Heaven is Now: Adjust Your Vision, Find Balance – Part Three

If you missed the first two parts of this series, find them here: part one, part two.

The Harmony of Certainty and Mystery

Certainty can be a wonderful thing, galvanizing our will and bringing clarity. It can help us make decisions, set appropriate boundaries, and navigate difficult trials in our lives. Certainty can also be destructive, putting horns on our stubbornness, cementing our biases, and closing us off from the beauty of new perspectives.

In contrast, mystery is an admission to ourselves that we don’t have it all figured out. It leaves our spirit wide open to novel discoveries.

There are many ways I could approach the balance of these two, but let’s focus on what we call religion.

As a cleric for over three decades, part of my weekly task was to write and deliver sermons. In the tradition I formerly followed, this meant using Hebrew and Christian scriptures as a springboard. In retrospect, it pains me to see that my default practice was to traffic in certainties. What was my purpose, I reasoned, if I didn’t send people home from Sunday worship with principles for their lives?

Let me be clear. Certain truths from the aforementioned scriptures are eternal and, to me, indispensable for our human journeys. Here are just a few, voiced by prophets, evangelists, and Jesus himself.

  • Do not return evil for evil.
  • Love your neighbor as yourself.
  • Have compassion for all human beings, including the hungry, the naked, the imprisoned, and the stranger.
  • Focus on your own shortcomings rather than those of others.
  • Realize that you can have all the accoutrements of this world, but if you don’t have love, you have missed life’s greatest treasure.
  • Don’t worry, for it can’t add a single meaningful hour to your life.

No matter what you believe about spiritual matters, surely you agree that these guidelines could help all of us fashion a kinder, more inclusive planet. My point, once again, is that certainty can be helpful if it shapes us into mature human beings.

However, staying with this topic of religion, let’s shift to how certainty can also wreak havoc. Here are just a few of the ways.

  • Believing that our version of truth must be adopted by all people for their “salvation.”
  • Clinging to anthropomorphic images of a deity.
  • Citing scripture from our chosen tradition to undergird homophobia, misogyny, or nationalism.
  • Adopting a sense of superiority over others because of our beliefs.

These are toxic fallouts when one’s certitude becomes fossilized into consciousness, unmoving and impermeable.

Mystery, an acknowledgment that there is more out there than we ever imagined, can crack this bias. In one of my former books, Invitation to the Overview, I wrote about an image that still turns my thoughts from certainty to mystery. Here it is.

Among our galaxy’s billions of stars, I know there are other marvels, dramatically evident in Hubble Telescope photos. That unique instrument allows the absorption of light which has traveled for countless light years. In a particular picture, its focus was a tiny spot about the size of a grain of sand held at arm’s length. What did it discover? Not just thousands of previously uncharted stars, but many new galaxies, some of them grander than our own. To coin an old hippie phrase: doesn’t that blow your mind?

In his Stages of Faith: The Psychology of Human Development and the Quest for Meaning, the late James Fowler gave a name to the highest level of spiritual maturation in his theory. He called it Universalizing Faith. This is when we are no longer hemmed in by differences in religious or spiritual beliefs. We learn to see beauty in the images and myths that others hold sacred. We adopt the truths that are helpful for us and leave the rest. We regard all human beings as worthy of compassion and deep understanding. 

Can you imagine a world where this is the norm, supplanting our divisive violence?

In another of my books, The Smile on a Dog: Retrieving a Faith That Matters, I invited people from diverse walks of life to share how their spiritual perspective had evolved over time. One of them is an esteemed colleague named Rebecca Blackwell. I realize this is from a Christian perspective, but I believe the truths are applicable to all of us. Here is what she said (in italics).

For the last 52 years, I’ve been on a journey that took me from the solid ground of Christian Fundamentalism to the misty mountaintops of whatever kind of Christian I am now.

The journey has required that I leave some things behind on the trail. I had to let go of certainty, fear, and shame. As my load lightened, I discovered a deep freedom, a peace that passes all understanding, a closer connection with God/The Sacred and the confidence that nothing can separate me from the love of God that permeates the cosmos.

I took the first step on this journey in 1972 when, at age 18, I walked away from the church I grew up in. I could no longer abide their sexism, patriarchy, narrow-mindedness and fear-based way of life. Since they taught me that they were the One True Church and the God they proclaimed was the One True God, that left me with nowhere to go. So, I did not affiliate with any church.

About ten years into my exodus, I began to notice that even though I had left “church,” I was still praying (though not in a hands-folded, head-bowed kind of way), and I was missing a spiritual community. Could it be that God was bigger than I had been led to believe? I took what felt like a huge risk and began exploring other churches.

The willingness to explore and to say “maybe” to new experiences or ideas, and to trust my instincts and intuition (which I believe are the way Spirit speaks to us), have been key to this journey. I said “maybe” and then “yes” to the Presbyterian Church (USA); I said “maybe” and then “yes” to the Charismatic movement. I said “maybe” and then “yes” to seminary and ordination in the PC(USA); I said “maybe” and then “yes” to yoga, meditation, Reiki and other practices. I said “maybe” and then “yes” to seeing God at work in the deep dimensions of other faiths.

With each exploration that resulted in “yes” (and not all of them did), my heart grew more expansive, my faith more inclusive. So, where am I today? I consider myself a Christian, though I hold few of the traditional doctrines (heaven, hell, penal substitutionary atonement and others are gone), and the doctrines I do hold have been significantly re-shaped. My conviction is that the Mystery at the heart of the universe is infinitely knowable through a variety of means. The Bible (especially the stories of Jesus) is the organizing narrative for wrapping my head and heart around this Mystery, and so I call this Mystery “God” and “Christ.”

Should you be on a spiritual journey of your own, I offer the following aphorisms and suggestions in the hope that they will help you.

  • Faith is a journey, not a trip. There is no precise road map, no timetable, no certain destination…the journey IS the destination.
  • Hold everything lightly.
  • Don’t confuse God with any church or religious institution.
  • Your convictions don’t have to make sense or be logical/systematic to be true. Embracing paradox is the heart of wisdom.
  • Read and study widely…history, spiritual biographies, theology, faith stories, poetry, and great literature.
  • Find some traveling companions, including people of different faiths or no faith at all; people who will talk, walk, think, and sit with you. A good Spiritual Director is an invaluable traveling companion.
  • Trust your inner wisdom, no matter where and how it leads you…it is the voice of the Spirit.

