Author Archives: Steve Jacobsen

I worked for 43 years in the nonprofit and spiritual development fields....Executive Director of Hospice of Santa Barbara, Director of La Casa de Maria Retreat Center (before it closed in 2018 following the mud and debris flow event), and as a Presbyterian pastor in a variety of states and settings. I've been active in inter-spiritual work for 20 years, particularly with the Jewish, Muslim and Buddhist communities. I've served on several nonprofit boards and published a dozen articles. I enjoy baseball, classical music, listening to peoples' personal stories, politics, history and my family.

Having “Presence of Mind”

Recently I walked by a person having a phone conversation. As I passed, I heard the phrase, “…and she had the presence of mind to….” I didn’t eavesdrop any further to hear what “she” did, but I was struck by that phrase: “presence of mind.” I had never thought about it before.

Over the centuries, much sophisticated thinking in philosophy, science, and spiritual traditions has focused on what the “mind” is and how we might distinguish it from the physical brain. I knew I could turn to the internet and find plenty of information, but I decided to ponder it on my own. I began thinking about the way we use the word “mind.”

For instance, we may say someone is “absent-minded.” We don’t mean their brain isn’t working, but that their attention to the present moment isn’t here.

We hear someone say, “Mind your manners” or “mind what you are saying”; the speaker assumes the person being spoken to already knows what behavior or speech is appropriate but needs a re-mind-er to put it into practice.

If something we’ve been talking about isn’t worth pursuing anymore, we’ll say, “Never mind.”

If we sense someone is holding an idea back and we want to encourage them to share it, we’ll say, “Go ahead, speak your mind.”

And if we get a sense that no one is overseeing a particular situation, we might say, “Who’s minding the store?” And on it goes.

The more I thought about “presence of mind,” the more it became clear that we all may have a “mind,” but it’s not always “present” in our thinking.

I then thought of three real-life stories that illustrate people having “presence of mind.”

Years ago, I was enrolled in a graduate seminar on effective teaching. I remember one experiment in which researchers wanted to understand what makes a “master teacher.” They created multiple ways to observe what was happening in real time in a classroom, coding and analyzing the information. The teachers were, of course, presenting a lesson. But what the researchers saw was that the teachers also knew each student’s personality and behavior patterns, as well as the social dynamics of the class. The teacher was never so tied to the curriculum that they were blind to whatever unspoken dynamics were unfolding moment to moment, and they could adapt their focus and performance as needed to keep students engaged. Another way to put it: they had the presence of mind to do what was needed to meet a complex situation.

I remember a lunch I shared at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center with a teacher I greatly admired, the theologian John Cobb. We were engaged in a serious conversation about some topic. At one point, I could see an older man behind John had just come through the buffet line and was holding his tray while trying to decide where he could sit. Without interrupting our conversation, John reached back toward the adjacent table and pulled out a chair so the man could sit down easily. I was stunned. I remember thinking, “I don’t think John even saw that fellow… “ it was as if he sensed his presence. John was gracious in all that he taught and did, and what I saw confirmed that his graciousness went beyond intellectual conversation — he had literally extended himself to help another person. (Thinking back on it later, I thought, “That must be what it’s like to be a Jedi.”) His behavior was an example of having “presence of mind.”

There are athletes who exhibit something beyond mere physical talent. One of the greatest baseball players of all time was Willie Mays, the centerfielder for the San Francisco Giants. Willie was a great hitter and baserunner. He was also a terrific outfielder who, when a batter hit the ball, seemed to instantly know where to run to intercept it. But he had something more than that. One sportscaster said Willie always had “the game in his head.” Even with his back turned to the infield as he ran to catch a ball, he was already calculating where to throw it once he caught it, and it was uncanny how often he surprised everyone with the accuracy of the throw. We see the same trait in basketball players who can be running full speed down the court and still sense exactly where to pass the ball so it meets a teammate who hasn’t gotten there yet and may not see it coming until just the right moment. “Presence of mind” amid intense competitive activity is a beautiful thing to witness.

We could go on exploring all the ways this phrase illuminates human behavior. But maybe we’ll stop here and try to reach a modest conclusion.

It seems “presence of mind” appears when someone can hold multiple thoughts, feelings, or sensations in awareness at once and, from a calm place in the middle of it all, decide what is best to do or say. What emerges often feels like fresh insight rather than mere reaction. Truly wise and spiritual people seem to do this well, and it has very little to do with formal education. I think spiritual practices can help us find that point of awareness where we access not only our own best thoughts but also guidance beyond ourselves. I have decided to begin contemplating the relationship between “presence of mind” and what some call “soul.” I’ll share an update next week.

Will Rogers On Getting Old

We were with the grandkids up at Mammoth Lakes this week so I nobly focused on being with them instead of doing any writing.

