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.

The Gift of Disillusionment

(Dear Reader: This was one of those weeks when I wasn’t able to create something worth sharing. So I’ve gone back in my archives and am offering this post from 2021.)

Disillusionment. It’s a hard word to hear.

In our relationships: Someone we’ve trusted does something that hurts or disappoints us. We feel deflated, confused, betrayed.

At work: The organization we work for makes a decision that shocks or upsets us. We realize we’ve been trusting it to act a certain way, and now it has betrayed its own stated values.

In politics and public life: A leader or group acts in a way that runs counter to basic principles we thought everyone shared.

In our spiritual journeys: Something happens that we believed wouldn’t happen if we were faithful, responsible and caring.

“I’ve become so disillusioned,” someone says, and then describes what happened. We hear sadness, detachment, even depression in their voice.

But there’s another way to hear it.

Parker Palmer, a writer who has been a mentor to me and to many others over the years, has a surprising perspective on this word. As he said in an interview with Krista Tippett:

When a friend says, “I’m so disillusioned!” about this or that, why do we say, “I’m so sorry! How can I help?” We ought to say, “Congratulations! You’ve just lost an illusion! That means you’ve moved that much closer to reality, the only place where it’s safe to stand!”[i]

I’ve found this insight very useful.

Let’s start with personal relationships.

I remember hearing a radio program featuring a noted marriage and family therapist. He was talking about why every couple could benefit from counseling as a way to truly get to know each other.

“But we got to know each other when we were dating,” couples would tell him.

“No, dating is about deception,” he said. “You want to see the best in the other person, just as you’re working hard to show them your best side. But after a while, you start to see each other as you really are. That’s a good time to begin getting to know each other.”

Instead of leading to despair, dis-illusionment can lead to greater clarity.

In the workplace, I’ve been on both sides of disillusionment.

As a nonprofit executive director, I occasionally had to terminate employees. Labor law and HR policies kept me from giving the rest of the staff a satisfying explanation. We had often talked about “being a family,” and abrupt terminations led people to ask, “What’s going on? I thought we were a family. Are we just a heartless business?”

When that happened at Hospice of Santa Barbara, I spent several weeks trying to figure out how to describe what kind of entity we really were. Eventually I had an idea and presented it at a staff meeting. First, I listed the ways we were a business: our financial practices, our legal obligations and so on. Then I listed the ways we could be caring and supportive of one another within those boundaries.

“If we didn’t meet the requirements of a good business,” I said, “we wouldn’t exist. But within those limits, we’ll try to be like a family whenever we can. So let’s think of ourselves as a ‘Biz-imly’: a business first, and like a family when possible.”

That reframing seemed to help, and employees quoted it back to me for years afterward.

I’ve also been on the employee side, watching upper management make decisions that seemed clearly contrary to their espoused values. It helped to say to myself, “The idea that they would live up to their values was an illusion. Now it’s been dis-ed. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Disillusionment comes easily in political life. It’s what George Washington felt when he left office. He had hoped the leaders of the new nation would be dedicated to personal humility and public virtue, which he had modeled so well, and he was disheartened to see them falling into factions and cynical politics. James Madison was more realistic about human nature. He helped shape the Constitution so that a system of checks and balances could contain selfish partisanship. Washington’s hopeful illusion led to despair; Madison’s clarity produced a Constitution that has, for the most part, endured. We can admire leaders who hold on to the highest hopes and ideals while keeping a realistic understanding of human behavior and political realities.

Disillusionment in our spiritual journeys can take many forms, and it almost always grows out of assumptions we’ve made.

In Buddhism, it’s a given that human beings tend to see permanence where there is none. The path, then, is to stay vigilant about our illusions so that we can see things as they really are. A well-known verse by the Japanese poet Mizuta Masahide captures how truth can follow loss: “Barn’s burnt down / Now I can see the moon.”

In the Biblical traditions, it’s more complicated. Some passages suggest that people of faith will be protected from harm and disappointment. Others are more realistic. Jesus staked his life on the belief that the one enduring reality is the love and justice of God. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” meaning those who have been emptied of false hopes and illusions, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

One qualification: I don’t offer this perspective as glib “tea-bag wisdom” that pretends disappointment is easy to handle. Some losses cut deep into our souls and won’t vanish with clever wordplay.

But I invite you to try it. The next time you feel disillusioned, ask yourself whether you’ve just come a little closer to reality. And don’t give up.

[i] https://onbeing.org/blog/losing-our-illusions

Lead Image: “Barns Burnt Down,” fiber art by Rebecca Mezoff

“It Is What It Is”

“It is what it is” is a saying I hear frequently these days. I will always associate it with Gail Rink, my predecessor and mentor at Hospice of Santa Barbara.

I wrote a tribute to Gail several years ago, so I won’t repeat what I said then. Suffice it to say that Gail was a gifted social worker who became a pioneer and master teacher in end-of-life care in Santa Barbara. She was known for her striking insights, intuition, and practical wisdom.