Learning to balance certainty and mystery is not just about spiritual development. It impinges on every aspect of our daily lives. Here are just a few, and I’m sure you could offer others from your life.

  • Learning in our marriages to balance what we know of our spouses with the mystery of who they are becoming.
  • Parenting with a grasp of good child rearing practices, while still respecting that our children have unique destines far outside our imaginations.
  • Being open in our vocations to a balance of training with updated knowledge.

It’s a beautiful thing when you witness someone surrendering to the realization of mystery or uncertainty. Here’s another episode from my long and winding career.

I was teaching a class on parenting using a curriculum I thought was helpful. The participants were a varied group of individuals who shared a desire to raise their children with the best practices available.

Among the attendees was an active-duty Army colonel stationed at a nearby base. He was “squared away” as they say in the military. Everything about him was tightly buttoned, including his opinions about our subject material. He had an answer for every aspect of parenting, citing his success in raising three children who excelled in both academics and sports.

Frankly, I wondered why he was there. Did his ego need to hold court and garner admiration? Then, slowly, I saw the cracks emerge, primarily through comments made by his wife who was also part of the course. She alluded to friction between her husband and their oldest son, a boy who would soon leave the family nest and go off to college. When she spoke, you could see the stiffness in her husband, as if he wanted to silence her but was afraid to make a scene.

In the final session of our time together, we took turns summarizing the high points of what we had learned. I was deeply gratified as I heard each person’s reflections, confident that the study aids and our shared experience would create healthier families.

When it came time for the colonel to share, he was uncharacteristically quiet. Then, unexpectedly, his face began to quiver with emotion.

“I’ve learned…” he tried to speak, emotion overcoming his words. He gathered himself to start over, like a soldier trying to come to attention. “’I’ve learned that you can have all the answers and still not know how to fully love someone.”

At that point, he began to shake as he broke down in tears. It’s hard to describe what happened next. It was as if an inner tension held by our entire group found its release. Numerous people got up to surround the colonel and lovingly placed their hands on his shoulders. I expected him to rebuff their gestures with his usual self-assurance. Instead, he placed his own hands on theirs with gratitude.

In that moment I thought of a beautiful verse from the Christian New Testament. “And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.” (I Corinthians 13:2)

 I’ll never know what ultimately happened to the colonel and his family, especially in parenting his oldest son. But I like to think that his newfound openness and vulnerability birthed a healing season in their relationship.

Practice

Take time today to practice the suggestions in this chapter. Sit and draw to mind some of the truths you hold dear, the lessons you’ve learned that have the weight of certainty. Bring an appreciation for them into the present. Then allow a non-fearful sense of mystery about what you might learn in the future be equally present. Please remember that even though doubt is useful, it is often accompanied by fear. The mystery we are talking about is not a manifestation of doubt. It’s a benign realization that there is more fullness, more joy, more fascination yet to be discovered in your life.

Here are some affirmations you can repeat.

  1. I have learned some beautiful truths from my faith and life experience (name them here).
  2. Alongside these certainties, I celebrate that the universe still has so much to teach me, new knowledge that will enrich my life. This unknown is beckoning me with its warm embrace.

As you fuse these aspects of certainty and mystery into this present moment, remember this:

Heaven is here. There is nowhere else.
Heaven is now. There is no other time.

Part four of this series will post on June 15

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Heaven is Now: Adjust Your Vision, Find Balance – Part Two

If you missed Part One of this series, here is the link.

The Harmony of Appreciation and Anticipation

This early part of the 21st century, like most junctures in human history, showcases the worst of our failures. Nations reverting to xenophobia, scapegoating immigrants. Chasms widening between classes. Wars continuing to rage. Ecosystems groaning under the weight of unsustainable consumption. Despite its tiny duration, the Anthropocene era is exceedingly destructive.

I cannot live without hope. It’s like oxygen for my soul. I maintain that there’s another trend, another golden strand of our evolution, an awareness dawning across our globe. I see people awakening. People recognizing our crucial need to embody love and tolerance. People realizing that our driven consumerism, stoked by discontent and covetousness, is ultimately hollow, even poisonous. May all of us emerge from our societal illusions as soon as possible!

Part of this trend is the popularity of what we call mindfulness, championed by talk show hosts, celebrities, and scores of books. There are even phone apps like Calm that help us reside more fully here and now. It conjures hope that the liberation of our minds will lead to the freedom of our hearts and spirits.

As I’ve stated, I propose some additions to our mindfulness—a fusion of differing realities that impinge on our consciousness daily. Let’s do this first with appreciation (no regrets) and joyful anticipation (no fears).

Appreciation

Of Our Genetic Makeup: An entire industry now exists for the analysis of our DNA. We pay a sum, send in an organic sample, then learn the root percentages of our ancestry. On TV, we hear people sharing the surprises that awaited them: unique forebears, some of them famous; awareness of ethnic mixtures; ties to new tribes and traditions.

Hopefully, this celebration of our roots leads to another gift: accepting and loving the literal shape of who we are.

There’s a tragic truth that permeates human history. We have discriminated against each other based on skin color, height, weight, facial features, and body shapes that pass as beautiful. In some cultures, these notions of physical appearance have taken a bizarre turn.

While on a trip to Belize, I learned of a cruel way that the Mayans shaped the looks of male children destined to be leaders. They placed an apparatus between their eyes to induce them to become crossed, and then affixed slats of wood against their foreheads, gradually tightening the fasteners so that their craniums slanted upward. Why would they cause such pain to an innocent child? Because a slightly cross-eyed man with a sloped skull was their depiction of god-like physical attributes.

The Padaung people of southeast Asia consider long necks among women an attractive trait. Girls as young as age two are fitted with neck rings that artificially stretch the length between the clavicle and the chin. The rings increase with age until a grown woman may have as many as 20 or more. They endure painful chafing their entire lives and cannot remove these coils without the risk of neck collapse. All in the name of beauty!

A more familiar example was foot binding in China, the brutal practice of breaking and tightly binding the feet of young girls to change their shape and size. Feet conformed in this way became “lotus feet,” touted as a mark of feminine beauty, but in reality, a relegation to servitude. It led to great pain, limited motion, and lifelong disabilities. It wasn’t until 1949 that China officially outlawed this savage, sexist practice.

These examples seem extreme, but Western culture promotes its own brand of desirable traits. Publishers plaster their magazines with images of those considered beautiful and desirable, often “photoshopped” to mask any blemishes. Traditionally, these were skinny, almost waif-like icons of femininity. I celebrate that recently we are seeing more “full-bodied” appearances, but the underlying message is often the same. Our culture objectifies others and us, a lack of appreciation and acceptance of our natural physicality.