But some time ago I saw this list of thoughts about growing old from Will Rogers.  I hesitated to share it for two main reasons: 1) it’s kind of corny; 2) it’s the kind of thing old people share that, when I was younger and I’d see something like this, I thought it was, as we would say then, “lame.”  But I’m getting lame and I’m getting old and I like fresh sweet corn and guess I’m now the old guy who  shares something like this.

About Growing Old From Will Rogers…

First ~ Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it. 

Second ~ The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for. 

Third ~ Some people try to turn back their odometers. Not me; I want people to know why I look this way. I’ve traveled a long way, and some of the roads weren’t paved. 

Fourth ~ When you are dissatisfied and would like to go back to youth, think of Algebra. 

Fifth ~ You know you are getting old when everything either dries up or leaks. 

Sixth ~ I don’t know how I got over the hill without getting to the top. 

Seventh ~ One of the many things no one tells you about aging is that it’s such a nice change from being young. 

Eighth ~ One must wait until evening to see how splendid the day has been. 

Ninth ~ Being young is beautiful, but being old is comfortable and relaxed. 

Tenth ~ Long ago, when men cursed and beat the ground with sticks, it was called witchcraft.  Today it’s called golf. 

And, finally ~ If you don’t learn to laugh at trouble, you won’t have anything to laugh at when you’re old.

Choosing Our Copilots

Some years ago, bumper stickers appeared with the slogan, “God is my copilot.”

A little later some animal lovers came up with an alternative sticker: “Dog is my copilot.”

Now when I open Microsoft Word, I’m offered the help of “Copilot,” Microsoft’s AI chatbot.

It looks like we now have got at least three options for support as we are navigating life.

I am using my AI tool Claude for various tasks these days and it is very useful.  Recently I was thinking I should make a list of the titles and dates of all the blog posts I’ve written but hesitated because I knew it would be tedious.  I asked Claude to do it, saying I think there have been around 200. Claude accepted the task and a few minutes later said, “Done — turns out you’re at 283 posts, not just ‘close to 200’! (Post #200 landed back in December 2024, and you’ve kept going strong since.) The index is chronological, oldest to newest, with each title linking straight to the post.”

It’s hard not to play along with the feel of a conversation with a person, so I replied, “Wow. I’m impressed. Thank you.”

Claude responded: “You’re very welcome! Four and a half years of weekly reflections is no small thing — glad you have the whole journey laid out in one place now. Happy blogging!”

What’s not to like about that? I’m saved from a unappealing task and the entity that does the work becomes my personal cheerleader.  

The challenge becomes knowing how far to take the relationship.  

Last January, the New York Times reporter Joseph Bernstein wrote a piece entitled “It Makes Sense That People See AI as God: A religious fervor surrounds our relationship with technology.”[i] In it he cites a series of studies exploring how AI is becoming something like a divine force in peoples’ lives.  One example he gave was prayer.

You can turn to both for guidance.  One thing great about AI is you can get a clear response within seconds.  How often does that happen with God?  

Bernstein says personal chatbots are designed to always affirm us so we will stay engaged; we soon can become more dependent on them — which is where profit lies.  They tell us what we want to hear and avoid “hard truths.” We don’t have to go anywhere to get an answer – just be in front of a screen.  And we don’t have to interact with other people who can sometimes be annoying.  

In terms of spirituality, much of what our traditions offer us is affirmation: we are created in the divine image, we are loved, we are forgiven.  But the traditions offer us more than that. They offer us practices that help us own our shortcomings and mistakes.  Sometimes they offer us truths we may not want to hear — not to condemn or belittle us, but to help wake us up.  To paraphrase a popular saying, “the divine meets us where we are but doesn’t leave us there.”  We are called to recognize selfish tendencies when they appear.  We are called to care for more than ourselves.  

I have a friend who was a Jungian analyst and therapist. I used to see her when I wanted to understand a provocative dream or get some perspective on an important decision.  She had established trust with me, so I knew she cared for me as a client and a person. But our relationship was strong enough that she could point out blind spots in my thinking. That didn’t always make my life easier, but it was welcome. It’s what I needed to hear.

In Mark 10, Jesus encounters a rich young ruler who asks, “What must I do to have eternal life?”  Jesus tells him to keep the commandments.  The rich young man says he’s done that but still feels he’s lacking something.  Then Jesus does a second take – he looks closely at the man with love – and sees more deeply into him.  He then tells him he needs to sell all he has, give the proceeds to the poor, and join Jesus’ community.  But for the young man, that’s asking too much, and he goes away “grieving.”  A.I. can offer a standard answer to a common question, but it will never look into someone’s heart with love and genuine insight.

Our traditions pass on stories and parables that can inspire and comfort us but also challenge us to go beyond what is comfortable to find something better. And being on the journey with others in spiritual community offers us both the real-life, hard-earned wisdom of other people and opportunities for us to offer each other support.