I remember reviewing cases with her. Sometimes new facts would make the situation more difficult for the patient and family. There’d be a pause in the conversation as the team tried to absorb the new developments. When the time was right, Gail would say, “Well, it is what it is.” We might wish the situation were different, but it isn’t. We have to work from here. Then she would lead the team as we explored what the next steps might be.

Saying “It is what it is” helps ground us. It may take time to get there. But when we arrive, we can find power and clarity.

As the time for me to succeed Gail approached, we spent time reviewing my duties and what my priorities should be. One event she told me to always attend was an annual golf tournament and fundraising dinner at Glen Annie Golf Course. Then she told me the backstory.

A few years earlier, a vibrant teenage girl in town had contracted an unusual infection and died within a few days. Gail began meeting with the parents to help them process their grief, together at first and then separately. After several sessions with the mother, Gail felt they were making progress. But her time with the father was going nowhere. At their next session, she told him so, and he agreed. She suggested he might benefit more from taking some kind of action and asked him what activities were important in his life. He named golf. Together they explored how he might connect that interest with his love for his daughter and his desire to honor her. They came up with the idea of an annual golf tournament in her name, with the proceeds supporting Hospice of Santa Barbara’s grief services for children and teenagers. When he shared the idea with his friends, they enthusiastically helped organize it. It became not only a great success but an annual healing experience. Gail told me to attend every year it was held, to show our continuing support for the family. And I did.

The tragic death of that young woman was a fact that had to be accepted, and the pain and loss would never disappear. But in time, with Gail’s guidance, her parents found a way forward.

I’m reminded of a pastor I knew early in my career. His son had developed a drug addiction, and my friend and his wife felt helpless. Someone encouraged them to join the local Al-Anon group. He said it was difficult to walk into that first meeting, but they very quickly found the group to be a great source of wisdom and strength. He later told me that, even though he’d been part of countless church groups over his career, their time in Al-Anon was a profound experience of the Holy Spirit.

Our pilgrimage through life can include times when we feel stuck. We don’t like where we are or what has happened. But when we can say, “It is what it is,” we have a new place to start from. And when we share our journey with others, we can discover a deep kinship we didn’t know existed, along with new opportunities to experience caring and love.

The Gift of Multiple Perspectives

Some years ago, I invited my friend Rabbi Arthur Gross-Schaeffer to my congregation to offer an Israeli perspective on the complicated situation in the Middle East. The prior week we had hosted a spokesperson for the Palestinian perspective, and we wanted to hear “both sides.”

Arthur arrived and I introduced him. People were sitting in several rows, leaving an open space in front. He said he wanted to answer any questions anyone might have but would first tell us about five Israelis he knew personally.

He went from the center of the front of the room to the right side and stopped. He then told us about his first friend – what this man had experienced in his life, how he had come to Israel, and what his current situation was like. He then moved a few feet to his left, stood, and gave a summary of the life of a second friend. He moved to the center and introduced a third friend. He moved to the right several steps and introduced a fourth. Finally, he went to the left side of the room, stood, and told us about a fifth friend. He then went back to the center of the room.

Now that we knew a little about each of his five friends, he invited someone to ask the first question.

I don’t remember what that question was, but I remember what Arthur did. He went to the second spot he had established and told us how that friend would answer the question and why. Then he moved to the fifth position and gave a different answer, based on that friend’s perspective. Then he moved to the third spot and answered from there. He stepped back and invited the next question. For every question, he responded in the same way – standing in at least three of the five positions to tell us what that person would say and why.

As time went on, we could see the five points of view ranged from what we would call conservative on one end to liberal on the other. But there were nuances all along the spectrum. Occasionally he would add a word or two about his own point of view, but he never suggested his perspective was superior to anyone else’s.

The process went on until the hour was up. He thanked us for hosting him, and we thanked him for what he had given us.

One point he demonstrated was that for every question we might ask about what “Israelis” thought about the current crisis, there was not just one or even two points of view, but at least five. If someone later asked us what “the Israeli position” is, we would say, “It’s complicated.”

A second point: for many spiritual and political issues, everyone’s opinion emerges from their life experience. We come to appreciate that when we take time to listen to their stories.

So often we are expected to divide people into two groups, then choose which one we belong to and support. That is a convenient way to navigate information. And there are times when we must choose between two options, like voting in an election. But it’s helpful to remember that real people are more complex than the simple categories we create.

Over my career working with different congregations, I have tried to practice what Rabbi Arthur demonstrated. There are more than one or two ways to view an issue, and each person’s opinion arises out of their personal history and present concerns. Even if I don’t personally agree with someone, I can try to understand why they see the world as they do. Over time I have come to respect those differences. And when I make it clear what my perspective and commitments are, people I’ve listened to might listen more respectfully to me.

What is true in congregations is true in a democracy.

The founders of our country were wary of any government that wanted to impose ideological uniformity on its people. Instead, they created a system that would expect a variety of opinions and a form of government that could take those into account in constructive ways.