Beneath this harmful veneer are countless individuals who internalize these notions of beauty. They weigh themselves on this scale and decide they are lacking, leading to self-doubt, even depression.  You can see this clearly in recent statistics. Demand for cosmetic surgery continues to grow in America, with the industry expected to gross 254 billion by 2033.1 Another study shows that between 2000 and 2018, eating disorders doubled worldwide.2 And the lunacy continues. In my hometown of San Antonio, there are billboards along the freeway that promise fuller lips, shapely buttocks, and larger breasts. One of these cosmetic surgeons is known as El Frutero, the Fruit Seller, implying that he can turn women into luscious edibles.

 I’m the father of a disabled adult son. Over the years, his peers have included those with Down Syndrome and other genetic markers giving them physical characteristics far outside our cultural notions of beauty. I’ve had the glorious privilege of involvement with Special Olympics, a celebration of accepting ourselves for who we are. There’s a powerful moment seared in my memory. A young man with cerebral palsy was participating in the 100-meter dash at the state finals in Texas. I was in the stands with hundreds of spectators. The palsied competitor couldn’t actually run, just walk in a jerky manner. He soon fell to last place, moving at one fourth the speed of other competitors. Those of us in the bleachers rose to our feet, cheering him on. You would have thought we were applauding Usain Bolt, and the crescendo of our support as he crossed the finish line is something I will always cherish.

In one of my speaking engagements, I pointed to a large easel draped in white cloth. “In a moment,” I said, “I will unveil the face of the most beautiful woman in the world.” I paused, letting those words sink in. “I mean it. This is not just my opinion, but the result of numerous international polls. So, are you ready? Do you want to see her?” Hundreds of heads nodded in unison, men showing the most eagerness. I walked to the easel and pulled away the cloth with a flourish, revealing the craggy face of Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu, known to the world as Saint Teresa of Calcutta. A woman who, by any world standard of physical beauty, was not even in the ballpark, but whose inner beauty of spirit shone through her eyes to everyone who knew her.

Imagine if we learned to see others in way that is untainted by the judgements society injects into us. In one of my short stories, The Sanctuary, two of the characters are chatting at a farmer’s market. They discover a common interest in people watching. Let’s eavesdrop on their conversation.

“This may sound strange,” said Dona, “but I’ve been experimenting with my perspective, especially in public places. When I watch, I try to observe how my mind responds. Am I reacting to people as types? You know, cataloguing skin colors, body shapes, clothing choices, tones of voice. Or can I just see each person, really see them? Does that make sense?”
John smiled. “It does. It’s hard, isn’t it, to just be in the moment and let go of the constant chatter and judgements? I remember reading a powerful piece by Krishnamurti to that effect. The line I recall is this, ‘The ability to observe without evaluating is the highest form of intelligence.’”

Try applying this higher intelligence more regularly to others. When you see them, think “What a beautiful human being!” Then practice the same acceptance with yourself if you ever look in the mirror. Appreciate your genetic characteristics! This is your only physical form for this life’s journey. As we learn to love others and ourselves with all of our attributes, especially those the world considers imperfect, we discover a more radiant love!

Appreciation of Our Family Influence. There is nature (our genes) and there is nurture, the influence of family, teachers, and other key people who raise us. Learning to appreciate their effects on us—both positive and negative—is key to developing this third eye that sees a harmonious balance of life’s realities.

If you come from a family that consistently affirmed you, helping you accept your uniqueness and make the most of it, I hope you feel blessed. If, instead, you come from a dysfunctional home, a nuclear system that left you with scars of heart and mind, I understand. Believe me! I know this firsthand, and sometimes it seems near impossible to release our grievances about the past.

Here is where I’m hopeful once again. I sincerely believe that each of us can arrive at inner serenity if we put in the spiritual work. This requires deep forgiveness and acceptance, a state of mind in which we no longer need affirmation from those who should have freely given it to us. It’s the liberation found in the well-known prayer attributed to St. Francis, “O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love.”

Consider the concept of filial piety taught by Confucius in the 5th century B.C. It calls for respecting our ancestors and current family members, beginning with our parents. According to Confucius, this is the mortar that holds societies together. To use another image, it’s the sinews that connect the body of humanity. Without it, there is chaos.

I’m not saying we should submit to unjust authority. There are times when we need to raise our fists in protest. There are times when we need to withdraw from the reach of those who would continue to hurt us, even our family members.

Yet there is still great wisdom in what Confucius taught, echoed in the Jewish commandment, “Love your father and mother, so that it may be well with you, and you may live long on the earth.” When we learn to love our elders, breaking loose of resentments into the pure air of forgiveness and acceptance, our world becomes steadier on its axis. We are then freer to exercise our own uniqueness.

How will we know when we have reached this level of maturity? When our memories of toxic events become healed, no longer releasing radioactivity into our lives. I’ve always loved these words from Lewis B. Smedes, one of the most profound writers on forgiveness.

“Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future.”

I once counseled a man who demonstrated this healing principle in action.

He had every legitimate reason to hate his upbringing. His whole family system was addicted—his father to work, his mother to alcohol, a brother to drugs. With an absent male figure and a female influence that was domineering and unpredictable, he had no port in a storm. He drifted into addiction himself, making one misguided decision after another.

In recovery, his mind began to clear. He learned the concepts of surrender, transparency, forgiveness, and serving others. He began to practice what Twelve Steppers call a “daily inventory,” a growing awareness of the thought patterns that still held him in bondage.

What cropped up repeatedly was the residual pain and anger attached to his family. He knew that without letting go of this turmoil, he couldn’t experience true sobriety. But how was he to do that? People gave him loads of advice and most of it sounded like trite slogans that never penetrated his spirit.

Then he internalized another essential part of appreciation…

Appreciation of Our Suffering and Struggle: Participants in Twelve Step fellowships often hear startling words. Someone says, “My name is ‘so and so’ and I’m a grateful addict/alcoholic.” Then they often share their painful history: blackouts, health problems, jail time, repeated stints in rehab, or the overwhelming despair that led to thoughts of suicide. If they have plumbed the depths of recovery, they also see the suffering they caused for everyone around them—relatives, neighbors, coworkers, even innocent bystanders in the community.

Who would be grateful for a disease that led to these consequences? Answer: someone who realizes a profound and liberating truth: every experience in our lives, no matter how painful, can promote spiritual maturity, even joy, if we learn the lessons offered.