Some observers have begun to make a distinction between two options for our relationship with AI: “Cognitive offloading” and “Cognitive surrender. “Cognitive offloading is the use of external tools (like calculators or GPS) for strategic task delegation, where you remain in charge of the goal and critically verify the output. Cognitive surrender…occurs when you stop constructing answers altogether, passively accepting AI outputs as your own judgment.[ii]  

I’m going to “offload” tasks to my AI tool Claude when it seems appropriate, letting it be my “AI copilot” for what it is good at doing.  But I’m not going to surrender my important personal decisions; I’m keeping as my spiritual copilot the living, divine presence I’ve come to know and cherish over the years.  And I’m not leaving my dog out – she’s welcome to share in my walks and naps, giving me a comfort a keyboard never can.

 

 

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2026/01/23/style/ai-algorithm-god-religion.html

 

[ii] https://addyosmani.com/blog/cognitive-surrender/

When the Soul Suddenly Appears: Reflections on “Terminal Lucidity”

A story in this week’s New York Times focuses on unexpected behavior in dementia patients: “The Strange Phenomenon of Terminal Lucidity.”[i]  The article raises interesting questions about the relationship of the human brain to the soul.

 

The story begins in 2000.  A mother in Switzerland called her son in Vienna.  She told him to call his grandmother who, for the last year, has been in a nursing home and not able to carry on a conversation. “Somehow, she’s back again,” she told her son.  He called his grandmother. She answered and conversed with perfect clarity.  She said “…for the past few months, she hasn’t really been herself…and “very, very tired.”  For the next ten minutes, they shared wonderful memories of his childhood and the experiences they had together.  As their conversation came to an end, “…he sensed beneath the joy a painful finality – that this conversation would be their last. Several days later, his grandmother died.”

 

The young man, Alexander Batthyany, became a psychologist.  In 2009, he came across a journal article which included “reports of unexpected mental clarity in gravely ill people.”  The article offered a term for such events: “terminal lucidity,” and gave examples.  Batthyany recognized this was what he had experienced with his grandmother. He wanted to know more.  He gathered a team of colleagues and sent out surveys to see if others had similar stories to share. More than 60 people responded.  “In story after story, Batthyany’s respondents described elderly people who suddenly reached for a loved one’s hand; made amends for past wrongs; offered thanks; or simply seemed, through a shift in their eyes, to become present again.”

 

In 2014, Batthyany presented his research at a conference of the International Association of Near-Death Studies.  An article summarizing the proceedings caught the eye of Basil Eldahdah, a program officer at National Institute on Aging in Bethesda, Maryland. He had always assumed damage caused by dementia is irreversible.  “But if it were true that mental clarity and memory could return in the latest stages of the disease, even just temporarily, Eldahdah realized, “it would call into question our models of what’s actually going on in the brain.”  In 2018 he gathered a group of experts in his NIA office to discuss the topic.  

 

They developed a plan to use video cameras to monitor patients whose families had given permission to be part of the study.  Over time, they gathered more examples.  A woman who had stopped speaking for several months began speaking in full sentences with detailed memories of her late husband and her rose garden.  A man with dementia who had been physically active for 10 years began staying in bed and sleeping for long periods of time. The staff felt he may be near the end of his life and called his family. By the time they arrived, he was out of bed and speaking clearly, reminiscing about his childhood. “The nurses and his family were stunned. He stayed alert like this for two days, at one point telling his family, “I’m leaving soon.”  Nine days after the episode ended, he died.”

 

The team gathered more stories: “…many were subtle instances — a flash in the eyes, a few meaningful words — that occurred weeks or even months before death.” 

 

The article concludes with the case of a woman named Mary who had not been communicating clearly for some time.  One day she began doing so in subtle ways with the nursing staff.  At first, they didn’t pick up the cues she was giving.  But viewing the video later, they could see that she had been trying to express her wishes.  They called the woman’s husband, who viewed the video. He too recognized his wife had been reaching out, although it was not clear what she wanted. “It may well be that Mary’s soul is back,” he told a member of the research team.

 

The article evoked several thoughts for me.

 

I have seen how difficult it can be to care for people with dementia.  Family members will often say the person they knew is “no longer there” even though their physical existence continues.  Anyone would hope for moments when that person would reemerge in a way we would “recognize” them again.  If that occurs, it is a precious gift. But it may not.

 

I learned from hospice teams that someone can be declining physically and withdrawing in the final weeks, sleeping most of the time.  But then they may regain energy, become alert and communicate.  The family may think the person is recovering.  But they withdraw again, becoming incommunicative before dying.  I was taught this is common and known as “the charge” — the body summons up energy to make one last push into awareness before letting go.  

 

Finally, I am struck by the behaviors deemed significant in the study:

 

·      In the final moments, sensing both “a joy and finality.”

·      Times when the dying person “…reached for a loved one’s hand; made amends for past wrongs; offered thanks; or simply seemed, through a shift in their eyes, to become present again.” 

·      “Subtle instances — a flash in the eyes, a few meaningful words.”

·      Feeling a person has been far away and then sensing that “their soul is back.”