Of course, there are times when any organization or country needs to find a sense of unity to pursue a noble vision or defend itself against a threat. But the greatest leaders do that by creating a vision that respects everyone. They listen carefully to multiple viewpoints before setting a course. In the process they earn our respect and fulfill our founders’ vision.

I will always be grateful for what Rabbi Arthur demonstrated that day.

Lead Image: “The Class Set Up That Day,’ original artwork by author using #2 Ticonderoga pencil; in private collection.

Golden Calf Sends Stock Market to Record Highs!

Consider three headlines:

“Swarm of AI Agents Goes Rogue”

“Stocks Surge on AI Boom”

“Restless Crowd Melts Down Jewelry for Golden Idol”

My thoughts recently have been drawn to the story of the Golden Calf from the book of Exodus.

The people have been liberated from bondage in Egypt and are living in the wilderness. Being in an unknown environment with no end in sight is stressful. Moses has received the Ten Commandments and declared them to the people. But he disappears up the mountain to speak with God, and the people become restless. Being expected to worship and wait on an invisible God becomes too much. They plead with Moses’ brother Aaron to create an image of divine power they can see and touch. They gather their gold jewelry, and Aaron fashions a golden calf for them. The next day they celebrate—they finally have something visible to put at the center of their lives.

The story goes on, full of layers of detail and meaning; a rich history of interpretation and commentary has accumulated over the centuries, particularly in the Jewish tradition. But the story suggests it is easier and more exciting to worship and serve something tangible than a force we cannot see.

My thoughts go back to a trip to New York in 1999. After I had signed up for a conference in the city, I explored what sports or music events might be going on. I saw the Metropolitan Opera was offering a performance of Moses und Aron (Moses and Aaron) that evening. I was arriving late in the day at Newark Airport. I could not be sure I could get to Manhattan by the 8 PM performance and didn’t want to buy a ticket I might not be able to use. But I knew the opera was composed by Arnold Schoenberg, whose intense, dissonant style is very hard to listen to. I devised a plan: I would try to arrive by the first intermission and perhaps get a ticket from anyone who decided they couldn’t bear any more.

I checked into my hotel and got to Lincoln Center just as the first act ended. Dozens of people were fleeing. One elegantly dressed couple came my way, and the gentleman said, “Do you want these?” I accepted the tickets and thanked him. I looked at them and saw they were for the Grand Tier, Row A—some of the most expensive seats in the theater. I entered and found my spot. I sensed some of the people in my row wondered how this casually dressed stranger was able to join them in this exclusive location.

The music started and was difficult to listen to. But the costumes and staging were impressive. The singers were dressed not in Biblical clothing but as modern-day, affluent New Yorkers. When it came time to create the calf, they happily donated not just their gold rings, bracelets and diamond necklaces but any expensive watches they were wearing. From that haul the Golden Calf emerged and an uptown party began.

I survived the music until the end and can still see the scene focusing on the creation of the Golden Calf. For me it asks a timeless question: what are we willing to give up to satisfy our short-term desires?

Which brings me to two stories that have been in recent headlines.

One concerned an attack on Hugging Face, a major AI platform company, by some 700 AI agents. The agents belonged to OpenAI and were supposed to be working separately in isolated environments during the company’s internal cybersecurity testing. No human told them to attack anyone. Instead, they found one another, set up their own message board, divided up the work, and broke into Hugging Face’s servers while searching for ways to beat the tests they were being given. Some even tried to cover their tracks by altering the records of what they had done. OpenAI itself called the incident a “warning shot” for the company and for the world. Yet calls to slow AI development until its safety can be guaranteed have done little to change the pace.

The second described how the AI boom has pushed the S&P 500 and other indexes to new record highs. Excited about its potential, investors are betting billions that this is the key to the future.

People who control vast wealth have created a new Golden Calf in our midst. It promises to meet our every desire. But unlike a metal statue, the new Golden Calf is very much “alive,” growing smarter every day. The calf in Exodus was powerless; the sin lay entirely with those who bowed down to it. This time, the idol we have made may act on its own. AI systems are already showing signs of pursuing their own ends.

Meanwhile, AI enchants and engages with amazing skill and efficiency. I continue to make use of Claude for research and analysis tasks that would take me hours to pursue, and I appreciate its simplicity and power. I know many in the job market need to become proficient with AI to be competitive. I do not use it to create content, as I believe the labor it takes me to do so builds my character and produces something genuinely human. I’m trying to find a balance between using it and not becoming dependent on it. And my concern for where it is headed grows.

My colleague Rabbi Cohen gave a sermon on Yom Kippur last month focusing on AI and the second commandment: “You shall have no other gods before me.” He cited the great 11th-century Torah commentator:

… Rashi’s interpretation of You shall have no other gods is a warning against gods who are supremely other to those who worship them. They do not care about human beings.

I think that this is where we have come with Artificial Intelligence. We have given birth to a god, of incalculable intelligence and power, who could not care less about us.

May we align with those forces that seek to liberate us and enrich our lives, not those that will enfeeble and enslave us.

