“What is tolerance? It is the consequence of humanity. We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other’s folly. That is the first law of nature.” ~ Voltaire
I’d like to share my story of how I learned a new language — the language of the heart.
Not long after I sobered up I bought a cabin on the Swinomish Indian Reservation in LaConner, Washington.
My refuge from the world.
Get this — it was located on Pull and be Damned Road.
Sobriety had thrown a cold bucket of water on much of what I believed and I found myself lost in a desert bereft of meaning.
After six years of surrendering I had nothing left in my tank and felt a kind of emptiness — the kind you’re incapable of filling yourself.
Old Pat felt like a lost soul.
Those were days when I covered a lot of miles — running was one of the few things that gave me solace.
On one of my runs I came upon a prefabricated building bustling with activity.
I stopped and peered through a window.
It appeared to be a Native American Pentecostal Church, the kind of church from which I’d always stayed away.
I deemed these believers unenlightened, even ignorant.
But just as I was ready to leave, the door suddenly swung open and an elderly Indian woman appeared and invited me inside.
Ouch!
I felt trapped. On the one hand I wanted to appear neighborly, but on the other hand I wanted NO altar call.
But strangely, something beckoned me in.
The congregation greeted me like a long lost brother.
I no sooner sat down when the pastor came over and said, “You look like someone who might be in need of a prayer. May we pray for you?”
I was startled, to be sure, even a little embarrassed. But honestly, I felt so broken all I could say was, “Yes.”
And! pray! they! did!
One after the other they came up to me, placed their hands on my shoulders, and prayed for me with an earnestness altogether new to me.
My own prayers had always been directed to a magisterial power unknown to me. These were more conversational, as between friends who knew each other — one who just happened to live in an other worldly realm.
After the prayer circle, hymns were sung that combined traditional Indian chanting with down-home gospel music and outstretched hands.
It was all quite mesmerizing.
The preacher then spoke eloquently on the topic of passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. This came to me as a balm because it suggested — there WAS a way through.
When he finished he asked if I’d like to speak. I said no.
For once in my life I was speechless.
When the service ended I thanked the congregation and returned to my cabin. The gloom had lifted and I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. The whole experience was like receiving triage for my soul.
As I reflected back on my time in that little church I came to see how:
- insular I had become
- exclusive in my associations
- judgmental of the motives of others
Try as I would to find a hidden agenda in the outreach of this small congregation of Native American believers, I simply couldn’t.
The love they offered was unconditional.
I had always branded myself as a tolerant soul, someone not bigoted, but the truth was something different.
Over time I had become tribal, trusting only those who thought and believed as I did.
Those outside my tribe were NOT fellow travelers and not worthy of my trust.
I had lost touch with a part of my humanity — the part that connects us to one another through a shared experience.
I had become blind to the fact there are many roads that lead to the same destination.
I’d become bound in an intellectual straitjacket that prevented me from accessing my own broken heart.
These Native Americans, who had suffered so, had pierced through the veil of my intolerance and allowed me to reconnect with my own humanity.
I drove by that little church some 30 years later and sent a thank you in their direction for teaching me a new language.
The language of the heart.
Just a thought…
Pat