In hospice our aim was not just supporting people and their families who were being impacted by a life-threatening illness.  We also wanted to recognize what living well looks like.  We don’t have to wait until our last days to claim moments of soulful clarity.  We can welcome experiences when we feel joy and finality at the same time.  We can reach for a loved one’s hand, ask for forgiveness for past actions, be grateful for what we are experiencing, and be present with one another.  It’s in those moments when we are living in our soul.  We might even invent a term for such times: Living Lucidity.

 

 

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2026/07/14/magazine/terminal-lucidity.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share

What Are Your “Takeaways” In Life?

Life is complicated.  Every hour all kinds of information comes to us from inside and out — way too much for us to take it all in and use.  So we simplify.  We choose what to remember and value.  We navigate as best we can.

 

Last month I attended a two-day conference that involved 14 hours of presentations.  If someone were to ask me to convey everything I heard, it would be impossible (and boring) to do so.  But if someone asks, “So what were your takeaways?” I understand that means:  what were the highlights, the points and stories most relevant and useful?

 

It’s a similar process when we create memorial services.  Someone has lived a life – often many years full of life experiences.   When they’re gone, we try to make sense of it all. As I meet with families to prepare, I often ask who they want to have speak.  When asked, a good speaker draws on a vast amount of information they know about the person and instinctively distill it all, choosing a few themes or stories that illustrate the person’s character.  It’s always meaningful to hear what people value.  

              

Simplifying our life experiences into key “takeaways” helps us navigate our direction. 

              

But we need to be careful.  We need to guard against oversimplification — the temptation to assume we know more than we really do.  It’s wise to keep a humble spirit and open mind as we create our “takeaways.” 

 

I recently was reminded of a passage from Wendell Berry’s novel, Jayber Crow..  Jayber comes from a small town in Kentucky.  As a young man, he felt a spiritual calling and enrolled in seminary.  He asks a lot of tough questions, sometimes to the frustration of his professors.  He mistrusts people who are convinced they have all the questions of faith answered, and who assume whoever doesn’t agree with them is simply wrong. He ends up leaving seminary, returns to his hometown, and becomes a barber.  In his day-to-day life, he carefully observes and listens to ordinary people.  And though he left seminary, he never loses his reverence for the Biblical stories.   At one point he says:

 

“As I have read the Gospels over the years, the belief has grown in me that Christ did not come to found an organized religion but came instead to found an unorganized one. He seems to have come to carry religion out of the temples into the fields and sheep pastures, onto the roadsides and the banks of the rivers, into the houses of sinners and publicans, into the town and the wilderness, toward the membership of all that is here. Well, you can read and see what you think.”

 

Unlike Jayber, I finished seminary and got my degree. I became one of those people in “the temple” of an “organized religion” whose duty it is to thoughtfully pass on the “takeaways” the tradition offers.  It has been a privilege to do so.

 

Like Jayber, I never tire of contemplating the Biblical stories.  After many years, they still often surprise and amaze me.  In the early Gospels for example, Jesus creates not just inspiration among his followers but also a great deal of bewilderment.   Whenever they try to put him in a box, he evades them.  Faith becomes more about following as best we can rather than having every question answered.  And I never tire of listening to people wrestle with life’s challenges, often in response to these timeless stories.

 

The French writer Paul Ricoeur believed there is a basic process we go through as we seek to understand life.  We begin with what he calls a “first naiveté” – we accept some simple beliefs we’ve been taught and we follow them. But then we start experiencing life in all its complexity and disappointments; we can become disillusioned with those original beliefs.  We may feel like giving up.   But the process doesn’t have to end there.  As we mature, we can accept life’s complexities and mysteries and discover a “second naiveté” — some new basic “takeaways” to help us go on.  These don’t ignore life’s problems but help us deal with them.  

 

Over the years, people have asked me, “Who are you favorite theologians?”  I have often said, “Rembrandt, Bach, Wendell Berry, and the older people I have known in my congregations.”  What a painter, a composer, a writer and those “ordinary people” have taught me is we don’t have to have all the answers to live a meaningful life.  We find satisfaction in work done well and responsibilities fulfilled.   We savor life’s simple pleasures when they come our way.  We love the best we can.  We care for other people as much as possible.  In that process, a quiet kind of light emerges.  And that light doesn’t stop with us; we sense it extends “…toward the membership of all that is here.”  And that is enough.

 

 Art Work: ”Family,” Kathe Kollwitz, 1931

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moments When I Knew Why I Love My Country

There are many wonderful countries in the world — one only has to watch the World Cup to see the pride and passion people have for their homeland and culture.  I can think of many reasons why I love my country.  As our 250th anniversary arrives, some specific moments came to me.