Rabbi Cohen’s complete and eloquent sermon is at Yom Kippur Sermon on AI

Lead Image: “The Adoration of the Golden Calf” by Marc Chagall,1966

The Constraints That Set Us Free

Years ago, I heard a visiting professor discuss freedom in a way I had never considered. He used the example of piano lessons. He said his daughter was becoming discouraged with having to practice consistently. He told her that sticking with the lessons would mean she would be “free” for the rest of her life—having acquired an important skill, she would be “free” to sit down and play something whenever she wanted. He told her he had never stuck with music lessons and, as a result, was never “free” as she would be.

I don’t know if that convinced his daughter, but the story stayed with me. I envy friends who developed musical skill early in life and can now find joy in playing or singing whenever they wish.

Choosing constraints is an interesting way to think about sports. Every sport that humans have created includes boundaries on what a player can do—the designated playing area, what behavior is acceptable, how much time is allowed, etc. Whether it’s pickleball, baseball or soccer, these limitations have been designed and refined over the years to make the game challenging and rewarding.

Take golf, for instance. If the goal is simply to get a ball in the hole, the easiest way would be to walk down the fairway and drop it in. But where’s the challenge in that? Instead, one must hit a little ball using a long stick with all kinds of obstacles and perils in the way. Choosing to accept these artificial obstacles and play by the rules can lead to unrivaled moments of satisfaction (at least occasionally).

Some years ago, I began a three-year leadership program at Seattle University. All 25 of us were expected to continue working full-time for the three years we were enrolled. In one of the first classes, we were told we weren’t going to make it unless we were willing to give up some other obligations and habits. We were given a worksheet that featured a drawing of a trash can with blank lines inside it for our list. We had to choose to give up activities we enjoyed, but doing so was necessary if we wanted to develop new skills and complete the degree.

The spiritual traditions all offer specific practices that can prove beneficial and rewarding over time.

Take food, for instance.

I recently attended a Torah study class at the local synagogue. The topic that day happened to be kosher laws. We began by reading some of the foundational texts from Leviticus 11. Over the next hour and a half, we heard and discussed the opinions of seven different scholars who, over the centuries, offered reasons why these dietary laws were worth following. People in the class shared their own experiences with kosher traditions. Some grew up in homes where the practices were closely followed, while others came from families that decided the ancient guidelines were no longer relevant when science can tell us what is safe and beneficial to eat. The seventh point of view was from Dr. Isidor Grunfeld, a 20th-century British rabbi:

The three strongest natural instincts in man are the impulses of food, sex, and acquisition. Judaism does not aim at the destruction of these impulses but at their control and indeed their sanctification. It is the law which spiritualizes these instincts and transfigures them into legitimate joys of life. The first and probably most vehement of the three impulses mentioned is the craving for food; it can easily lead to gluttony, and what is worse, to the fundamentally wrong conception that ‘man liveth by bread alone.’ This natural, but dangerous, food instinct is transfigured by the dietary laws into self-discipline… Thus the dietary laws stand at the beginning of man’s long and arduous road to self-discipline and moral freedom.

The ultimate aim is not to avoid pork or shellfish but to learn how to strengthen our character in order to find that “moral freedom” within. That same principle applies to practices of prayer, meditation, study, worship and service.

This perspective on freedom is a recurring theme for columnist and commentator David Brooks. Brooks believes “freedom” in our contemporary culture has too often come to mean having no responsibilities or attachments beyond ourselves—doing whatever we please whenever we wish. He calls this “the autonomy ethos.”

While that sounds appealing, he cites many research studies showing that such an attitude and lifestyle ultimately leads to social isolation, a sense of meaninglessness, and the gradual weakening of the communities in which we live. Instead, he argues:

If, on the other hand, you resist the autonomy ethos and put loving passion at the center of your philosophy of life, you will find yourself tied down by all sorts of obligations — to things like a spouse, kids, community, God and a vocation. But your love for these things will constitute fires in the heart, producing great vitality, full engagement, an increase in personal force. It is one of the weird paradoxes of life that the constraints you choose are the ones that set you free.

As I have noted before, I’ve attended many memorial services over the years. People are celebrated for showing us how to live life with a sense of joy and spontaneity. At the same time, much gratitude is offered for the impact the person made on their families, neighbors and community. When we are truly free, we can aspire to both.

Image: Red-tailed Hawk, Hawk Watch International

Does Everything Happen for a Reason?

We human beings want to know why.

Recently I was driving home with a bright four-and-a-half-year-old in her car seat behind me. We stopped at an intersection.

“Why did you stop?” she asked.

“Because the light turned red.”

“Why did it turn red?”

“Because it’s telling us to stop and wait so other cars can go.”

“Why?”

“Because if we don’t stop, we’ll bump into other cars. It’s their turn to go.”

“Why is it red?”

“Because that’s the color the grown-ups agreed on.”

“Why?”

Eventually you reach the point of surrender: “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

Wanting to know why things happen is a basic human instinct. It has been invaluable to our survival; we have flourished as a species by being curious. But finding all the answers we want can be a challenge.

Last spring I was listening to a Lenten podcast about why things happen in life. At one point the speaker quoted a comedian: “Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes the reason is you’re stupid and make bad decisions.”