Despite what you may think, this isn’t a rare occurrence. You will find it among people of all races, ages, occupations, and educational levels who have done the work to liberate themselves. Let them bring you hope!

Every one of us can look back and dwell on mistakes we’ve made, loves we’ve lost, or chances we missed. Regret can become a self-defeating trance that traps us in the hamster-wheel repetitions of our minds. Or, we can cling to our blame of family members, friends, or associates who carelessly or intentionally wounded us. We nurse those grudges as if we are watering one of the plants in Little Shop of Horrors.

Instead, if we calmly affirm the lessons we have learned from each and every one of these struggles, our third eye begins to open and gives us clarity.

Thankfully, the man I mentioned broke through to the liberating insights he needed. As he prepared to make amends to those he had harmed through his addiction, he realized that he also needed to forgive himself for the pain he had caused. He connected with the saving power of grace, and he knew that he needed to extend this quality to others who had harmed him. It was far from easy, but over time, he transformed his memories into serenity for the present and hope for the future. He recently said this to me: “It’s amazing. It never thought I would reach this point in my life. I am completely in my own skin. I wouldn’t want to have any other history. I wouldn’t want to be any other place. I wouldn’t want to be any other person.”

Think again of the Tao symbol in which the dark portion contains a point of light, and the light portion contains a point of darkness. This is a perfect depiction of living in a middle path when it comes to our suffering and struggle. In the dark we can discover points of illumination. In the light, we are aware of our own flaws so that we never succumb to arrogance. It’s a beautiful way of being!

Now let’s turn from appreciation to anticipation.

Joyful Anticipation

In a previous book of mine—Consider the Lilies: Five Ways to Stop Worrying and Enjoy the Kingdom of God—I wrote the following.

Our English word “worry” comes from the Old English wyrgan, meaning “to strangle.” How fitting, for this is exactly what worry does to us! It grabs us by the neck and chokes away the vitality from our lives. Worry steals our peace, weakens our potential, and sours our closest relationships. Just when it seems we have pried away its strangling tentacles, it throws out others we never knew were there.

Worry is fear rooted in negative anticipation. Fueled by unhealed moments from our past or the constant barrage of negativity that flows from the world around us, we anticipate, even imagine, the worst. But despite our fight or flight genetics, there’s a more peaceful reality, a pearl of great price imbedded in our innermost nature. It’s the knowledge that we are immersed in a benign Presence that we alternately call God, Higher Power, Spirit, or Tao. Surrendering to this Mystery can fill us with a sense of wellbeing that erases our expectation of calamity.

Unlike the past and its concrete images stored in our memory, the future is yet unexplored. This is why I use the words joyful anticipation.

At this point, some of you may strongly object. Based on your assessment of your past and all the dark cards you think you’ve been dealt, you’re cynical about what lies ahead. Fatalism clouds your vision. There’s no harmony in your perspective, only dread.

I invite you to think in another way. No matter how difficult your past has been, you survived. You grew stronger and hopefully a bit wiser from your experience. Let that realization help you believe that your future, no matter what happens, will work to enrich your life.

Recently, in one of my Twelve Step meetings, I heard a poignant story. A woman chronicled her descent into addiction and alcoholism, her version of a downward spiral that, in one form or another, was common to all of us. When she had lost everything—her children, her job, and most of her health—her family had her committed to a psychiatric institution. She remembered sitting in the back seat of her brother’s car, looking out at the foreboding building through her window, overcome by despair.

Fast forward ten years. The woman embraced the treatment offered to her like a floating mast after a shipwreck. She began to trust others. She began to treat herself with love and grace. She resurrected her lifelong dream of returning to school and pursuing a career in nursing. On a proud day, she received her diploma. Then, after graduation, she worked for a temp company that provided skilled care to a number of hospitals in her hometown.

This brought her, once again, to the parking lot of the very place she had received treatment. She looked out at the buildings that had inspired such dread, now seeing them from a vastly different perspective. She tried to describe something she said was indescribable—the feeling of her new life, a person with purpose, remembering the shell of herself that had been on death’s doorstep that day her brother delivered her. She began to cry, struggling for words, but to each of us who were listening, she couldn’t have been more eloquent. Our tears flowed with hers. Her story was a living parable, a shining example of one of the promises in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous: We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

If you wince at the word God, think of it another way. The Universe has your back. You are not destined for disaster. There is love, grace, and fulfillment in your future, so joyfully anticipate it.

Inspirational writer, Alan Cohen, sums up some of the thoughts in this chapter in his book A Course in Miracles Made Easy: Mastering the Journey from Fear to Love.

The future you expect is a projection of your beliefs about the past…When you change your thoughts about the past, you change your thoughts about the future, and thus you create a better future…If you regard yourself and life through the lens of fear, guilt, and mistrust, you will expect a morbid future. If you regard yourself and life through the lens of love, innocence, and faith, you will expect a bright future.

Practice

Take time today to practice the suggestions in this chapter. Sit for some moments and be grateful for the physical form you’ve been given, the family that birthed you into this world, and every single struggle that has taught you lessons of strength and maturity. Bring this appreciation into the present. Then anticipate that every day from here on forward—no matter what you may face—the Presence upholding you will ultimately guide you, teach you, and bring you peace.

Here are some affirmations you can speak out loud.

  1. I celebrate my physical body exactly as it is, knowing I am created as a one-of-a-kind miracle.
  2. Despite any pain from my past, I choose to affirm the family and ancestral roots that gave birth to my unique existence. I seek to forgive any ills done to me, no matter how difficult they may be.
  3. I affirm that every trial I survived has imparted knowledge and power that I can use to live more fully.
  4. I anticipate the future with joy, knowing that I can never be separated from the loving Presence that surrounds me and upholds me.

            As you fuse these aspects of appreciation and joyful anticipation into this present moment, remember this:

Heaven is here. There is nowhere else.
Heaven is now. There is no other time.

Part Three will post on June 11

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Heaven is Now: Adjust Your Vision, Find Balance – Part One

INTRODUCTION

We’ve all read something that awakened us. It might have been scripture from our faith tradition, a verse from a poem, or a quote from a philosopher. It recently happened to me when I came across these words from A Course in Miracles.

Heaven is here. There is nowhere else.
Heaven is now. There is no other time.

A simple thought, but it caught my breath, opening a window to the mystery of Time.