August 1975, JFK Airport: After spending six months in Europe, I landed at JFK airport. As I came down the stairs, three baggage handlers were having a heated discussion on the tarmac.  They were from three different ethnic groups, and I wondered what they were so passionate about.  As I got closer, I discovered they were arguing about the Mets.  At that moment, I said to myself, “I’m home.”  (Note: while I loved being back, I had gotten used to German beer, Swiss chocolate, and French cheese; having to settle for Schlitz, Hershey’s and Kraft “American” was a challenge.)

July 4, 1991, Yakima, Washington:  During our seven years living in rural Washington, we were blessed to have our lives intertwined with three generations of Filipino families.  On this 4th of July, we were guests at their family barbecue.  Several family members took turns standing and saying what it meant to be able to immigrate to America – what challenges they faced, and how grateful they were to become American citizens.

May 1999, Ellis Island, New York City: We were back East for the college graduation of our eldest daughter. I took our two youngest girls to sightsee in New York City.  We took the ferry to Ellis Island.  I remembered my grandmother, who died before I was born, and was 21 years old when she arrived from Sweden in 1912.  In the room where new arrivals were processed, there was a bench with a sign noting it had been in use at that time.  We sat on that bench looking out at the Statue of Liberty.  My grandmother did not have an easy life.  But I thought what a rich life she had made possible for her descendants.

November 4, 2008, Santa Barbara: I was driving home after work listening to NPR. It was announced that Barack Obama was going to win the Presidential election. I had grown up in an era when racism and bigotry were pervasive in my neighborhood, town and country.  To think that a Black man was going to serve as president seemed like a miracle.

December 17, 2013, Goleta City Council Chambers:  After 9/11, I became involved with the Jewish and Muslim congregations in my community.  We got to know each other as friends and neighbors. The Muslim congregation had been working for many years to build a small mosque.  A vote for final approval was scheduled on this date.  There was tension prior to the meeting as we wondered what people opposed to the project might say.  But everyone who spoke supported it.  A common theme was an affirmation that the freedom to practice religion is a fundamental principle of the American vision.  The Council approved the permit unanimously and we rejoiced.

September 2024, Dutch Resistance Museum, Amsterdam:   My sister and I had spent two weeks in Europe focusing on the cities of Berlin, Vienna, and Amsterdam.  Along the way we visited many sites associated with the Nazi period. In Amsterdam we visited the Dutch Resistance Museum.  We were moved by stories and exhibits highlighting the courage and resourcefulness of the Dutch during the Nazi occupation.  The last room focused on the experience of liberation, with tributes to the role the American armed forces had played.  Our father and his 30th Infantry Division had been part of that effort.  I felt great pride in remembering the role America played in the liberation of Europe.

At our best we are a land of opportunity representing the noblest aspirations of the human family. We have refined that vision over two and a half centuries to affirm that all people are created equal, and they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, including life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  In these trying times I am grateful for those moments when I was reminded of the power and beauty of that vision, and resolve to remember, defend, and advance it.

Remembering Father Vincent

In 1982, I was beginning to explore contemplative practices: spending time in silence, journaling, paying attention to dreams, and reading classic works on prayer and meditation.  I decided to make a private retreat at a monastery.  I was living in Santa Paula at the time and heard about St. Andrew’s Priory, a Benedictine center in the desert north of Los Angeles. As I was making my reservation, I was told they were receiving a new monk into their community that evening and I was welcome to attend.

As I drove through the desert, I wondered what to expect.  Do monks chant in low voices all the time? Are the guest room mattresses hard?  What do they eat – gruel with weak tea?

I arrived as the service was ending in the chapel. Approximately 60 people began heading toward the dining room, a blend of monks in brown robes and lay people.

When I entered the dining room, I saw prime rib and roast turkeys being carved and a long buffet with colorful side dishes. At each dining table were bottles of wine, six-packs of Dos Equis, and jars with cigars. 

I said to one of the monks, “This is not what I was expecting.”

“We don’t always eat like this,” he said. “One of the brothers used to be an executive chef for the Hyatt.  When we have special occasions, he takes over.”

I filled my plate and walked to place at a table across from a monk who was already eating.

He motioned me to join him and said, “Welcome. I’m Father Vincent.”  As we ate, I asked him how long he’d been at the Abbey.  He told me he first came in the 1950s. I asked him where he had been before that. He said he’d been in China from the 1930s until 1948.

“You were in China in the 1930s?” I asked. “Did you ever meet Teilhard de Chardin?” (Chardin was a famous theologian and archaeologist I admired who had been on digs in China and whose writings integrated evolution and spirituality).

“I met with Teilhard Tuesday afternoons when I was in China,” Father Vincent said.  “He was a brilliant man, but did not know the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob.”*  I was fascinated and we continued our conversation.

That evening marked the beginning of a personal friendship I developed with Father Vincent. I returned several times during the next three years to spend time with him.  I would bring spiritual questions to explore. We would sit on a bench or take long walks.  He was always patient and gracious, speaking quietly and thoughtfully with his French accent.

Gradually I learned more about his life.

