WHAT JESUS LEARNED—AND WHAT WE CAN DO WITH IT

Last Sunday, Rev. Ken explored the Jewish spiritual tradition that shaped the life and teachings of Jesus.

Long before Jesus taught about love, mercy, and justice, the prophet Micah declared: “Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” The great Jewish teacher Hillel taught, “What is hateful to you, do not do to another.” Jesus received this spiritual inheritance and carried it even further—from loving our neighbor to loving our enemy.

The message also challenged us to consider how our own New Thought tradition continues to evolve. Spiritual truth cannot remain merely something we admire or believe. It must pass through us and become something we live.

In a world struggling with division, antisemitism, violence, and the suffering of both Jews and Palestinians, we are called to embody justice, compassion, forgiveness, and peace.

The question the message left with us was not simply, “What did Jesus learn?” It was: “What will we do with what Jesus learned?”

Life does not always give us the answers we want. We look at the uncertainty and suffering in our world and wonder when God will make everything right.

But perhaps our responsibility is not to know how everything will turn out. Our responsibility is what we do in the meantime.

Dolly Parton understood that. Behind the rhinestones and wonderful humor was a woman who consistently chose love over judgment and generosity over indifference. Through her Imagination Library and many charitable efforts, she used what she had to make life better for others.

Dolly also showed us that humility does not mean making ourselves smaller. It means allowing our light to serve something greater than ourselves.

Too much religion has focused on fear—fear of judgment, fear of the future, and fear of the end of the world. Yet Jesus asked us to love one another, care for those in need, and become instruments through which God’s presence can be revealed.

Perhaps the spirit of Christ returns whenever someone chooses love over fear, compassion over condemnation, or generosity over indifference.

Ernest Holmes taught that spiritual truth must be demonstrated. It is not enough to speak about love, faith, and abundance. These principles become real through our choices.

We may not be able to heal the whole world today, but we can make one corner of it kinder. We can encourage someone, help someone in need, forgive a mistake, or offer one generous act.

The sky is still above us. God is still within us. Love is still available, and the seed is still here.

The gold rush ends. But the seed remains.

And in the meantime, we still have some loving to do.

August in Florida offers little evidence that winter is approaching. Yet since the summer solstice, the days have been growing shorter. We may not feel the change, but the earth has already begun turning toward another season.

Life often changes in the same quiet way. We confuse “I cannot see anything happening” with “Nothing is happening.” But a seed may already be opening beneath the soil.

For more than 25 years, I have dreamed of bringing the Friedl Dicker-Brandeis exhibit to St. Augustine. Friedl was a Jewish artist who taught children imprisoned in the Terezín concentration camp. Their drawings survived, although most of the children did not. The traveling exhibit that once shared their story is now too damaged to display.

Recently, I encountered obstacles that made me question whether my plan was possible. Then I realized that a closed route is not necessarily a closed calling. Perhaps the deeper purpose is not simply to bring the exhibit to one city, but to help Friedl’s story travel again.

The Bhagavad Gita teaches that we have a right to our actions, but not to their results. Commitment says, “I will do what is mine to do.” Attachment insists that the Universe must make it happen exactly as we planned.

Faith takes the next step while remaining open to a wider road.

Even at the height of summer, another season has begun. The evidence may not yet be visible, but the earth is moving.

Friedl and those children have not been forgotten. Their story is still traveling.

And even when we cannot see what is happening in our own lives, Spirit is still at work.

The season is already changing.

There comes a moment in life when growing older can become something more: becoming an elder.

Growing older happens automatically. Becoming an elder is a spiritual choice. An elder listens without needing to have all the answers. An elder communicates through the quality of their attention:

“Your life matters.

Your thoughts matter.

The person you are becoming matters.”

When I was fourteen, my oldest sister took me shopping and spent time listening to me. I no longer remember what we discussed, but I remember how it felt to be taken seriously. Fifty years later, I found myself offering that same gift to my fourteen-year-old great-nephew, Luke, as he explained a world of video games I barely understood.

That is how love travels through the generations. Someone gives us a moment of attention, kindness or dignity. We carry it with us, sometimes for decades, until we have the opportunity to offer it to someone else.

During that same vacation, a poem I had written as a lonely teenager unexpectedly returned to me:

*Take my heart where dreams live,*

*to a place where hope never dies.*

*In my soul, I know it’s true:*

*hopes and dreams dwell in God’s eyes.*

Perhaps hope is more than wishful thinking. Perhaps it is our spiritual ability to sense a possibility before there is visible evidence of it. Beneath our disappointments and present circumstances remains a sacred place within us where the divine image of our lives is still held intact.