Most of us see the past, present, and future as a linear continuum. Somewhere on this imagined vector, we spend our brief allotment. Meanwhile, gurus, mentors, and motivational speakers have a clarion prescription. Live in the present! Bathe yourself in the here and now as a portal to liberation! Certainly, this is sage advice. Who will deny that we need to savor each moment?

But what if there’s a more holistic way to experience time, a means of harmony that is far more three-dimensional?

We’re all familiar with the concept of multiverses, especially in the movies. Perhaps we watched Dr. Strange as he flitted between alternate realities building to a climax. Or we tracked Michelle Yeoh in Everything Everywhere All at Once, shifting through parallel versions of herself to thwart an evil foe.

This notion of time isn’t confined to screenwriters. It actually has a long history. It’s called “Eternalism” or “Block Universe Theory.” It maintains that the past, present, and future exist concurrently—a cube of spacetime rather than a linear flow. An encyclopedia explains it this way.

Eternalism is a metaphysical view regarding the nature of time. It posits the equal existence of all times: the past, the present, and the future. Every event, from the big bang to the heat death of the universe, including our births and deaths, is equally real.

I don’t want to debate philosophy or science. I’m not here to champion a new certainty. In my previous life as a cleric, I grew weary of theologizing. So many words yet so little appreciation for mystery! I’m using eternalism as a metaphor to help free our minds and heal our souls. I’m challenging us to experiment with our notions of time, to tweak our consciousness for greater harmony and inner peace.

To use another metaphor, think of the “third eye” from dharmic traditions of the East. Hindus describe it as a mystical way of seeing, symbolically located on our brows. They believe that learning to view life in this third way brings startling clarity. These traditions don’t deny the interplay of opposites—light/dark, male/female, birth/death—they just know that clinging to one side or the other is what causes our suffering. As we begin to see beyond, or between, the dualistic chimeras that dominate our thinking, we get to the heart of life’s essential oneness. This is famously depicted in the yin/yang symbol of Taoism.

In his book The Naked Now: Learning to See as the Mystics See, Richard Rohr maintains that a third way of seeing is hardwired into our brains. He describes it so that westerners can more easily understand.

The idea of the third eye can seem foreign to both our culture and our experience, but in fact you are experiencing an image of the third eye at this very moment. Take a look around you. Even though your own two eyes clearly look at all things from two distinct angles, they connect…and create one image…This fact of physiology offers us a powerful metaphor for what we are talking about. The loss of the ‘third eye’ is at the basis of much of the shortsightedness and religious crises of the Western world… Lacking such wisdom, it is hard for churches, governments, and leaders to move beyond ego, the desire for control, and public posturing. Everything divides into dualistic oppositions like liberal vs. conservative, with vested interests pulling against one another.

Two angles, two opposites, two ways of viewing reality fused into a unified focus. Think of your third eye as a symbol for achieving balance and inner peace. As Rohr reminds us, our world desperately needs more harmony. Politicians snipe at each other from trenches on the partisan battlefield, ignoring their public charge to work together for common good. Religions pitch their versions of ultimate truth, often muddying our global need for tolerance.

Peace on a grander scale will only prevail when unity and love take root in each of us. You can’t legislate these qualities. They must arise from within. Until they do, we will continue the strife that screams from the annals of human history, destroying our planet.

Here’s a homier analogy.

Over the years, I spent many hours counseling couples who were trying to reconcile their parenting styles. I told them of a time when my wife and I lived in a mobile home, a structure without a firm foundation. Our bedroom was on the opposite side of the house from the laundry room. If the clothes in the washer were unevenly packed, the machine began to wobble and thump, jolting the entire structure. “Think of this concept in your marriage,” I said to these parents. “Unless you learn to balance the give and take of your methods, your family will quake with conflict. It begins at the core with concord in your relationship.”

This series is an invitation to balance. It’s a challenge to harmonize three areas of life common to all of us: 1) appreciation and anticipation; 2) knowledge and mystery; 3) action and surrender. I am ultimately filled with hope. I believe it’s possible to live firmly and joyfully in the present while holding a blend of these simultaneous realities in our consciousness.

Jesus said “The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light.” In other words, how we view our lives within the context of time is critical. Our way of seeing will either obscure the true nature of reality, darkening our path, or it will reveal the luminous unity that lies at the heart of the universe, drawing us onward into the light.

Part Two will post on June 6th, 2025

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Under the Bell Jar with Sylvia

But I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again? – from “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath

Throughout my career, I walked with the wounded. I communed with those suffering grief, addiction, disease, and mental illness. I’m certain that my personal struggles, so close to the surface, helped me become what Henri Nouwen called a “wounded healer.” It was a privilege to share sacramental moments with fellow human beings.

There’s an incident seared in my memory. Bob, a member of a church I served, had reached the end of what he could tolerate. He took a pistol, walked out to his driveway around midnight, and shot himself. I lived two blocks away, where I was awoken by my phone jangling. It was a police officer. An ambulance was on its way, he said, but Bob, somehow still conscious, was asking for Pastor Krin to come to his side. I got there quickly, where I kneeled next to him, his head haloed by blood. Under the bell jar, our eyes met. I assured him that both his Creator and I loved him, and that nothing could separate him from that reality. I believed it then; I still do.

Miraculously, he survived without brain damage and went on to heal the underlying depression that drew him into the abyss.

My empathy for those who suffer has never subsided. Recently it extended to Esther Greenwood, the main character of Sylvia Plath’s only novel, The Bell Jar, published just before she committed suicide. Set during a single summer, it’s the story of a young woman’s descent into depression. Beginning with a writer’s internship in New York, she plummets through a series of mental asylums, enduring primitive shock treatments along the way.

The novel had been on my radar for years, one of those “must reads” for students of serious literature. I knew about Sylvia’s tumultuous relationship with poet Ted Hughes. I had read some of her poems which really didn’t speak to me, but this novel was both lyrical and terrifying. I will never forget it.

The bell jar becomes a metaphor, a symbol of the pressures Esther faces to conform to societal norms. The conventional paths of marriage and motherhood, held up as ultimate goals for women, feel like chains to her, stifling her ambitions and suffocating her spirit. She yearns for freedom, for the ability to define her own life, yet every attempt to assert control pushes her further into despair.

Esther speaks of this inner turmoil. “I was supposed to be the author of my own life.” “I wanted to be intelligent and popular.” “I wanted to be a perfect person.” “I always believed that if I did or said the right thing, then everything would turn out all right.” “What is the point of this life if we are not living it to the fullest?”