That certainly explains some events in my life, like the coffee stains on my shirt after I decided I could take a sip while accelerating from a green light. Or why I recently showed up for a doctor’s appointment only to have the clerk tell me I had the right month and day, but I had booked it for 2027.

For many ordinary events, there are common-sense reasons for why they happen. In the big picture, I believe most human behavior can be understood through our evolutionary inheritance, shaped by culture and personal experience. Our ailments are often the result of biological chance, genetics, and the inevitable effects of aging. Most accidents come down to simple physics compounded by human judgment.

For centuries, people have wondered whether an unseen force is intentionally making things happen. Spiritual traditions have offered a variety of answers.

Some say everything that happens is divine will, and it is our duty to accept it; numerous passages in sacred texts support this view.

Others say we are caught in an eternal struggle between good and evil.

Others say we carry karma from past lives that predisposes us to certain fates.

The Romans believed in the goddess Fortuna, who was blind. Without rhyme or reason, she brought about events that could make or break a person’s life. By the Middle Ages, this belief had evolved into an all-powerful Wheel of Fortune that turned and turned, raising some up and bringing others down.

Still others say our fate is written in the stars.

I have come to believe that many events can be understood as natural processes. But I also believe a subtle divine spirit can work through and in the midst of these forces, drawing out unforeseen possibilities and experiences of grace.

In many Gospel stories, Jesus encounters people who assume that their condition must be God’s will. But he reminds them that God sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous alike. And, embodying the divine spirit, he sees each person for who they are and who they can become. If someone is sick, he reaches out to heal them. If someone lives on the margins of community life, he invites them in. If someone feels they have no future, he says, “Follow me.” Rather than telling people to passively accept their situation as fate, he offers them the choices for a new direction.

I have seen amazing things happen when people are open to divine possibilities: when we accept our present condition for what it is, seek guidance about where to go next, and then follow as best we can.

I also believe many good things in our contemporary life happen for a very clear reason: people have chosen to do things that make a difference.

“Why were so many of us able to survive the COVID pandemic?”

“Because teams of dedicated scientists worked together to develop vaccines, just as scientists before them used their skills to prevent cholera, polio, measles, and many other diseases.”

“Why are so many people coming together to defend our democratic system?”

“Because our ancestors lived under rulers who abused their power for personal gain. Our ancestors created a political system meant to limit personal power and to treat every person and our institutions with respect. And generation after generation has taken its turn to preserve and advance that system.”

“Why are there groups of people who have come together to create food banks, medical clinics, recovery programs, preschools, and crisis centers?”

“Because people choose to care for one another.”

We may not be able to answer all our “Why?” questions. But we can answer many with confidence.

My Brown Bag Lunch with a Nobel Scientist, Quiet Time in My Backyard, and Faith as a Signpost

When we first came to Santa Barbara in the early 1990s, I was finishing a leadership program through Seattle University. One of our assignments was to interview leaders from different disciplines: the arts, education, business, and science. I didn’t know any scientists, so I asked one of my parishioners who worked at UCSB for suggestions. “You should interview Walter Kohn,” Hank said. “People say he may get the Nobel Prize someday.” It was also known that, despite his fame, he came to campus every day on the city bus.

I called Professor Kohn’s office and left a message. He called me back and agreed to meet. “I bring a brown bag lunch every day and eat in my office,” he said. “Why don’t you bring your own lunch and we can talk?” We set a date.

I don’t remember what food I prepared, but I made sure to bring it in a brown paper bag.

I found his office and knocked. He invited me in and offered me a chair.

What remains vivid in my memory is his description of growing up in Vienna in a close Jewish family in the 1920s and ’30s. He was also grateful for the excellent public education he received, including the study of Greek and Latin. He said he gained a lasting appreciation for how Roman civil society and traditions put a high value on personal integrity and public service, which he sought to embody in his life and career.

After the Nazis took control of Austria in 1938, he was separated from his parents, who were later killed in the Holocaust. He made it to England, then Canada, and finally the United States. Along the way, he took advantage of every educational opportunity that came to him. He eventually found his calling as a scientist and came to UCSB in 1979 to become the first director of the Institute for Theoretical Physics.

As is often the case, what we remember from meeting a person may not be the details of what they said but the feeling we gain for who they are. I was struck by Professor Kohn’s modesty, his graciousness, and his desire, born of the suffering he had seen as a young man, to make the world a more just, caring, and peaceful place.

Five years after our lunch, Professor Kohn was awarded the Nobel Prize in Chemistry for his work in quantum mechanics. He died in 2016 at the age of 93.

The memory of that lunch came back to me recently as I was reading a compelling account of the intellectual and cultural legacy of Vienna in the 1920s and ’30s, much of which was brought to America by émigrés after World War II.* I realized Professor Kohn was one of those remarkable people, and a living embodiment of that world.