He was Belgian by birth and grew up speaking French.  After entering the Benedictine order, he was sent in 1936 to China to establish a mission. He became fluent in Chinese.  When the Japanese invaded, he joined the Chinese army to serve as a chaplain. He was captured, spent time in a Japanese POW camp and narrowly escaped being executed.

After the end of the war in 1945, he resumed his work in China until foreigners were expelled in 1948.  He came to the US to attend Harvard, where he earned a PhD in sociology.

He once told me, “You know, I think in French, speak in English, and dream in Chinese.”

After Harvard, his order sent him to Los Angeles with $50,000 to find a location for a monastery.  He told me he read the LA Times real estate section every Sunday.  One day he saw an ad for a 720-acre turkey ranch near Pearblossom.  He represented his order in the purchase and oversaw the construction.  

After St. Andrew’s got established, he spent 10 years in Jerusalem studying Judaism and Hebrew.  After he returned to California, he would often attend Jewish services in Los Angeles, putting on a prayer shawl and yarmulke and reciting the prayers in Hebrew. He was the first Catholic Chaplain at Cedars-Sinai hospital. Year after year he worked to strengthen the bond between Judaism and Christianity. 

Father Vincent died in 1999 at age 87. I regret I did not spend more time with him. 

I will always treasure the time I was in his presence. He was a brilliant man who sought to understand and appreciate the rich variety of human experience and for whom spirituality was an endless exploration.

After retiring in 2018, I felt a desire to go back to St. Andrew’s to reflect on my transition.  I booked a three-night stay.

When I arrived, the grounds and buildings were familiar, but I felt Father Vincent’s absence.

On my last morning, I decided to visit his grave on the hillside overlooking the Abbey. I walked up the dirt road to the cemetery. I was alone.  When I found his tombstone, I saw several bouquets of flowers scattered around it – clearly, after two decades, I was not the only one who wanted to honor him. I kneeled, closed my eyes, and began to offer a silent prayer of gratitude.  I did not get very far into my prayer before I stopped. An awareness had arisen within me — or was given to me.  I sensed I didn’t need to venerate him.  Instead, I felt an abiding kinship.  It was as if I was being told, “You, too, have lived a meaningful life.”

The Cemetery at the Abbey

*In regards to Father Vincent’s comment about Teilhard, I have wondered about it ever since. I think he meant was Teilhard was seeking to create a rational comprehensive system of understanding God in light of modern science. But Vincent and others have often pointed out that the God who appears from Genesis often defies human comprehension.

Lead Image: St. Andrew’s Priory, Valyermo, CA

The Gift of Longing

Last June I took my two grandsons to Glendale for a Mookie Betts baseball camp.  We drove down the night before and spent the night at a motel.  The next morning, we joined 200 young people and their families at a sports complex for a half-day of skill-building.

As the morning went on, some of the younger siblings got restless.

I was sitting in the stands when I heard some loud lamentations.  I saw a little girl – I’m guessing she was three — two rows in front of me.  Her mother was holding a Smartphone in front of her while conversing with another adult, but the little girl desperately wanted full control of it. “No, No, I have to hold it!!!” the little girl kept pleading with tears coming down her cheeks.  Finally, the mother relented, let go and allowed her daughter to take control of the phone. The little girl’s breathing steadied and the tears stopped; a gentle smile came to her face. 

What the little girl was expressing so effectively was a basic human desire – we see something we want and we strive to possess it.  No doubt that’s a key to our survival as a species.  It is a great feeling to obtain what we want; I can remember how excited I was as a teenager to get a new stereo system or later as an adult reaching some professional goal.  Our current culture thrives on our desires, offering us many visions of what we need. 

But if life is only about getting what we want, why do we find beauty in experiences of loss and longing?

This is the question behind a book I’m currently reading: Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make us Whole.  I bought it recently after hearing the author, Susan Cain, speak at a leadership conference.[i] Bittersweet explores the experience of being drawn to such things as old photographs, songs that speak of loss, rainy days, seeking quiet beauty in art, and being willing to listen to others talk about past or current troubles. She notes there is great pressure in our society to be happy all the time — to be “melancholy” means there is something wrong with us.  But she disagrees.  She sets out to demonstrate that “bittersweet” experiences are vital to being human.

Cain has a life-long appreciation for the songs of Leonard Cohen, and she cites him often.  As I was reading, I became vividly aware of my own attraction to music that creates poignant feelings – slow adagio movements in classical music and songs of lament in opera.  Thinking of popular music, I could hear Paul McCartney singing…

Yesterday

All my troubles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay
Oh, I believe in yesterday

Suddenly
I’m not half the man I used to be
There’s a shadow hanging over me
Oh, yesterday came suddenly

Why she had to go I don’t know
She wouldn’t say
I said, something wrong
Now I long for yesterday

Yesterday
Love was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away
Oh, I believe in yesterday

“My troubles are here to stay…there’s a shadow hanging over me…I long for yesterday…I need a place to hide away…”  Who wants to hear someone sing about what’s making them sad?  Turns out millions of us do.

