I’m sure you’ve heard the aphorism, that violence never solves anything. It is a good line, one I have previously used myself. In the long view it even has some truth to it… violence often does lead to more and more complicated problems over time.
The problem with it is that in the short view (and most human beings live in the short view) it is demonstrably untrue. Violence can seem, for awhile, to have solved some problems rather neatly. Violence, be it the violence of a mob in Cairo or a planned strike under the cover of a mob in Benghazi… violence can seem a viable solution to a problem, even an attractive one. Why attractive? Because somehow we continue with the myth that killing people creates some kind of finality, some kind of closure, in a visceral denial that we are all interconnected and interdependent.
And yet, I’ve come to realize that there is a deeper truth about violence, one that, in my experience, comes as close to an absolute truth of anything I have ever encountered… and that is this. Violence begets more violence. When one violence is perpetrated, it created a continuing cycle that creates more and different forms of violence, spreading out in a wave from the initial point.
In fact, I wonder if there really are very many new initial points of violence, and if rather our reality is made up of a continuing harmonic of violence stretching back to the dawn of human time.
I also want to clarify what I mean by violence, for I am talking about far more than physical violence. I might strike you, which is an act of physical violence. In reaction to my striking you, you might go home and be emotionally violent to a spouse. That spouse might then tell a child that the God they learned about in Sunday School must be dead for such things to happen, perpetrating an act of religious violence on the child’s growing faith… And on, and on, and on.
We all live in these cycles and waves of many different forms of violence each and every day of our lives. It is a spiritual practice to intentionally seek to interrupt these waves of violence when they come our way. It is a spiritual practice to notice the wave, the form of violence that is perpetrated upon you, and respond with loving kindness. It is a spiritual practice to transform that violence within your spirit.
As one person doing this, the wave will likely crash around you and flow on… but as one of millions? Perhaps we can, one day, break the cycle of violence that has plagued humanity since the dawn of our awareness. Perhaps we can break the cycle in which, in this small part of this ongoing wave of violence, an Israeli-American committed an act of religious violence upon the Islamic faith, and then many enraged by that act committed these acts of physical violence upon Americans, leading us now to political calculations around another act of military violence upon Muslims.
Without such millions of people seeking to intentionally interrupt the waves of violence of all forms, we are stuck forever battered by the surf.
Yours in faith,
Rev. David
There are so many reasons to be filled with grief: the four diplomats whose lives were cut short and the families devastated by the amputation of a beloved person from their midst. The loss of trust between partners in the US and Libya working for peace and freedom. Our national sense of violation and vulnerability from an attack by extremist Muslims on our most tender, damaged day.
But more than that, for me there is the grief that once again the violence inherent in narrow-minded, domination-centered, triumphalist forms of religion has bubbled to the surface once again. I do not forgive the Libyans who turned offense and outrage into murder. I also do not forgive the America-Israeli filmmaker who set out to cause offense and incite mayhem. Yes, killing people is worse—far worse—than hateful, bigoted language. But the inciter and the rioters came from the same place: a belief that their religion is right, that everyone else is wrong, and that their religious supremacy deserves to be accepted and honored.
I do not forgive. But as we approach the Days of Turning, the time between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur when Jews are called atone for offenses they have given and forgive offenses committed against them, I wonder if maybe we aren’t all called to atone. I know that the person who created the offensive film is no more representative of Christianity than the murderers in Libya are representative of Islam. But I suspect that all of us, whatever our faith, are in some way complicit in this tragedy.
I don’t suppose that anyone reading this message has vilified another religion, let alone physically harmed another in a religiously-fueled rage. But I wonder if all of us might not have moments when we treat the religious convictions of others with contempt, or let ignorance lead us into saying things that are offensive. I wonder if all of us haven’t fallen into some easy assumptions about who is right and who is wrong, who is good and who is bad. I wonder which of us is free, not from violence, but from the underpinnings of violence that assume that we can make others conform to our view of the world.
There is plenty to grieve for today and in the days to come. May our grief lead us toward the deep sources of peace rather than the temptations of violence.
The National Cathedral in Reykjavík is a modest edifice, as far as cathedrals go, and despite the fact that I’ve passed by it at least a hundred times on my visits to Iceland, I had never stepped inside—until last month.
