Places In The Heart

Last week Michael and I sat back in our comfortable recliner chairs in the living room, side-by-side, watching a favorite of mine, Places in the Heart.

It’s the story of a suddenly-widowed woman and how she deals with life in the wake of the Depression on the outskirts of a Texas town. The story’s author is also the film’s director—and it makes a difference. There is a lot of nuance in the film that might not be there in the hands of another. And then, of course, Sally Field is in the leading role.

We had decided on sharing a movie together on the eve of another tour, this time to MN on my birthday weekend, because we were trying to do something together that wouldn’t require much effort. I was still getting over a cold and Mike had thoughtfully decided to keep me company, and was definitely feeling the effects. So, between rounds of Theraflu for Mike, and packing for me, we sat and once again revisited the story.

It came home to me again, as I saw the familiar plot unfold, that the location for this story is Texas, where we now live, and which is part of the South. The vision of the storyteller/filmmaker is clear. He shows us the surface of both the white and black communities right at the beginning.

Mrs. Spaulding’s (Sally Field) husband, is the sheriff, and he is accidentally shot by a young black man who is drunk. We see her tremendous grief and struggle to be strong, as the white community gathers around her. We also see, albeit more briefly, the body of the young black man who accidentally fired the shot which killed her husband, as several men from his community silently come around to pull him down from the tree.

No words are spoken then or after, but we hear his mother wailing as his body is laid in a unmarked grave in a field. The sheriff is buried in the town cemetery.

There are several other scenes during the film that remind us of the way it was in that time, in the South, between the black community and the white. And I found it very timely.

This particular weekend I have the opportunity to minister in a predominantly black church in MN. I have never even been inside a black church prior to this time. It’s not because I have refused, it’s for the same reason I have never attended a highly liturgical church. I have not been invited and I’m comfortable with the style of worship to which I am accustomed. I think that is often true for most of us. And I don’t think it is either good or bad. It’s just what is familiar to us, and it is a very human thing.

That said, I have offered our ministry to several black churches over the years, but never received an invitation--until now. As it happens, the pastor of this particular church is one who also ministered to George Floyd.

SPOILER ALERT: The final few moments of the movie happen at church, as the people are passing the elements of communion, one person to the next. The last to receive the elements is first the dead sheriff, who looks exactly as we last saw him alive, and right next to him is the young black man. Both men show no mark from their ugly deaths. There is zero animosity between them as the young man looks up at the sheriff and receives the cup and bread, and that’s where the movie ends.

This is a tiny glimpse of the Kingdom of God, which we do not entirely grasp here on this earth, as we seek the comfort and familiarity of the cultures we have grown up in and with which we are so well-acquainted. But one day we will praise Him together in every tongue, from every tribe and nation, and will not think twice about the color of skin or the customs of a foreign culture. Our joy and gratitude will transcend all earthly barriers as we behold the King, Savior, Deliverer face-to-face.

“After this I looked and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands.”

—Revelation 7:9

—Sally Klein O'Connor

4/15/24