Cain searches for reasons why we can be drawn to experiences of bittersweetness and melancholy.  Along the way she integrates current psychological research with insights from the world’s philosophical and spiritual traditions. She discovers that such experiences help us acknowledge the ways in which life doesn’t always give us what we want.  At the same time, we can sense within us a deep longing for some ideal state in which we can imagine all our wishes coming true.  As we dwell in that gap, our hearts open.  We feel the mystery and poignancy of life more deeply.  That in turn awakens empathy and compassion in us, allowing us to feel a kinship with others. Sometimes this includes an awareness of the transience of life — that all we are experiencing will pass away:

“In fact, you could say what orients a person to the bittersweet is the heightened awareness of finality.  Children splashing joyfully in puddles brings tears to grandparents’ eyes because they know that one day the children will grow up and grow old (and they won’t be there to see it).  But those aren’t tears of sorrow, exactly; at heart, they are tears of love.” [ii]

Bittersweet experiences encourage creativity as we find new ways to express what we feel.  They also grant us humility.  If we think we are superior to everyone, we won’t really care about others.  When our hearts open, we start caring.

I think of that little girl desperately wanting to hold the Smartphone and recognize something deep within me and all of us.  I hear Paul McCartney singing “Yesterday” and I want to bow in appreciation, remembering my own regrets and losses.  Desire is built deep within us and gives us purpose.  Bittersweet experiences open us to the richness of life and bond us to each another.  We benefit from both.

Lead Image: Van Gogh, “Portrait of Dr Paul Gachet”

[i] Her prior book was the best-seller: Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. 

[ii] Bittersweet, xxxiii

What Tom Taught Me

              My goal after college in March 1974 was to make enough money to go backpacking in Europe.

I began working for a title insurance company in Santa Ana that spring. A fellow employee was Tom, an “older” Englishman (probably in his sixties).  Tom wore short-sleeved white shirts and a dark tie every day; his hair and mustache were gray, and he was always calm and helpful with everyone.  I discovered he had been a research assistant for Will and Ariel Durant, authors of the 10-volume series The Story of Civilization, which my family had proudly owned.  I sought Tom out at coffee and lunch breaks to listen to his stories and discuss my dream of traveling.

              After a few months, I realized I wasn’t making enough money.  I moved back home to San Bernardino and made better money painting houses.  By the next spring, I had saved $1,500.  I was beginning to question whether I should spend that on travel or buy a VW Squareback.  But I felt I needed to ask Tom for advice.   I called to arrange a visit in Santa Ana.

              When we met, I told him I was thinking of delaying my trip to buy the car. He smiled and shook his head.  “You need to go now when you are free from responsibilities,” he said.  “You never know at what age you might get married and have kids and never have this opportunity again.”

              I told him I was planning to travel through Western Europe from late April into early summer, ending with time in Greece.  Then I was going to meet a friend in Germany who said she could help me get a job. 

              He gave me three suggestions.

              “If you are in Spain, you need to cross over to Morocco.”

              “But I have no interest in Morocco.”

              “Trust me,” he said.

              “Be sure to go to Venice.  It’s sinking and may be gone in the future.”

              Then he told me that there may come a time when I would be stuck someplace and not know what to do.  “When that happens, just find a place to sit down.  Someone will appear.”

              While I was in Spain, I debated going to Morocco.  But based on Tom’s advice, I made the ferry crossing and took a bus to the ancient city of Fez.

              When I arrived in Fez I felt like I was stepping back in time into the Arabian Nights.  I got a hotel with a balcony open to the city.  At first, I was put off by the Arabic calls to prayer that were broadcast across the city five times a day. But as I listened more carefully, I sensed a great spiritual yearning in what was being sung.  The city itself turned out to be fascinating.

              I crossed back to Spain, made my way to Italy and spent two days in Venice.

Then I went to Rome, and after a few days took a ferry to Greece.

In Athens, I contacted a girl whom I had befriended when she was an exchange student at my high school.  She invited me to share a memorable meal with her family at a local restaurant.  I told her I wanted to visit a Greek island, and she recommended Ios –  Homer’s birthplace and a quieter place than the more popular tourist destinations.

              My money was beginning to run low, so I sent a telegram home asking my father to forward my next allotted funds to the post office in Ios. 

              I got to the island and discovered I could sleep on the beach for free and eat cheaply.  For three days, I showed up at the post office after the ferry delivered the daily mail, but the money did not come. Finally, I realized I was broke. 

I wasn’t sure what to do.  Then I remembered Tom’s advice.  I went to the village square and sat on a bench near a fountain.  I waited to see what would happen.

              Two German girls passed by with their backpacks. They stopped and greeted me, asking for advice on where to stay.  I told them I was sleeping for free on a local beach and that they were welcome to try it.  They asked what I was doing. I told them I had just run out of money.  They said they’d be glad to lend me some until my funds came. 