Increasingly, depression dictates her thoughts. “It was as if I were always wearing a mask.” “I felt like I was drowning.” “The world was a big, dark ball, and I was all alone.” “The only thing I could do was stay quiet and let the shadows take me.” “I wanted to disappear.”

Seen through the bell jar’s distortion, Esther’s urge to vanish means ending her life. She contemplates multiple methods. Jumping off a roof. Drowning in the ocean. Then, in her most dedicated effort, taking an overdose of pills.

That final attempt still chills me. Esther makes her way to the family cellar, then to a dugout tucked in its furthest recess. She crawls inside, pulls some firewood against the entrance, and takes every pill in her bottle.

It’s hard to describe how that affected me. I was right there, sitting next to her in the damp darkness, powerless to banish her despair, bearing witness to a life that mattered as preciously as any of ours.

My colleagues and I call it the “ministry of presence.” Simply being with another person during their trials. Refraining from trite platitudes. Offering only love and grace. Over the years, it led me to sit beneath the bell jar with so many people, enduring their pressures with them, believing that the necessary remedies would emerge but that love and empathy come first.

Admittedly, I took this further than many. I remember being at the bedside of an elderly woman in her final days. She had no family left, and her failing heart would soon stop beating. I had been walking with her through all of this like a surrogate son.

She looked up at me, and in a weak voice said, “Pastor Krin, will you lie down next to me?”

Frankly, I didn’t care what the hospital staff felt. There was enough space next to her frail body, so I stretched out alongside her. She turned, laid her head against my shoulder, and softly fell asleep.

As I looked up at the ceiling of the hospital room, listening to her shallow breathing and the echo of voices in the hallway, something transcendent happened. The distortions of the bell jar completely cleared. There was only the present, the connection of two lives, and the omnipresent love that embraces all of us if we let it.

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Twilight of the Idols

We are all atheists about most of the gods that humanity has ever believed in. Some of us just go one god further. – Richard Dawkins

In an Egyptian crypt, deep underground,
lies a shattered effigy of Osiris,
guardian of the netherworld.
But there’s no one to usher into the afterlife,
and the relentless wind of the Sahara
scours the landscape above, erasing all but time.

From an ancient temple perched above the Aegean,
a towering statue of Poseidon once surveyed
the turquoise waters of his kingdom.
His triton, held by a muscular arm,
summoned magic and power.
But all that remains are weathered columns
and scattered pieces in museums,
while the waves crash below,
grinding the coastline to sand.

On a sun-scoured rock of a Coloradan mesa,
an image of Kokopelli is barely visible,
his back hunched, holding his slender flute.
Once the blesser of crops and human fertility,
his music is muted forever,
and no one dances in the ruins of the Ancient Ones.

A family leads their daughter to the cathedral’s altar
on the day of her first communion.
None of them see that time, coming soon,
when the chalice is shattered,
the bread a fossilized crust.
And twilight slowly dims to black
outside the fractured stained-glass windows.

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The Bucket

Every day the bucket a-go-a well. One day the bottom a-go drop out. – Bob Marley

It was a misty morning on the family farm,
cardinals and wrens calling from the junipers,
my father in his bib overalls,
performing his morning chores
while I milked the goats,
their moist muzzles pressing against my forearms.

“Son, come over here,” Dad called.
He was near the weathered barn,
a tall Dutchman, his hands the size of catcher’s mitts.
When I got to his side
he was standing over a wooden bucket filled with water,
its surface as placid as a cavern pool.

He plunged one arm into the liquid, then removed it.
The water rippled, quickly regaining its stasis.
“If you ever think you’re indispensable,” said Dad,
stick your hand in a bucket of water, then pull it out.
Go ahead, son. Try it.”

I followed his example,
in and out,
the brief interlude returning to stillness.
Dad laughed and ruffled my hair,
his palm nearly engulfing my head.

The other day, I looked at his picture on the mantle,
the one we displayed at his funeral.
He was dressed in his Army uniform,
his eyes already fixed on a distant battlefield.

And for an instant, the water stirred
before settling again,
as if a pebble had been dropped in a midnight lake,
no witnesses but darkness and time.

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Are You Choosing Fear?

Every day the headlines scream. Tariffs, deportations, inflation, layoffs, violence in Europe and the Middle East, political infighting! It’s a litany of doom and conflict, and it’s no wonder that for many people, these are fearful times.

Or maybe your unease is closer to home. A pending medical test. A legal entanglement. A relationship falling apart. Insecurity over your employment and financial status.

Here’s a question that should be central to each of our lives. As challenges arise, both near and far, how do we stay sane?

There’s a profound truth grasped by people from many walks of life, forged in their own crucibles. If their words seem repetitious, let them offset the repeated negativity that barrages us daily.

You hold the key to love and fear
All in your trembling hand
Just one key unlocks them both
It’s there at your command
 – Chester Powers (from lyrics of the Youngbloods song, Get Together

May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears. — Nelson Mandela

If you want to tap into what life has to offer, let love be your primary mode of being, not fear. Fear closes us down and makes us retreat. It locks doors and limits opportunities. Love is about opening to possibilities. Seeing the world with new eyes. It widens our heart and mind. Fear incarcerates, but love liberates. — John Mark Green

There are two basic motivating forces: fear and love. When we are afraid, we pull back from life. When we are in love, we open to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement, and acceptance. – John Lennon

Fear is the darkroom where negatives are developed. – Zig Ziglar

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves torment. – I John 4:18b

I’m sure you’ll agree. Fear is toxic to our souls, an acid wash on our brains, a slayer of peace and relationships. So how do we learn to gradually banish it from our lives?

Start like this. Look back over the past century and see how many times we have faced uncertainty as a nation. Similarly, in the arc of your personal life, think of the trials you’ve survived, all the turbulent rivers you crossed to stand where you are today.

Does the universe have your back? Is there a force looking out for you? Is there a higher power, a god that is protecting you in ways you can only imagine? You will answer these questions for yourself, but for what it’s worth, let me share a glimpse into my recent struggles.

In the past year, our family has weathered three deaths, two cancer diagnoses, the failing mental capacity of parents, and legal challenges that are still pending. It’s hard for me. I’ve always found it difficult to let go. I’m energetic and I can efficiently tackle any problem, so when events are out of my control, I too often let stress—then fear—invade my spirit.

When this happens, there’s a coping mechanism I use. I recall the darkest hours of my life, those times when my alcoholism led me to contemplate suicide. I think of the path my wife and I have trodden with our intellectually disabled son—the grief at his original diagnosis, then all the effort to secure the services he needs. I remember all the financial rollercoasters we’ve survived.