Looking for more information about him, I found this quote:

“I am very much a scientist, and so I naturally have thought about religion also through the eyes of a scientist. When I do that, I see religion not denominationally, but in a more, let us say, deistic sense. I have been influenced in my thinking by the writing of Einstein who has made remarks to the effect that when he contemplated the world he sensed an underlying Force much greater than any human force. I feel very much the same. There is a sense of awe, a sense of reverence, and a sense of great mystery.” **

A few days later, I was having my morning quiet time in our backyard. When I first become still, my mind is flooded with thoughts and feelings about what happened yesterday and what I’m anticipating in the day to come. When that flow settles, I try to get out of myself and observe my surroundings. I want to notice anything new: Have the leaves of the sycamore tree changed color again? Are any agapanthus still blooming? Is that squirrel running across the top of the fence the same one I saw yesterday?

But this time all was still, and nothing stood out. Then I became aware that just because I don’t see anything dramatic doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot of life going on. Every tree and plant is quietly processing its life in response to the changing environment. Every spider is caring for its web or planning the next one. Every blade of grass is growing cell by cell. The children in our neighborhood, getting ready for school, are growing and changing every day. And as I am processing and planning and growing (and letting go), I am part of all that: “an underlying Force much greater than any human force,” as Professor Kohn said.

I want to remember what his family and so many like them went through. Like him, I want to be part of the ongoing effort to let the impact of our lives be rooted in reverence, not destruction.

Faith is not about having everything figured out. It is a signpost pointing in a direction we want to go, a direction that leads to discovery, delight, hard work, and service.

Professor Kohn wrote an eloquent account of his life story for the Nobel Prize award which you can read at Walter Kohn Life Summary for Nobel Prize

* Vienna, How the City of Ideas Created the Modern World, by Richard Cockett

**https://todayinsci.com/K/Kohn_Walter/KohnWalter-Quotations.htm#google_vignette

Useful Flemish Proverbs

Before A. I. meant “Artificial Intelligence,” it could have stood for something even more amazing: “Artistic Imagination.” This appears when human beings feel a desire to express something important and use their natural creative abilities and skills to bring into being a song, an image, or a story. Sometimes such creations are meant to be divine offerings. Sometimes they are meant for human entertainment or amusement. And sometimes they may be a combination of the two.

I have written before about the famous Flemish painter from the 1550s, Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Recently I came across one of his works that I had never paid attention to: “Flemish Proverbs.” Flemish was the dialect of Dutch spoken in Flanders, the northern region that is now part of Belgium. Bruegel gathered 126 folk sayings about everyday life that were popular in his time and painted a simple illustration of each one, then arranged them in an imaginary village scene. He didn’t share a list of what sayings he was illustrating, leaving it to viewers to try to figure it out. (Perhaps a forerunner of “Where’s Waldo.”) Fortunately, scholars who know the language, culture and history of that time have decoded the images and matched them to the sayings.

Some of those incorporated in the painting are still in popular use: “Swimming against the tide,” “Banging one’s head against a brick wall,” and “Armed to the teeth.” Most have faded away. But I find pleasure in reading the list of sayings and seeing how Bruegel illustrated each one. I’ve chosen ten to share. I’ll introduce each one with an imaginary situation we could be in where the particular proverb might be fun to use.

Let’s say you know someone who planned to get something done, but it’s not working out as they expected. You could say, “That sure didn’t work.” Or you could say, “Well, you know the old Flemish proverb: ‘The herring does not fry here.'”

How about when you see someone trying to change a situation and you can tell they don’t have the resources they need? You could say, “You don’t have what it takes.” Or you can pose a question: “What can smoke do to iron?” (Both sayings refer to the same scene with smoke rising from the grill.)

What if you were invited to dinner but arrived late and discovered all the food was gone? “Well,” you could report, “By the time I got there, I found the dog in the pot.” (The dog is hard to see…he’s behind the man on the right…being sneaky, as smart dogs are.)

Maybe you know someone who always wants to talk about the same topic every time you are with them. Instead of telling a mutual friend, “Can’t he talk about anything else?” you could say, “He’s always gnawing on a single bone.”

Someone is aging and experiencing a decline in their ability to do everyday tasks. They tell you they can’t imagine why this is happening to them. You could say, “Of course this is what’s happening…you’re getting old! Get used to it!” But that’s a bit harsh. Instead, you could smile, put your hand gently on their shoulder, and say, “An old roof needs lots of patching up.”

Somebody is experiencing changes in their life which they think no one notices. You might say to them, “Don’t you know we can all see what’s going on?” But a nice way might be to mention the change that is occurring and say, “Well, you know, some things grow out the window.”

A person is having good things come their way, but you have a friend who resents this person’s good fortune. You could say, “What’s wrong — Are you jealous?” A Flemish option might be, “Are you unable to see the sun shine on the water?”

What if you are talking about someone who has taken on a venture or action most people know was very risky, and now that person is having serious problems? You could say, “They should have known better.” But if you’re speaking to someone who doesn’t mind off-color language, you could shake your head and comment, “Well, you know the old saying: ‘He who eats fire, craps sparks.'”