I’m not entirely sure why. I have ventured inside dozens of other churches in the country, although most of those either had some connection to my own family or some connection to other emigrants to North America. And like many visitors to Iceland, I’ve ascended the tower of Hallgrímskirkja (which many mistakenly assume to be the cathedral) to experience its breathtaking views of the city and surrounding countryside. Still, I would have thought that historical curiosity might have led me through the cathedral doors before last month, if nothing else.
As I think about it, I suppose I had never entered the National Cathedral because the heavy wooden front doors don’t exactly say, “Come in!” I’ve never stepped inside the Parliament House next door, either—for much the same reason—notwithstanding the fact that I’m almost as passionate about politics as I am about religion. Unlike the inviting, glassed-in entryways to retail stores and restaurants, the solemn doorways to the cathedral and parliament house seem to say, “Enter cautiously but only if you have business here.” This isn’t a criticism; it’s just an observation.
On my last day in Reykjavík this year, I was walking toward the old city cemetery for my ritual visit with the ancestors, both familial and spiritual. As I turned the corner by the cathedral, I noticed the door ajar and I could hear the faint strains of organ music escaping to the street. It was Friday afternoon and, as far as I could tell, nothing formal was happening in the cathedral. So I poked my nose through the door.
Upon seeing me, the custodian rested her mop and beckoned me to come in. As I entered the nave, the music became clearer. The organist was practicing and the building was filled with The Beatles’ song “All You Need Is Love.” There were a handful of other people inside and, as time went on, I noticed we were all softly singing along with the organ. Our hearts and voices were one.
Open doors and the gospel of love: that’s most of what a spiritual community really needs to thrive. It’s mostly what individuals really need to feel welcome and valued. Nestled in a beautiful place—a shrine, whether indoors or out; surrounded by companionable souls, even though strangers; inspired by a message of love, however simple and whatever the source; moved to sing familiar songs, both sacred and secular—in such circumstances the human spirit soars, our shyness dissolves, everyday cares are transcended, and we experience ourselves as one with the interconnected web of life.
Hello Friends,
I love Emily Dickinson’s poetry. Her melancholy words bounce along on a light and happy tune. Years ago, someone told me that all of her poems can be sung to the tune of “Yellow Rose of Texas.” I’ll have to look that up when I get home and finally see if I can make it work – I’m not much of a singer. I’ve been a fan of her poetry for a long time, but I’ve never seen her mixture of beautiful words form such horrible images quite like what happens in this poem that I found while out here in Afghanistan.
Emily says:
I stepped from plank to plank
So slow and cautiously
The stars about my head, I felt,
About my feet the sea.
I knew not but the next
Would be my final inch
This gave me that precarious gait
Some call experience.
What gave me the spiritual nausea feeling the first few times I read it is the contrast between how beautiful this poem speaks to the way we are literally built from our experience and how poignant it is regarding life in a landscape full of IEDs. As I write, we have had four of the biggest controlled detonations I’ve ever felt – and, yes, I did flinch. That was the seventh %*$*ing blast, and I feel some anger. Number eight. My fault for not refreshing the battery in my radio so I could leave it turned on and know what was going on ahead of time. It will be a while yet before I am fond of surprises again.
We are in round one of Warrior Transition training. It feels good to sort of be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. RP and I conduct the training, and everyone we train gets to go home in a few days. Home may seem like it’s just around the corner, but the fight isn’t over. The two-thirds of us that are still out here may anticipate that we will get to go home soon. But the enemy is home. The enemy still shoots at us and still plants IEDs in the ground, still coerces the locals, and still watches the cycles of Marines who come and go. As you’ve seen in the news, even a few of those we thought were friendly have acted out their buried, violent agenda.
I’m at Camp Leatherneck now, which does have a few more conveniences. But the fact that I am transient here balances things out with some inconveniences. I don’t have an office or a chair or things like that. But I do have air conditioning to beat away the heat, so no major complaints. I wonder what it will be like to live again in a place without the ever present hum of generators and the industrial rush of cold air that makes one part of a tent too cold and leaves another still too hot.