Yet here I am at this moment. Alive. Housed, fed, supported by the love of my family and friends. Able to pursue my advocations of writing and visual art. In touch with that Force that lives and breathes through all of us—call it what you will—and recognizing that it wants only my wholeness and freedom. Thank you, Spirit, God, Higher Power, Tao. Thank you, Mystery!

As this gratitude infuses my life, I’m determined to decrease the lag time. I don’t want to look back weeks, months, or years from now and realize that I came through this season as a more mature human being. I want to claim RIGHT NOW the truth that this too shall pass. That I am OK and will be OK. That I will evolve and grasp more of the meaning for which I was created.

Whatever you’re going through, my friends, I truly empathize. My prayer is that you won’t deepen your malaise by choosing fear rather than love. So, I close with these words from Lisa Nichols.

“When you can’t control what’s happening, challenge yourself to control the way you respond to what’s happening. That’s where your power lies.”

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Protestin’ in the Wind

Spittin’ in the wind, pissin’ in the wind, protestin’ in the wind. Call it what you want, but that’s what it felt like on a recent Sunday.

I was visiting the care facility where my parents live in Las Vegas, so I decided to join them at their church, hitching a ride in the medical transport van. I don’t adhere to a religion, so it’s hard to sit through any worship service. But this conservative Lutheran version was especially dissonant, like a cheese grater across my brain. Every element of the liturgy made me wince.

  • Hymns that spoke of Jesus coming again in clouds of glory to gather only “the faithful.”
  • Multiple promises of being in heaven rather than working to bring justice on earth.
  • A unison confession of sin that magnified our abject condition apart from Jesus’s saving grace.
  • The Apostle’s Creed, that patriarchal relic with its Trinitarian formula and insistence on superstitious miracles.

What tweaked me the most, however, was the sermon. I had foolishly hoped that the pastor might be hip, since I noticed the motorcycle boots he wore under his alb. It was clearly part of his drip. When I asked, “you ride?” he responded, “yep, it’s the only time I feel free.”

Then came his homily. Its central illustration came from a memorial service he’d attended for a teen who died of a drug overdose. There were two preachers that day. One railed about how the girl didn’t “know Jesus,” and that everyone in attendance should be forewarned about their own salvation. The other preacher was more magnanimous. He revealed a private conversation in which he discovered that the girl had indeed “accepted the Lord.”

That assurance rankled me even more!

I know I should have restrained myself. I chose to be there, live and let live, avoid the landmines of religion and politics. Yeah, yeah. But if there’s anything remaining from my former religious leanings, it’s that I’m a protestant, emphasis on protest.

I approached the pastor after the service.

“Do you mind if I share a reaction to your message?”

“Not at all,” he replied.

I calmed my voice. “Your own scripture says that God is love. God loved this girl before she was born, during every painful hour of her addiction, and even now in whatever awaits us after death. That’s true whether or not she followed your religious formula. Do you really believe that if she hadn’t accepted Jesus, she would be banished into darkness?”

His expression changed. His smile grew tighter. His eyes narrowed.

“Yes, God is love. And God gives us free will to either accept or reject the promises of Jesus.”

It was a standard feint, not a real answer, so I continued.

“On the cross, Jesus said ‘it is finished.’ That applies to all of humanity. It’s a love so inclusive that no human mind can fully understand it.”

His smile slipped further, frown lines forming on his brow.

“You must be a universalist,” he said.

And there it was. Spittin’ in the wind, pissin’ in the wind, protestin’ in the wind. Nothing I said would change his world view; nothing he said would alter mine. In this polarized world—with our moats of doctrine, politics, and privilege—hasn’t this become the norm?

When Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde recently exhorted Donald Trump to have mercy and understand the apprehension felt by many Americans, my friends and I applauded her bravery. Face to face, speaking truth to power. Social media blew up with her image, her words, and profile pics that proclaimed, “I’m with her.”

But Trump and his allies, encamped on el otro lado del rio, were unmoved. They demanded an apology, accusing Budde of being woke, radical left, and mannish.

Spittin’ in the wind, pissin’ in the wind, protestin’ in the wind. It’s the norm, and the fact that our online news streams are shaped by predatory AI only makes the problem worse. As Paul Simon said in The Boxer, “A man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.”

(Flashback. On May 4, 1970, Allison Krause, a student at Kent State University, was one of four unarmed students shot and killed by soldiers of the Ohio Army National Guard. The shootings occurred as students protested against both the invasion of Cambodia and the National Guard presence on their campus. The day before her death, Krause observed a single lilac within the barrel of a guardsman’s gun. An officer ordered the soldier to remove it, and Krause caught the flower as it fell to the ground, stating, “Flowers are better than bullets.” This quote—inscribed on her gravestone—has become synonymous with her legacy of peace activism.)

Return to the present. The US continues to arm countries around the world, especially Israel as it carried out its genocide against the Palestinians. And Donald Trump threatens troop deployment to quell domestic demonstrations.

Can you hear the wind whistling, loud and clear?

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An Experience That Shaped His Entire Life

Every family has stories told so often that they’re part of our collective legacy. When older relatives do the retelling, we might roll our eyes. Not this one again…

In my family, there are many. The time my mother caught a 95-pound Nile perch at Lake Victoria. My father setting a senior track record for the mile in his early 40s. My brother catching trout in the Sierra Nevada on a scouting trip, using only a stick, some line, and a bare hook. The time I defied my parents’ warnings and snuck into a screening of Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange while it still had an X rating.

But there’s no tale as powerful and poignant as the one told by my father about an incident in his childhood. Even now—at age 95—that moment can emerge from his dementia and stir the waters of his memory. In 2019, he preserved the episode as a letter to my brothers and me, claiming he recalled it on a daily basis throughout his life.

Here’s the outline.

It was the summer of 1935, midway through the Great Depression, and Dad was five years old. On a bucolic day in the countryside, he was with his mother at the Wisconsin farm of some relatives. While she attended a quilting party, Dad went to a swimming hole with his cousin, Sally. Not unlike Dad, he boasted to her that he had just learned to swim. To prove it, he would take a raft to the middle of the pond, which was about 11 feet deep. Then he would let go and paddle back to her, putting his cockiness to the test. I’ll let him tell you what happened next.