Our dreams live in the quiet voice that refuses to believe the present moment is the end of our story. They live in the space we create when we truly see and listen to one another.

And they live within every one of us—in that sacred place where hope never dies.

In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus spends ten years trying to return home after the Trojan War. A journey that should have taken only a few weeks becomes an ordeal filled with storms, monsters, temptation, loss, and uncertainty.

But The Odyssey is more than an ancient adventure story. Its deeper question is not simply, “Will Odysseus ever reach home?” It is, “Who must Odysseus become before he is capable of coming home?”

Odysseus has spent years becoming a warrior. He has learned how to conquer enemies and survive battles—but knowing how to fight is not the same as knowing how to live in peace. He cannot return to the person he was before the war because that person no longer exists.

That is the difference between a journey and an odyssey. A journey takes us from one place to another. An odyssey changes the person who is traveling.

Whether we realize it or not, each of us has been on an odyssey. We have endured storms we never saw coming. We have lost people we thought would accompany us for the rest of our lives. There have been seasons when we felt lost and wondered whether the person we used to be would ever return.

Sometimes that person does not return because the spiritual purpose of the journey is not always to restore who we were. Sometimes it is to reveal who we are becoming.

When the Ego Adds Miles

Odysseus is intelligent and courageous, but he is also prideful. After cleverly escaping from the Cyclops, he is safely aboard his ship. He could simply sail away, but his ego cannot tolerate the thought that the Cyclops will never know who defeated him.

So Odysseus shouts his real name across the water. The Cyclops then calls upon Poseidon to avenge him, adding years to Odysseus’s voyage.

How often do we do something similar?

Sometimes it is not the monster that keeps us from home. It is our need to prove that we defeated the monster. Sometimes we win the argument but lose the relationship. Sometimes we add miles to our journey because being at peace is not enough—we also need to be right.

The ego always wants to announce its name. Spirit simply does the work.

The Sacredness of an Ordinary Life

Eventually, Odysseus must descend into the underworld. Every authentic spiritual journey includes such a descent—a time when positive thinking alone is not enough. We cannot heal what we refuse to acknowledge. We cannot release grief we will not allow ourselves to feel. If we refuse to meet the shadow within ourselves, we will continue meeting it in everyone around us.

In the underworld, Odysseus meets Achilles, the greatest warrior of the Trojan War. Odysseus tells him that his name will be remembered forever, expecting Achilles to take pride in his immortal glory.

Instead, Achilles says he would surrender all that glory for the chance to be alive again—even as the servant of a poor farmer.

The things the warrior once pursued—fame, victory, and an immortal name—have lost their value. Odysseus begins to understand that the goal is not to be remembered by the world. The goal is to be present to the life that is here: to love the people who are here, cherish an ordinary morning, and stand beneath the sun for one more day.

We spend so much of life trying to become extraordinary. Then life teaches us the sacredness of the ordinary.

Recognized by Our Wounds

When Odysseus finally reaches Ithaca, he returns in disguise. An elderly servant named Eurycleia recognizes him while washing his feet. She does not recognize him by his strength, armor, or accomplishments. She recognizes him by a scar on his leg.

The place where life wounded him becomes the place where his true identity is revealed.

Most of us would prefer to be recognized by our successes. Yet the places where we have been wounded often become the source of our greatest compassion. The person who has grieved knows how to sit beside someone who is grieving. The person who has experienced rejection may become the one who welcomes those who have been pushed aside. The person who has known fear may become a source of encouragement for someone who is afraid.

Our scars are not proof that we are broken. They are proof that something happened—and we continued.

The question is not whether life will wound us. The question is whether we will remain an open wound or allow that wound to become wisdom.

Ending the Battle Within

The Odyssey does not end simply because Odysseus reaches his house. He must also learn to stop fighting. After he kills the men who have taken over his home, their families seek revenge. One death demands another, and one wound creates another.

Finally, Athena intervenes and commands everyone to stop.

The final victory is not the defeat of another enemy. It is the interruption of revenge.

That may be the real proof that Odysseus has come home—not that he has returned to the place where he began, but that he is finally capable of creating something other than war.

We can arrive at our old address and still not be home. We can sit among people we love while continuing to fight battles that ended years ago. Homecoming requires ending the battle within us and allowing a higher wisdom to say:

Enough. The war is over. You may live now.

In one way or another, we are all trying to find our way home. We may call that home peace, healing, authenticity, or God. The path may not be direct. There may be storms, pride to surrender, shadows to face, and wounds waiting to become wisdom.

But we are not merely wandering. We are becoming.

