Whole Being: Life Alchemy
Being, Belonging, Becoming
Remember Who You Are
There will come a moment, maybe a thousand moments, where a line is drawn in the sand, and you will have to decide: Do I cross? Or do I stand?
History does not remember those who merely drifted with the tide, who folded under pressure, who turned away when the moment of reckoning came. It remembers those who stood in their integrity, even when it cost them everything. Here is the story:
They were brothers, but not by blood.
Thomas Becket and King Henry II were inseparable, drinking companions, strategists, men who laughed together and built a kingdom side by side. When Henry made Becket his Chancellor, the king’s most trusted advisor, their friendship solidified into power. Becket was charming, brilliant, and fiercely loyal. He carried out Henry’s will with precision, ensuring that royal authority was obeyed. So when the Archbishop of Canterbury died in 1162, Henry saw an opportunity.
"I will make Becket Archbishop," he declared, believing that his friend, his ally, would give him control over the Church. The English crown had long struggled to bring the Church under its rule, and Henry thought Becket’s appointment would solve the problem once and for all. Becket begged his friend the King not to ask this of him.
The king had miscalculated.
The moment Becket became Archbishop, he changed.
He no longer acted as Henry’s right hand but as God’s servant. He resigned as Chancellor and abandoned his lavish lifestyle. He dressed in a monk’s robe, walked barefoot among the poor, and prayed more than he politicked.
And when Henry demanded that priests accused of crimes be tried in royal courts instead of church courts, Becket refused. The Church answers to God, not the king, he said.
Henry was furious. His closest friend had become his greatest obstacle.
For years, their conflict deepened. Becket was exiled to France after refusing to sign the Constitutions of Clarendon, which would have put the Church under Henry’s authority. From afar, he excommunicated those who sided with the king. Henry, equally stubborn, retaliated.
Finally, in 1170, Henry allowed Becket to return to England. But peace was an illusion.
The moment Becket stepped back into Canterbury, he excommunicated the bishops who had supported the king. Henry, already teetering on the edge of rage, exploded when he heard the news.
"Will No One Rid Me of This Turbulent Priest?"
"What miserable traitors have I nourished," Henry roared, "who let their lord be treated with such shame? Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?"
He may not have meant it as an order, but four knights took it as one.
They rode through the winter, arriving in Canterbury on December 29, 1170. They found Becket in the cathedral, deep in prayer.
"Where is the traitor?" one of them demanded.
"I am no traitor," Becket replied, turning to face them, "but a priest of God."
The first blow smashed his head open. The second drove him to his knees. The third cut through his skull, scattering his brains across the cathedral floor.
Thomas Becket, the man who had once been Henry’s greatest friend, now lay dead at the altar.
The world was horrified. Becket became a martyr overnight. Miracles were reported at his tomb, and within three years, Pope Alexander III declared him a saint.
As for Henry, the backlash was brutal. He did public penance in 1174, walking barefoot to Canterbury, where monks flogged him in penance for the death of his old friend.
But the damage was done. The crown never fully controlled the Church, and Becket’s legacy lived on as a symbol of defiance against absolute power.
I first heard this story from my high school sophomore history teacher, Mr. Rundlet. He was fascinated by it, so much so that he even showed us a movie about it. He wanted us to understand what it meant to stand for something, even when it cost everything.
Even now, I think about that lesson. About friendship, power, betrayal, and the lines we refuse to cross.
Again, there will come a moment—maybe a thousand moments—where a line is drawn in the sand, and you will have to decide: Do I cross? Or do I stand?
History remembers those who stood in their integrity. It remembers of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who refused to kneel before Nazi rule and paid with his life. It remembers Gandhi, who faced down an empire with nothing but his conviction and the force of moral resistance. It remembers Martin Luther, who nailed his defiance to a church door and shattered the unquestioned authority of Rome. And It remembers Thomas Becket, who refused to bow to the king’s demand for control and was cut down on the altar of Canterbury Cathedral.
These were not easy choices. They were not safe choices. To stand in one’s truth, to hold fast to one’s integrity, is rarely the easiest path. Sometimes, it is a quiet resistance, a refusal to comply with the wrongness of the world. Sometimes, it is a loud, public stand that demands consequences. And sometimes, it is the act of bearing witness, of naming what must be named when others would prefer silence.
What Integrity Asks of You
Integrity is not just a lofty ideal; it is a practice. And it will ask things of you.
It may ask you to lose friendships rather than go along with what you know is wrong.
It may ask you to refuse comfort when comfort requires compromise.
It may ask you to act, even when acting will cost you something, your job, your reputation, your sense of safety.
It is easy to look at the great figures of history and think, "I could never do that." But standing in integrity is not only found in grand, heroic gestures. It is found in the small refusals. The daily choices. The moments where you draw your line and do not cross it.
It is found in the people who hid Jews in Nazi Germany, knowing the risk. It is found in those who risked their lives in the Civil Rights Movement.
It is found in Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde, who stood before a sitting president and refused to offer empty platitudes, choosing instead to name the suffering of immigrants and LGBTQ people in a time of rising fear.
I have my own faith journey, and I will stand in my integrity. I am not interested in debating the authenticity of Bishop Budde’s Christianity. From my perspective, what she did seems authentic to what I know of Jesus. And this is what those like me, belonging to other faiths notice, not doctrine, not theological arguments, but the choice to stand for what is just and right, as compassion calls us.
The Cost of Forgetting
To forget who you are is to drift. To let the tide carry you where it will. It is to excuse, to justify, to believe that one small compromise is nothing, until you look up and realize you have crossed a line you never meant to cross.
But to remember who you are is to remain rooted. To stand in the storm and say, Not here. Not me.
We can notice each other. We can walk together, for what is right and just, as compassion calls us.
So, when your moment comes, what will you do?