“When I reached a spot close to the bank, I gave the raft a shove. However, I was so tired getting it to this spot, and the raft was now moving away from me so that I could not swim to it. As I began to sink underwater, I said a prayer to God: ‘Please do not let my parents blame themselves for my drowning. It was all my fault!’ As I sank, I made one last attempt to breath, but all I got was a mouthful of water. As I passed out, I was floating with white light all around me. This went on for quite some time until I sensed that someone was placing their hands on my hips and lifting me up, setting me in shallower water. When I opened my mouth, water flowed out. I began to breathe but I was blind. Then I heard Sally shouting at me, ‘Why were you down so long? What happened?’”

I won’t idealize my father. Like all of us, he had his faults, especially his workaholism that kept him from spending more quality time with us. That addiction left a vortex at the center of our family.

But in this story—what Dad always called a miracle—I see some of the core beliefs that informed the arc of his life, truly a Horatio Alger story, rising from poverty to the upper echelons of corporate America. If you are agnostic or atheistic like some of my friends, suspend your judgment for a moment and just encounter this human being I call my father.

  • Notice that he didn’t ask God to save him for his own benefit. His petition was to spare his parents from blaming themselves that he had drowned. This sense of other-centeredness and duty was a hallmark of his character. One of six boys, he was the only one that cared for his parents in their final years, providing for them physically and financially. He showed that same kind of devotion to our nuclear family.
  • He saw his near-drowning as the proverbial second chance in life. God had rescued him for a purpose, and he wanted to honor God for that reprieve.
  • After that day, he says he sought God’s guidance at key junctures in life, especially before critical decisions. Though he and I have faith perspectives that are widely divergent, I resonate with the need to find direction from a power greater than myself.

Do you have a childhood memory that lays hold to your mind and heart? Does it still act as a lodestar for your life’s journey? If so, have you shared it with others?

Here are the final words of Dad’s recollection as he transcribed it in 2019.

“When my sight came back, I walked up to the house where mother was attending the quilting party. As she saw me coming in the door, she came to me and said, ‘What has happened to you?’ (There must have been something about my face that she would ask that question). I said, ‘Mom, I just want to take a nap.’

“I kept this miracle to myself for many decades because I didn’t want my parents to worry about me. I told my mother only after she was older.

“Love and prayers to all three of you, Dad.”

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My Goal Line Stand

Here are some NFL stats to digest.

  • Players’ salaries will total 10.5 billion in 2024.
  • Revenue will be 13 billion.
  • The top five stadiums cost 11.5 billion to construct.
  • The average cost for a family of four to attend a game is $800 but varies widely by team.

Why mention all this in the heat of the current season? Because I’m not the only one who wonders how we could use these enormous sums for other purposes. I’m not the only one who thinks that Dak Prescott’s $240 million contract is freaking obscene.

Yet, like a good little plebe at the Roman Colosseum in 80 A.D., I lustily enjoy these gladiatorial spectacles. Football flows deep in my blood; it’s timestamped throughout my history. I vividly remember Rams’ games at the L.A. Coliseum with my father, screaming with other rabid fans for our home team. I enjoyed my time as a wide receiver in high school before an injury sidelined me. And I admit that during my decades as a pastor, I often rushed home after services to worship at an altar of a different type.

Now I live in Texas, the land of Friday night lights, where football is truly an obsession—from high school to college to the pros. As the Houston Chronicle once said, for many Texans, football is as much as part of them as their heartbeat.

Any fan will tell you: we LOVE a goal stand, those moments when our team sets up a wall of determined human flesh, denying entrance to the end zone.

It reminds me of a goal line stand I made for our family. Let me explain.

Kristoffer, my intellectually disabled son, is now 27 years old. All his life, my wife and I have been his caretakers, caseworkers, and primary advocates. We appreciate professionals along the way who lightened our load, but there’s an unavoidable truth for parents of disabled children. Unless we stand up for them, the system can easily cast them aside.

Case in point. Kristoffer once attended a small (unnamed) high school in Texas. The teacher of his special education class was good-hearted. We were grateful for her care, which included her advocacy for the kids to get involved in Special Olympics. Each year, the school provided transportation to the state finals held at the University of Texas, Arlington, covering hotel accommodations and a stipend for food. This was the district’s sole annual support.

Then, in our third year at that school, we heard they had canceled their funding for this event. Simultaneously, they announced they would spend an enormous sum retrofitting their football team with new uniforms, equipment, and upgrades to the playing field.

Hell no! Not in my lifetime!

I quickly huddled with my family and a lawyer friend who agreed to provide pro bono help. We got a copy of the district’s proposed budget for the next year, verifying the facts. Then we called the school board and demanded a place on their docket for the next meeting. I had a reputation in town, not only as a pastor, but as a regular columnist for the local newspaper. We were given a spot on the agenda.

The night of the meeting, sitting in a spectator seat along the wall, I kept my game face. Just another concerned parent. But when I got my chance to speak, I hit them like a player on steroids slamming the practice sled. I have no recording of those moments, but here’s the gist.

“Thanks for allowing me to speak,” I said, “Before I begin, please know that I have retained legal counsel who is here with me this evening.”

I nodded to my friend who, as planned, glared at them like a barely restrained pit bull.

“Let me cut to the chase. My son, Kristoffer, attends your high school. He’s intellectually disabled, and the only outlet he has for organized sports is Special Olympics. My wife and I drive him many miles around South Texas to give him these opportunities.

“Now listen. The ONLY support your school provides is annual transportation, food, and lodging so that he and a few of others can attend the state finals in Arlington. We just found out that you cut this funding.”

At that point, a couple of the board members looked away, unable to meet my gaze.

“At the same time, you allocated a huge amount to revamp your football program, a sum that makes the money for my son and his classmates seem like a tip or an afterthought.”

I raised my voice a few decibels.

“Make no mistake. If you don’t reinstate your support for Special Olympics, I will not only take legal action. I will use my journalistic connections to make sure that this travesty gets highlighted in every newspaper from here to Corpus Christi to San Antonio to Dallas.”

There was dead silence. The chairperson of the board cleared his throat and tried to act nonplussed.

“Thank you, Mr. Van Tatenhove. We will take this under advisement.”

I grinned satirically. “Don’t think for too long.”

Then my friend and I left without a backward glance.

Months later, our family joined a few others in an air-conditioned bus on our way to Arlington. I looked around at Kristoffer’s classmates and their parents who, like us, would forever be the most important advocates for their children.

I put my arm around Kristoffer’s shoulders. “Hey buddy, I hope you get a gold medal. But no matter how you do, I want you to know that I love you and support you.”

Kristoffer did something he rarely does. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

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