We have indeed just had a big experience – an experience that tests every aspect of our being and changes our gait, both metaphorically and literally. It’s been hot and scratchy. The Marines and Sailors carry a ton of gear – more accurately, over 90 pounds during many patrols. Radios, batteries, ammunition, body armor, and water add up in a hurry. Patrols can last for most of a day – sometimes longer. I have waited for the Marines to come back from an operation and tried to help move gear from the landing zone. I struggled to lift even one pack for that short distance. They’ve been through repeated cycles of hydration then dehydration and exhilaration then exhaustion. They’ve slept in the dirt and eaten too much over-processed chow, which is probably better than not enough chow. There isn’t much point in complaining, but even if there was, you probably wouldn’t hear much of it. Circumstance is mostly accepted as “just the way it is.” At Leatherneck, we get to dabble in small comforts like choosing our own food, walking around without a pack, and thinking about what we’ll do when we get home.
Of course, we’ve also experienced the big stuff. In fact, we’ve probably jumped right over the big stuff and come head to head with matters of ultimate concern. The Marines and Sailors have been shot at and seen their friends blown up. They have put tourniquets on each other, just like they were trained to do. Each day, they get up and go out again into a place that messes with our sense of security about the earth we walk on. I wonder what Emily saw that prompted her to fit those particular words to her circumstance, and I wonder how it can be that her words also seem to fit so well on the circumstance of a completely different place and time. What did she not trust in her environment that made her step so carefully? How could she know about the unexpected moment of concussion that rings one’s skull with stars? If it wasn’t a wet sea of blood, then where did her feet wade? How is it that her words and imagery could anticipate the precarious gait of experience, in one place and time, and the precarious gait of amputation in another?
We look forward to going home. I will be glad to be back when it is my turn. And it will be complicated. There will be families at the parking lot in Twenty-Nine Palms who know that their loved one is not coming home. But they will be there, to close a circle that must be closed – to grieve with their other family of Marines and Sailors who were there when a loved one fell.
Scientists say that planet Earth is in the “Goldilocks zone” – not too close and not too far from the sun. Even if the Earth is in that perfectly comfortable sweet spot, there are places on the Earth that don’t seem like they are in the Goldilocks zone. It occurs to me that where we have been is the “Land of Too” – too hot and too cold, too much and too little, too boring and too exciting. And soon, too happy and too sad…
It may be that in some strange way, all the extremes will balance out, but it is only by having too much on each side of the scale. There is a lot to be thankful for out here. Body armor, luck, providence, and perhaps the enemy’s poor equipment and training have conspired in our favor. Bullets have followed a path around organs that leaves us wondering how it was even possible. Explosive devices have been triggered, only to fizzle out. Rockets have flown past their intended targets. All of that is awkward consolation to the family, friends, loved-ones, and fellow Marines and Sailors of those we grieve over.
There is no war without violence, there is no war without betrayal, and there is no war without feelings of guilt – even if there is very little evidence for guilt. The circumstance is simply too complex and tangled to leave anyone unscathed. We are left to make our way through life with a question hung permanently on a wall somewhere in the back of our mind. Why that person, and not me? Why me, and not that person? “What if…,” is part of the experience of war. It is the inheritance that no one could tell us about as clearly as the experience does.
We cannot pray for the past to be different. We can pray for the future. Pray for a clean election. Pray for anything that makes us more civilized than comfortable.
Hope to see you all soon,
Seanan
Chap Seanan R. Holland, LT, USN
1st Bn, 7th Mar
Disclaimer: All entries to CLF/Quest Military Ministries page reflect the personal views of the contributor. The views expressed here are in no way to be construed as an individual or individuals speaking in their official capacities for the agencies, departments, or service branches they serve in. This is not an official publication of the Department of Defense, the U.S. Army, U.S. Navy, U.S. Coast Guard, U.S. Marine Corps, U.S. Air Force, any government agency, or any other organization.
Vietnamese Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh teaches about something he calls interbeing. “If you are a poet,” he writes about a sheet of paper, “you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, we cannot make paper.” In his worldview, the clouds, the rain, the trees, the paper, and the sunshine all are the same thing, and, in fact, are the same as all things.
As a former scientist, I know this to be true. All that we see today, everything that exists in our Universe, everything that ever has existed, and everything that ever will exist all trace their substance–their matter and their energy–to a single cosmic event, a single “big bang.” When I breathe out, I exhale carbon dioxide that is taken up by plants and turned into sugars. When I inhale, I take up oxygen given off by the grass and flowers, I breathe in moisture that once evaporated from a far-away ocean.
All that we know, all that we see, all that we experience, is of the same stuff. It is all interrelated. It is all connected.