We ended up sharing the beach spot and becoming friends.  Two days later, the money came. I paid them back. They gave me their address in Stuttgart and encouraged me to visit.

              I left Greece and made my way to Germany, where I met my friend.  I was offered a job at a local cheese factory, but my application for a work permit was denied a week later. Before going home, I made a brief stop in Stuttgart to visit my friends from Ios.

              I flew home in August and resumed my American life.

  A year later I fell in love, and a year after that got married; soon we had our first child.

              I lost contact with Tom long ago.  But over the years, I’ve often thought about his advice to me that day.

              He was right about making the trip while I had no responsibilities.  My trip will always be one of the great adventures of my life – more valuable than any car.

              He was right about Morocco.  Going there gave me my first appreciation for Arabic culture, which has grown over time.

              Venice?  It’s still there, but I’m glad I saw it.

              And being stuck and not knowing what to do? Sometimes just sitting down and waiting invites surprising things to happen.  I’m still not sure how that works.

I will always appreciate the wisdom and encouragement Tom gave me.

Let us be grateful for the relationships and conversations we’ve had with some of those “older” people that turned out to be lasting gifts on our journeys.

Lead Image: Fez, Morocco

Shaped By Life

Last week we took the Amtrak Coast Starlight for a 32-hour journey to Washington State.  Our goal was to visit friends we’d made when we lived in the farming community of Wapato in central Washington from 1985-1992. 

Once we got settled on the train, I downloaded Pope Leo’s new encyclical on AI to my iPad. While some of it was dry, other parts were compelling.  One section impressed me. I pasted this paragraph to my Notepad:

… we must avoid the misconception of equating this type of “intelligence” with that of human beings. These systems merely imitate certain functions of human intelligence. In doing so, they often surpass human intelligence in speed and computational capacity, offering tangible benefits across many fields. Yet this power remains entirely tied to data processing. So-called artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean. Nor do they have a moral conscience, since they do not judge good and evil, grasp the ultimate meaning of situations, or bear responsibility for consequences. They may imitate language, behavior and analytical skills, or even simulate empathy and understanding, but they do not understand what they produce, for they lack the affective, relational and spiritual perspective through which human beings grow in wisdom. Even when these tools are described as capable of “learning,” their way of doing so is different from that of a human person. It is not the experience of those who allow themselves to be shaped by life and grow over time through choices, mistakes, forgiveness and fidelity. Rather, it is a form of statistical adaptation based on data and feedback, which can be very effective, but does not imply inner growth…[i]

We arrived in Seattle at 10 PM.  The next day we visited a friend who lives north of the city, then drove our rental car over Snoqualmie Pass to the Yakima Valley.

The first night a group of friends gathered at a winery to celebrate our memories and relationships. 

The next morning, we drove eight miles south to Wapato, which has 3,000 residents and an 85% poverty rate. 

We began with a visit to the apple farm and retreat center where we lived the first year.  We took photos, including one of the 10 x 50-foot trailer we lived in that is now abandoned.  We drove into town and saw the church I served for six years; the congregation I knew dispersed years ago, and the building is now owned by a Spanish-speaking Pentecostal congregation. 

We drove two blocks past the Dairy Queen to the church-owned house we lived in for six years.  Later we visited a Filipino couple who are dear friends and godparents to our younger daughters.  We spent two more days in the area before driving west over the mountains.  We spent one last night in a downtown hotel in Seattle and boarded the train back home. 

On the way south, I began to sort out my feelings and thoughts. 

I value all my life experiences. Living in a small town few people have heard of amid the poverty was not easy.  But we did it.  We endured because we were embraced by the people in my congregation and those we met through the schools, community, and the local swim team.  We grew to love our new life, the people, the land, and what we were learning. 

Becoming aware of that on the way home, I took my iPad out and looked again at the excerpt from the encyclical.  I was drawn to two sentences:

So-called artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean.

…and…

It is not the experience of those who allow themselves to be shaped by life and grow over time through choices, mistakes, forgiveness and fidelity.

I enjoy using Claude, my AI tool.  I appreciate Anthropic, the company that created Claude, which has from the beginning established strong ethical guidelines and whose co-founder was invited to speak at the encyclical’s presentation.

Speed, clarity, ease, amazement:  AI gives us these experiences. 

But life can’t always go quickly. Sometimes it takes a long time to find clarity.  Sometimes the easy way is not the best way.  And sometimes the most lasting sense of appreciation comes not from a device, but from personally experiencing and living through joy and pain and discovering from within the value of “love, work, friendship, and responsibility.”

Living seven years in the Wapato community taught us in a lasting way what love, work, friendship and responsibility mean.  Our life there shaped us for the good.  We will always be grateful for what we learned and the people whose lives became intertwined with our own.  And I am grateful to Pope Leo for reminding us what really matters as we live into the future.

[i] Magnifica Humanitas, paragraph 99

Lead Image: Farm in the hills near Wapato, Washington