of the ones who came before me.
I am stronger for their courage, I am wiser for their words.
I am lifted by their longing for a fair and brighter future
I am grateful for their vision, for their toiling on this Earth.
-Joyce Rouse
Last weekend commemorated the sixtieth anniversary of the March on Washington where The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his now famous “I Have a Dream” speech. Many of the organizers of the march were recognized and honored, and we had an opportunity to pause and ponder… upon whose shoulders do we stand?
I entered the ministry due to the influence of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. At the time his life was coming to a close, I was living in an all African American community as a VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) volunteer. I clung to the words of Dr. King, and was utterly taken aback by the influence he had on the lives around me. He influenced people to be brave, to have hope, to take action, to live out their faith, to move beyond restriction into liberation. On the day of his death, I stood beside grown men who openly wept at the loss of this great soul. I wanted to stand on the shoulders of The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
When I first moved to Phoenix, I was looking for a church, and one of my colleagues at St. Luke’s Hospital said to me, “If you want to go where they’re doing something, go talk with Don Heinrich.” Don was the long time pastor at Shepherd of the Hills United Church of Christ, and Don was in the crowd in Washington, D.C. when Dr. King articulated his vision of a dream. Don carried the momentum of Dr. King’s dream in the Phoenix area. Don stood firmly on all social issues, but he did more than that. He suited up and he showed up for his congregation. He showed up to receive the Peggy Goldwater Award for Reproductive Rights, and he also showed to hand wash dishes at my father’s memorial service. I stand on Don’s shoulders.
All of us stand on the shoulders of those who lived before us, who dreamed before us, who put their faith into action. God has blessed our lives with great souls upon whose shoulders we stand. Thanks be to God.
I told them I wasn’t a parish pastor. My first gig was on the streets of the Southside of Chicago and I did no parish field work in seminary. I prayed in long houses in British Columbia and was perfectly at home inside a maximum security prison unit. Addicts and inmates, dying people and rebellious teenagers didn’t daunt me, but I certainly wasn’t a parish pastor. This is not to say that I am without faith. The kind of ministry I have experienced is not for the faint of heart. So ok…I’ll strike a deal. I’ll come and preach and then go home. They agreed to that. Then I watched them.
They did everything at the church. They cleaned the bathrooms. They replaced toilets. They brought food. They prepared the bulletins. There was a dog who sat in the front pew and seemed to listen to my sermons. There was a piano player who could make all my favorite songs fill the sanctuary with joy. They never said, “We’ve done enough.” They always said, “How can I help?” They never said, “I’m too busy.” They always said, “I’ll do that right away.” They didn’t just talk about the unhoused in our downtown Phoenix community, they showed up in person to visit with them. They made hundreds of blankets for our asylum seeking neighbors in Mexico and convinced non-church community members to bring carloads of food to place at our altar before distribution to local food banks. The men clean up the kitchen. They know stuff about addiction, incarceration, poverty, LBGTQ issues and loss.. They’re even fun, and they laugh and tease one another. They recently raised thousands of dollars to provide heat relief during our desert climate crisis.
After awhile, I started looking at their dear faces from the pulpit, and I realized that I loved them, especially the dog. It seems I’m a parish pastor after all. God certainly has a wild sense of humor.
I will not be among the hand wringers who prophesize the demise of the Christian church. I believe our strength is not in numbers, but in bold faith put into action. If we focus on acting out the Good News of the all inclusive Gospel, we can’t go wrong. Black Mountain United Church of Christ has taught me that. I say this with good authority. After all, I’m a parish pastor.
The Reverend Dr. Kristina Campbell
Transitional Minister Black Mountain United Church of Christ