In my Unitarian Universalist faith tradition, we speak of “the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.” Usually, this phrase is used to refer to the natural world around us. Respect for this web leads us to environmental consciousness and an Earth-centered spirituality. I think we stop too soon in understanding the extent to which humanity is part of that interdependent web.
American society has long been centered on the individual. “Rugged individualism” is part of our national lore, in which people can “pull themselves up by their bootstraps” and make it on their own. As a nation, we venerate self-reliance and eschew any mention of collective action or collective responsibility. This leads us to be disdainful of people who don’t have enough, as if it is their fault entirely. This leads us to idolize those who have a lot, as if they earned their wealth through some great moral enterprise.
Individualism, however, is a myth. None of us can make it on our own. None of us. If you need proof, just imagine a baby dropped in a field somewhere; that human beings begin life completely dependent on others should give us a clue about the rest of our lives as well. We need one another–for survival, for inspiration, for challenge, for perspective. I need you, and you need me.
My faith teaches me that what happens to you is directly related to what happens to me, and vice-versa. You and I are inextricably bound together in what the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., called “a single garment of destiny.”
I am, therefore, called to be concerned about what happens to you. I am called to be concerned about what happens to each of my human siblings, and each of my non-human ones as well. Put plainly, your fate and your plight are my business.
I wish that our national story taught of interdependence rather than independence. I wish that instead of debating how we might enrich and ennoble a privileged few we would turn the national debate to how we might uplift each and every person in our midst.
I realize that such a wish comes with a very partisan slant these days, and for that I am truly sorry. Americans of all political stripes believe in a society in which all people can be successful–it just seems more and more that we differ on how that success comes about. I believe it comes about when we realize we’re all in this together.
It’s beautiful these days, cool and no humidity in Minnesota, but the days are also somewhat sad in my household right now. Dawn is breaking later every day, and sunset coming earlier, putting a dent in the time I have for gardening. Most of my high schooler’s friends are heading out of state to college. And our thirteen year old yellow lab, Penta, struggles to stand up now. Yesterday I bought a harness contraption that puts two handles on her back and on her hips so that we can lift her like a suitcase–help her get up, get into the car, get up the few steps she can now handle.
Life is change, and in general I am a person who loves change. But some changes, when what is now contrasts vividly with what was, just bring grief.
This morning, out in the garden, talking out loud to the plants as I often do, I heard myself say this to a pot of zinnias as I pulled them out of the planter they were in:
“Oh, zinnias, I remember when you were just seeds in the packet and I fell in love with your picture at the garden store! I had never planted only red zinnias but you were just so beautiful! And then when I put you under the grow lights, your first tiny leaves were adorable! And you have been so bright and tall and beautiful, blooming all summer here, right when I pull up my car…”
And then, as I saw how pathetically dry the soil was around their roots as I pulled them up, I continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t water you better. The other zinnias are still looking good because they’re over where I can use the sprinkler. I did not haul jugs of water out here often enough. I put you out of the way, baking in this metal tub, because you looked so beautiful here. I didn’t know you were this dry! You have looked amazingly good for a long time.”
And then I finished digging them up in silence, shaking the dry dirt off of their parched roots, feeling sad and grateful.
Somehow, telling the whole story, seed to compost pile, brings peace to me even as I feel the sadness. We’ve been doing the same thing with Penta’s demise, recalling to her what a fantastic puppy she was, showing each other photos of her, singing her the songs we used to make up about her when my teenager was young. There is tenderness as we help her to move, and there is a relinquishment in it too. I don’t know how long she will maintain a quality of life that seems fair to her. The day will dawn one day when, just like today I decided the zinnias had suffered long enough, and we’ll be saying goodbye to her, too.
As I wrote these words just now, I began to cry, and Penta heaved her old body up off her mat and left the room. An acutely sensitive dog, she’s never been able to bear it when I have emotions. I called her back, gave her a good pet and scratch, promised I wouldn’t cry anymore, and helped her back to her mat. There is still much to savor with her, I realize. It’s not time to cry about losing her when she’s not gone.
This little scene with Penta woke me up, as I seem to need to be awakened every day: It’s not winter yet! Go suck the marrow out of these gorgeous fall days and grieve when it is time to grieve! Pet the dog, pick some of the zinnias that are still blooming, and enjoy!