No matter how far the winds have carried you off course, the truth of you has not been lost. Something within you still remembers the way.

And home may be closer than you think.

On CBS Sunday Morning, I saw a wonderful story about a four-year-old boy named Roman. Each day, he stood in his front yard and waved to passing cars, neighbors, and anyone who happened by.

What most people didn’t know was that Roman was lonely. His parents had separated, his father had moved away, and his grandparents lived far from him.

But instead of withdrawing, Roman kept waving.

Eventually, one neighbor crossed the street to meet him. Then another. Soon they were attending his soccer games, swimming lessons, and preschool events. When Roman celebrated his birthday, many of his guests were older neighbors who had become like grandparents to him.

Roman lived in a neighborhood, but he needed a village—and through simple acts of kindness, he built one.

His story reminds us that we don’t have to wait for others to reach out. We can become what we hope to experience. We can offer friendship before we receive it, welcome before we are welcomed, and love before it is returned.

That is spiritual practice.

Loneliness has become one of the great challenges of our time. People need more than good ideas; they need places where they are seen, remembered, and welcomed exactly as they are.

So here is the invitation: wave first. Smile first. Introduce yourself first. Encourage first. Forgive first. Pray first. Love first.

Don’t wait for the world to become friendlier. Help create the world you are praying for.

Every smile is an invitation. Every greeting is an opening. Every act of kindness plants a seed—and every seed carries the possibility of a village.

Perhaps heaven isn’t as far away as we imagine.

Perhaps it’s only a wave away.

Every one of us lives by the questions we ask.

Some questions keep us trapped:

Why did this happen to me?

Why can’t I seem to get ahead?

Will things ever change?

While these questions are understandable, they often keep our attention fixed on the past or on circumstances beyond our control.

There is another kind of question—one that has the power to change not only our perspective but the direction of our lives.

Instead of asking, “Why is this happening?” we might ask, “What is life inviting me to become?”

That simple shift changes everything.

Throughout history, humanity has sought answers to life’s great mysteries. Yet many of the world’s wisdom traditions remind us that transformation begins not by changing our circumstances first, but by changing our consciousness.

Our outer life often reflects the inner questions we carry.

When we ask fearful questions, we tend to discover more reasons to be afraid.

When we ask hopeful questions, we begin noticing possibilities that were there all along.

This doesn’t mean we ignore pain or pretend difficulties don’t exist. Rather, it means we refuse to let our struggles become the final word about who we are.

Every challenge contains an invitation.

Every disappointment offers an opportunity to grow.

Every unexpected turn in life asks us a deeper question: Who will I choose to be now?

Perhaps the most important question of all is not, “What do I want from life?” but “What is Life asking of me in this moment?”

That question moves us from being passive observers to active participants in our own spiritual evolution.

As Ernest Holmes wrote, we are not victims of circumstance but creators through consciousness. Every thought we entertain, every belief we nurture, and every question we ask becomes part of the life we are creating.

So this week, pay attention to the questions running through your mind.

If one isn’t serving you, replace it with a better one.

Instead of “Why me?”

Try asking, “What is this preparing me for?”

Instead of “What if everything goes wrong?”

Ask, “What if something wonderful is trying to emerge?”

The quality of your life is often determined by the quality of your questions.

May this be the week you ask a question worthy of the magnificent life that is seeking expression through you.

Every nation has defining moments.

There are moments when a people pause, ask who they are, and decide who they want to become. Nearly 250 years ago, America’s founders put pen to paper and declared a bold vision of liberty, equality, and the inherent dignity of every human being. While our nation has often struggled to live up to those ideals, the Declaration of Independence remains a powerful reminder that history begins with a vision.

But what if each of us were called to write our own declaration?

Not with ink and parchment.

With our lives.

Most of us spend years responding to circumstances rather than consciously choosing the principles by which we will live. We react to disappointments, successes, fears, and expectations. Little by little, the world begins to define us instead of us defining ourselves.

Spiritual growth invites us to reverse that process.

It asks us to declare who we choose to be, regardless of our past or our present circumstances.

A Declaration of the Soul is not a list of accomplishments. It isn’t about wealth, status, or public recognition. It is a quiet commitment to the values that will guide our lives. It is the decision to live with compassion instead of resentment, courage instead of fear, forgiveness instead of bitterness, and hope instead of despair.

Every great spiritual tradition teaches that there is something within us that is greater than our fears. New Thought reminds us that we are individualized expressions of the Infinite, created to reveal the presence of Spirit in unique and beautiful ways. Our task is not to become someone else. Our task is to uncover the divine nature that has always been within us.

