A good person produces good out of the good stored up in his heart. An evil person produces evil out of the evil stored up in his heart, for his mouth speaks from the overflow of the heart. — Luke 6:44-46

The other day I was working the New York Times crossword when one of the clues was, “First book after the four gospels.” Straightaway I knew the answer. Maybe everybody knows it, but it reminded me how valuable my religious training might have been.

And perhaps, how valuable it still is.

When I was growing up I was a good Lutheran girl who went to Sunday School and church every week, Vacation Bible School every summer, confirmation class for a year, and youth group once a week. You get the picture. It was my mother’s church, and my sisters and I attended with her. It was a wonderful thing to be in the company of our mother when she lifted her voice in communal song and prayer. These were her happiest days.

Our church was on an empty lot on the undeveloped edge of a Dallas suburb, a fledgling missionary church that met in a prefabricated building about the size of a double-wide trailer. We were already outcasts, old-fashioned Christian kin amid a spirited sea of Southern Baptists, the likes of which would eventually transform into a raging evangelical tide.

Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. —1 John 4:7

I learned the Lutheran liturgy by rote: the confession, the absolution, the creeds. But not a bit of it penetrated my heart until I heard the parting words from the pastor at the end of the service. He would stand on the altar, facing us, and raise his arms wide enough to include all of us, everyone, everywhere, saying the most comforting words I had ever heard in my life then or now—the truth that we are never apart, that we are loved beyond measure, and that we are held safe and blessed by grace.

May the Lord bless you and keep you,
May the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious unto you,
May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

I’ve never forgotten these words and why would I want to? When my hope dims, the benediction resounds. And now, illuminated by my Buddhist practice, I see it not as the invocation of a distant god, but as an expression of a mysterious and universal truth—that your miraculous life is a blessing and a haven, an ever-bright jewel darkened only by the evil pouring out from lesser-human hearts. Yes, those lesser men who would claim to be so great.

The god of my youth is hardly invoked these days, hardly seen or known. I am sorry for that. I am sorry for the depravity, betrayal, and deceit that has beset us in his name. So let me share the promise of goodness and mercy that have followed me all the days of my life.

May the Lord bless you and keep you,
May the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious unto you,
May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

Photo by Uta Scholl on Unsplash