May we each enjoy what is ours to enjoy, savoring every moment of autumn even as we know it will be followed by winter’s chill.
In religion as well as in politics (and probably in innumerable other realms of human endeavor as well), any seeker after truth and meaning can be bombarded with an incomprehensibly vast heap of supposed facts and truths. It is very easy to encounter a multiplicity of voices which appear to assert, with the utmost confidence, something to the effect of, “I have the truth, the real truth. Anyone who disagrees with me is completely misguided and mistaken.” Certainly political discourse in the United States doesn’t appear to invite much exploration of nuances and complexities. It’s not that difficult for religious exploration to meander down a similar path.
Why do we make the commitments we make, whether it’s about politics, religion, or anything else? What motivates us toward one thing and away from another? We are often driven less by facts and more by feelings. We can ask the same question about relationships. My wife and I will soon be celebrating our twelfth wedding anniversary. I could easily provide a long list of very sound reasons why I love her so much and why being with her all these years has been a source of immense happiness for me. Yet my decision join my life with hers, and to renew that commitment again and again, day by day, is not based on empirical, double-blind, peer-reviewed evidence. I did not engage in elaborate scientific investigations in order to determine that she would make a good spouse for me. I just felt it, and still feel it. There isn’t anything wrong with this — indeed, the prospect of a scientific study in order to determine the suitability of a particular person to be a life-partner would be absurd to most of us. What’s important is that we acknowledge the role of passions and deep fears, preconceived notions and unquestioned assumptions in all the decisions we make. It’s also wise to consider when those deep feelings may not be the best motivators. Many more people than most of us would care to think about (and that very often includes ourselves) make political decisions not based on carefully considered data, but on how they feel. A political candidate’s personal likability is a very significant factor in most elections. If pressed to consider it honestly, most of us would admit that the qualities we would seek in an ideal dinner companion are not necessarily the same as those characteristics we’d want in an effective civic leader. Yet frequently we make decisions on criteria we neither consciously recognize nor would really be altogether comfortable with if we did.
In religious life also, there is this dichotomy of the cerebral and the visceral. Many of us could give very cogent, persuasive reasons why we have made the religious commitments and embraced the faith convictions that we have. Yet there is also the element of the non-rational in these things. This is not inherently good or bad; where we must be careful is in acknowledging this truth of our humanity.
The moral and ethical questions surrounding abortion are complex, and although I have my own firm opinions, I know that good people disagree with me for good reasons. I have no intention of arguing the question here. No, what I’m wondering about at the moment is just what it means to be “pro-life.” After all, being “pro-life” seems to me to be an excellent goal, a moral yardstick almost identical to Albert Schweitzer’s “reverence for life.” Just as a start:
If I am pro-life I will advocate for universal health care, for everyone’s access to technologies that literally sustain life.
If I am pro-life I will work for universal access to clean water, without which life is not possible.
If I am pro-life I will strive for everyone to be able to get healthy food, to live in communities that are not polluted, to breathe air that is clean.
If I am pro-life, surely I will be a proponent of arts in the schools, of public art and libraries and community theatre and senior citizen bands and all the ways that individuals and groups bring beauty and creativity into their own lives and the lives of those around them. After all, I am not just in favor of existence, but of life more abundant.
If I am pro-life I most certainly will be deeply committed to the conservation of our natural world, to the preservation of species and habitats, to combating climate change, to preserving life in all its diversity, not just human life.
The list could go on and on. In what ways are you dedicated to being pro-life?
I have always been fairly athletic, and I enjoy playing a good game that gets my blood pumping. But I loathe exercise. I’ll run all day long if I’m on a court or a playing field, but ask me to run to get or stay in shape and I’ll kindly decline. I’ve tried several times in my life to become a runner, hoping to experience that “runner’s high” that I’ve heard so much about. In fact, when the running craze first hit the East Coast in the early ’70’s, I was among the first to buy a pair of bright blue Nike’s with the yellow swoosh on the side and take to the roads. I lasted about three weeks before pain and boredom overcame me. Two to three weeks seemed to be my limit every time I tried to get on the running bandwagon.