The world has enough critics. It has enough division, outrage, and fear. What it longs for are people who have declared themselves to be instruments of healing, wisdom, generosity, and love.

Imagine what might happen if each morning we quietly affirmed:

“Today I declare my independence from fear.”

“Today I refuse to let anger determine my future.”

“Today I choose to see possibility where others see limitation.”

“Today I remember that I am one with the Life that created me.”

History teaches us that declarations alone do not change the world. They must be followed by action, courage, and perseverance. The same is true of our spiritual lives. Every day offers us another opportunity to live the ideals we proclaim.

As we celebrate our nation’s enduring vision of freedom, perhaps the greatest freedom is the one we claim within ourselves—the freedom to become who Spirit created us to be.

What would your Declaration of the Soul say?

There is an ancient story in the book of Genesis that has fascinated people for thousands of years.

Jacob is alone in the darkness, carrying fear, regret, and uncertainty about what lies ahead. During the night he encounters a mysterious being—some say a man, some an angel, some even God—and the two wrestle until dawn.

When morning comes, Jacob has been wounded. He will walk with a limp for the rest of his life.

Yet he also receives a blessing.

It is one of the great paradoxes of the spiritual life: sometimes our greatest blessings arrive disguised as our greatest struggles.

Most of us know what it feels like to wrestle with our own angels. They appear as illness, grief, disappointment, broken relationships, financial uncertainty, or simply the quiet question of whether our lives matter. We don’t ask for these struggles, but they find us nonetheless.

The temptation is to see every hardship as something to escape or defeat. Yet the wisdom of this ancient story suggests another possibility—that life isn’t punishing us, but transforming us.

The struggle changes Jacob’s identity. He emerges with a new name, a deeper faith, and a clearer understanding of who he truly is.

Perhaps that is true for us as well.

The experiences we resist most fiercely often become the very experiences that awaken compassion, courage, resilience, and wisdom. They leave us changed—not because they were easy, but because we refused to let go until we discovered the blessing hidden within them.

This Sunday we’ll explore what it means to wrestle with life’s angels, why our deepest challenges often become our greatest teachers, and how even our wounds can become gateways to a richer, more authentic life.

I hope you’ll join us as we discover that the blessing isn’t found after the struggle—it is often revealed within it.

There is an old Native American teaching that before making an important decision, we should consider how it will affect the next seven generations.

It’s a profound idea because it reminds us that our lives are never lived in isolation. Every act of kindness, every word of encouragement, every lesson we teach, every moment we choose love over fear creates ripples that continue long after we’re gone.

We spend so much of our lives focused on building careers, paying bills, accumulating possessions, and trying to accomplish something meaningful. Those things certainly have their place. But sooner or later, life asks each of us a deeper question:

What part of you will remain after you’re gone?

Last week I had the privilege of officiating at a memorial service for a dear friend. As I listened to his children and grandchildren speak, I realized something important.

They weren’t talking about his accomplishments.

They weren’t talking about his financial success.

They weren’t even talking about the awards he had earned.

They spoke about his kindness.

His generosity.

His laughter.

The way he made people feel.

The quiet ways he showed up for those he loved.

His greatest legacy wasn’t something he owned—it was who he became.

That experience reminded me that every one of us is writing a story that will continue to be told by the people whose lives we’ve touched.

The medieval poet Dante wrote that halfway through life he found himself “in a dark forest” because he had lost the straight path. Most of us eventually experience our own version of that dark forest. It may come through illness, loss, disappointment, or simply realizing that what once seemed important no longer satisfies the soul.

Those moments invite us to ask different questions.

Not, “How successful have I been?”

But, “Who am I becoming?”

Not, “What have I accumulated?”

But, “What have I contributed?”

The answer isn’t found in monuments or bank accounts. It is found in the countless unseen moments when we choose compassion instead of judgment, forgiveness instead of resentment, hope instead of despair.

We rarely recognize the significance of those moments while we’re living them.

A kind word offered to someone who is struggling.

A child who learns confidence because someone believed in them.

A friend who discovers hope because someone simply listened.

These are the ripples that continue moving outward, touching lives we’ll never even know.

Perhaps that’s one of the great spiritual truths: we don’t have to change the entire world. We simply have to faithfully touch the part of the world entrusted to us.

Every smile matters.

Every prayer matters.

Every act of love matters.

Long after our names are forgotten, those ripples continue traveling across generations.

This week, I invite you to ask yourself one simple question:

What kind of ripples am I creating today?

May they be ripples of kindness.

Ripples of courage.

Ripples of forgiveness.

Ripples of hope.

Because in the end, our greatest legacy will never be what we possessed.

It will always be the love we left behind.