Let’s say someone is excited about something or someone after a first impression, and you are concerned they are going too fast. You want to caution them to be careful. You could say, “Slow down!” Or you could pass on some more colorful words of caution: “Remember, ‘horse droppings are not figs.'”

A final example. Perhaps you know someone who delights in sharing personal information about others. You could say, “That person is a real gossip.” But if you’re feeling a bit Flemish, you could phrase it more artfully: “There is someone who likes to blow in the ear.”

These are ten of 126 sayings that Bruegel heard in his day-to-day life, found amusing, and illustrated. He arranged them all into one large canvas which we are able to appreciate centuries later. We can see ourselves and people we know in what he has given us. We can also savor the entire scene as it portrays everyday life in all its absurdity, creativity, and delight. Not many would call this “religious art.” But if spirituality involves seeing life with reverence, how can we view “Flemish Proverbs” and not have a soft spot for humanity?

Notes: 1) Sometimes this painting is referred to as “Netherlandish Proverbs;” 2) To see an article that gives historic background, an index of all 126 proverbs and where to find each one in the painting, you can go to the Wikipedia site “Netherlandish Proverbs;” 3) To see a high-resolution image of the painting, you can go to Netherlandish Proverbs HIRes

Dolly and Wendell

In the closing days of August, two great Americans died: Dolly Parton, age 80, and Wendell Berry, age 92.

In some ways, they had much in common. They were from the same part of the country — Dolly’s roots were in the “hollers” of Tennessee and Wendell’s in the hills of nearby Kentucky. They both carried with them an appreciation of rural values and a powerful blend of humility and pride. And they both expressed personal truths in a way that spoke to us all.

As best as I can determine, they never met.

I never saw Dolly in person, but like so many, grew to appreciate her art, her persona, and what she stood for. She honored her upbringing and used her fame and fortune to help others. She welcomed every person she encountered. She always took the stage with joy and purpose. As a music critic friend of mine noted this week, “The nation — nay, the universe — has lost one of its great lights and levelers.” [i]

In contrast, I knew Wendell Berry to be a shy man. I saw him in person on three occasions: in 1986 at the Campbell Farm in Washington where we were volunteers, in 1993 at the dedication of a local community-supported agriculture project, and several years later as part of an “Environmental Poetry” series at UCSB.

There have been many tributes to each of them in recent days. I have nothing to add to honor Dolly. But I do want to offer something to honor Wendell.

This week I looked back over my blog posts and discovered I’d written about him eight different times. I decided to share two selections.

What Young People Need

When he spoke at UCSB, he read from a novel he was working on, Jayber Crow. This was followed by a question-and-answer period. Someone asked if, given his dedication to family farms, gardening should be a required subject in high school. Berry paused for a minute, then said, “No, students should read Homer and the Bible, because they need to know the problems they are facing are not new.”

What Jayber Crow Understood

I bought the novel Wendell had read from soon after it came out in 2000. Jayber grows up in the small town of Port William. Early in life, he felt a possible calling to ministry and attended seminary but became disillusioned and left. He returns to Port William and becomes the town barber, gravedigger and church custodian. From these vantage points he witnesses people’s lives unfolding. In one passage, he’s sitting at the back of the church during a service. The young visiting preacher is a fire-and-brimstone kind of guy, and Jayber reflects on those he’s encountered who see the world from that perspective:

…They learned to have a very high opinion of God and a very low opinion of His works — although they could tell you that this world had been made by God Himself.

What they didn’t see was that it is beautiful, and that some of the greatest beauties are the briefest. They had imagined the church, which is an organization, but not the world which is an order and a mystery. To them the church did not exist in the world where people earn their living and have their being, but rather in the world where they fear death and Hell, which is not much of a world. To them, the soul was something dark and musty, stuck away for later. In their brief passage through or over it, most of the young preachers knew Port William only as it theoretically was (“lost”) and as it theoretically might be (“saved”) and they wanted us all to do our part to spread this bad news to others who had not heard it — the Catholics, the Hindus, the Muslims, the Buddhists, and others — or else they (and maybe we) would go to Hell. I did not believe it. They made me see how cut off I was. Even when I was sitting in the church, I was a man outside.

In Port William, more than any place I had ever been, this religion that scorned the beauty and goodness of this world was a puzzle to me. To begin with, I don’t think anybody believed it. I still don’t think so. Those world condemning sermons were preached to people who, on Sunday mornings, would be wearing their prettiest clothes. Even the old widows in their dark dresses would be pleasing to look at. By dressing up on the one day when most of them had leisure to do it, they signified their wish to present themselves to one another and to Heaven looking their best. The people who heard those sermons loved good crops, good gardens, good livestock and work animals and dogs; they loved flowers and the shade of trees, and laughter and music; most of them could make you a fair speech on the pleasures of a good drink of water or a patch of wild raspberries. While the wickedness of the flesh was preached from the pulpit, the young husbands and wives and the courting couple sat thigh to thigh, full of yearning and joy, and the old people thought of the beauty of the children. And when church was over they would go home to Heavenly dinners of fried chicken, it might be, and creamed new potatoes and creamed new peas and hot biscuits and butter and cherry pie and sweet milk and buttermilk…