Then early this summer my daughter called and told me she had started the “Couch to 5k” program, and that I should try it too. I was skeptical, but she was persistent. “It’ll be fun,” she said. “Right,” I replied. “Like pulling fingernails is fun.” Eventually, she wore me down and I decided I’d give it a try. “C25k” (as we in the know call it) is an interval training program that starts off with lots of walking and a little running. By the end of nine weeks, you’re not walking at all, and you’re running the full 3+ miles.
I’m proud to say that I have stuck with the program and am now a “C25k” graduate, and that I’ve kept up my running since completing the program. My daughter and I have started looking for a 5K race we can enter together to celebrate our accomplishment.
But the truth is that I still find running really boring. I run a 3 mile loop around town that keeps me mostly on residential streets and a couple of busier roads. I was told that running on pavement is easier on your joints and muscles than running on the concrete sidewalks. So, when it’s not too narrow or busy, I opt to run in the road (always facing oncoming traffic as I was taught in grade school). I watch the oncoming cars carefully, to be sure that they see me and keep a safe distance. When a car gives me a wide berth, I usually give a little wave to acknowledge the driver’s awareness and kindness.
Lately, I’ve developed this little interchange between drivers and me into a kind of spiritual practice. For the past several runs, I’ve begun to say a small prayer or blessing for each passing motorist. As I wave, I say “May you know peace” or “Know that you’re loved.” I wish health, happiness, peace, love, passion, success, and joy to the occupants of the cars that pass me by. For those drivers who either aren’t watching or don’t care to give me some space, I pray for their attentiveness, their alertness, and their foresight as I hop up onto the curb.
In offering these small blessings to strangers who pass me by, I find that I, too, am blessed. As I pray for these things for others, I am reminded of the joy, peace, love, passion and successes I find in my own life. I experience the blessings of good health, of the air that I breathe in, of the incredible machine my body is. I notice the gifts of the sky, the trees, the wind and the sun.
May you know peace today. May you know that you are loved. May you feel joy. And may you find, in some small way, the opportunity to wish that for others as you go about your day.
Love,
Peter
Ralph Waldo Emerson once suggested the following: “Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”
Every moment, every day, holds such possibility. It holds the possibility for love, compassion, and connection with others. It also holds potential for deceit, untruths, and brokenness. Admittedly, most days are a combination of the two sides of this coin, a mixture of “good” and “bad” moments. And yes, it is important not to dwell on those moments when we are not our best selves. Perhaps it is even essential in order for us to live with intention and purpose, to focus on our positive nature and not dwell in the past.
While I appreciate the spirit with which Emerson approaches the need to let things go, I have to take issue with his message. He suggests that we forget our blunders as soon as we can, and begin the next day with “too high a spirit to be encumbered with [our] old nonsense.” But what if that takes longer than a day? Life isn’t a television show where, in 60 minutes time (45 minutes with commercials), an issue arises, blows up, and is resolved. I agree that I shouldn’t dwell on the time I blocked the intersection or sighed impatiently at the person taking too long at the ATM. But what about bigger disagreements? What about those things I did that had a bigger impact?
There are so many instances in our lives when we step on each other’s toes, overstep our boundaries, and say or do things that hurt others. We realize that our decisions, actions, or behaviors have had a negative impact on another person. We realize that we have contributed to the sense of brokenness that exists there, in that moment. Oftentimes we wish we could take it back, turn back the hands of time, behave differently, or choose different words. But, unfortunately, the time has passed and the opportunity to change that moment is gone.
So why is it so difficult to move on from that moment and just make a different decision next time? I think, perhaps, because the brokenness stays with us. We might even try to “get over it” or “let it go”. That is easier said than done.
Our lives are made up of an intricate web of relationships. As humans we are inherently social beings. And when we harm others that foundation of our relationship can be shaken, it can lose its strength. So I suggest an alternative version of Emerson’s statement. I suggest that we strive to start the next day with the resolution that we will strive for connection, take ownership of our wrongdoing, and seek to make amends. I suggest that we atone for the wrongdoing or harm we have caused, for our contribution we have made to the brokenness in this world. Sometimes that isn’t possible in a direct way, but often it is possible in indirect ways.
We cannot dwell on those times of brokenness in our lives, but we must take ownership of them. In doing so, and in being mindful of our actions, we make a commitment to strive toward healing. If right relationship is the goal in our interactions with others, we must take responsibility in maintaining that foundation. Yes, we can move on when we make mistakes, but not without acknowledging the impact they had on others, and striving to make things right.
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