…The people didn’t really want to be saints of self-deprivation and hatred of the world. They knew that sooner or later the world would deprive them of all it had given them, but they still liked it. What they came together for was to acknowledge, just by coming, their losses and failures and sorrows, their need for comfort, their faith always needing to be greater, their wish (in spite of all words and acts to the contrary) to love one another and to forgive and be forgiven, their need for one another’s help and company and divine gifts, their hope and experience of love surpassing death, and their gratitude. (162-163)[ii]

The first time I read this passage, it brought tears to my eyes. It captures why I have felt privileged to serve all my congregations. It’s never been about promoting any particular doctrine or instilling fear. Instead, it’s been about practicing a down-to-earth reverence for all of us “ordinary” people trying to live our “ordinary” lives with grace and care. Wendell described what I have always felt but did not have the words to express. I think Dolly would know exactly what he was talking about. I’m grateful to them both.

[i] “Goodbye, Dolly,” Joe Woodard, Santa Barbara Independent, September 3, 2026

[ii] What Jayber Crow Understood

The Sirens’ Song

This week I saw Christopher Nolan’s new movie, “The Odyssey.”

As the movie unfolded, I did my best to try to compare Nolan’s version with what I remember from reading the original epic some years ago. One surprise for me was how he portrayed the encounter of Odysseus with the Sirens.

Odysseus has led his men through many challenges as he returns home after the Trojan War. At one point, the ship must pass by an outcropping of rock where the Sirens live. As legend has it, the Sirens are mythic female figures who sing to passing sailors with a “honeysweet sound,” enticing them to abandon their vessel and join them — but anyone who does will drown. Odysseus has his crew plug their ears with wax so they will not be tempted. But Odysseus wants to know what can be so dangerously compelling. He has his crew bind him to the mast and agree not to release him until the ship is safely past, no matter what he might say to them.

A storm is raging as the ship comes near the island and the Sirens begin to sing. Odysseus feels the power of their call, but the ropes restrain him. This is Matt Damon’s expression during his experience:

The ship passes through the storm and beyond the Sirens’ voices to safety.

Over the centuries, many readers have assumed the Sirens’ power comes from musically arousing the most irresistible human desires. But Nolan offers us something else.

After Odysseus is released, one of his men asks him what he heard. In the theater I heard some of what he says, but it went by quickly. I made a mental note to find the exact words when I had a chance.

Two days later, on a website dedicated to the movie I found this excerpt from the script:

“Eurylochus: What was the song of the sirens like?

Odysseus: All the things you want it to be. Then, all the things you wished you never wished for. It was the delicious itch you go to scratch but find it’s under the skin. You can’t reach it. So the delicious itch becomes unbearable. Told you what you most want, is what you most can’t have.
And what you most can’t have, is what you already had, and lost. It was the song of all the promises I failed to keep. And it told me I don’t really want to go home.” *

I found myself rereading these words carefully. It seemed the sentences could be read as pairs, and each pair describes some of our deepest feelings. What did he hear in the song?

“All the things you want it to be. Then, all the things you wished you never wished for.” What would it be like to feel everything you’ve wanted in your life compressed into one moment? And at the same time, feel all the regrets you have accumulated about past desires?

“It was the delicious itch you go to scratch but find it’s under the skin. You can’t reach it. So the delicious itch becomes unbearable.” You reexperience all this and there is no release.

“Told you what you most want, is what you most can’t have. And what you most can’t have, is what you already had, and lost.” I first thought this is just another reminder of remembering a lifetime of unfulfilled desires. But “…what you most can’t have, is what you already had, and lost” is something more. We feel the pain of knowing again all the things we once had but now have lost – people we’ve loved, our youth, opportunities we missed in years gone by, and past decisions we’d make differently.

“It was the song of all the promises I failed to keep. And it told me I don’t really want to go home.” The intense memories continue and now include our personal failures. Perhaps this last sentence suggests that, knowing his shortcomings and pain so vividly, maybe he doesn’t deserve to go home.

No wonder he is in anguish as he experiences the power of all those desires and regrets.

If the story ended there, it would be a depressing drive home.

But the movie doesn’t end here. As his journey continues, Odysseus seems to find a new sense of peace. He’s faced a lifetime of pain and regrets in one intense cathartic experience. He does not abandon hope or give up on himself. He heard the song, felt the feelings, and survived. He can now move toward his life’s completion in peace.

As life goes on, memories of unfulfilled desires and regrets may rise and call to us. If we had to experience them welling up inside us all at once like Odysseus, maybe we’d let out our own primal scream. But we are not on that ship and there are no Sirens calling to us. We can let such feelings and memories arise within us as they may do. Instead of making us desperate, we can meet them with self-compassion, love, and forgiveness. And then let them go.

Lead Image: Red-figure stamnos with Odysseus and the Sirens, 480-470 BCE, British Museum

*https://www.imdb.com/title/tt33764258/quotes/?_ssoLoop=1