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.

Spiritual Lessons from a Disaster: Reflections on the Fourth Anniversary of the Montecito Debris Flow

Shortly after 3 AM on January 9, 2018, an intense downpour fell on the foothills above Montecito. Just a month before, the Thomas Fire had incinerated the native vegetation. These factors combined to create a geological force I’d never witnessed: a “debris flow.”

A debris flow is a fast-moving mass of material — slurries of water, rock, soil, vegetation, and even boulders and trees – that moves downhill by sliding, flowing and/or falling. …Debris flows range from a few square yards to hundreds of acres in area, and from a few inches to 50 feet deep.[i]

In the hours following the rain burst, the debris flow grew as high as 15 feet as it surged down the canyons at speeds up to 20 miles per hour. It consumed everything in its path. Huge sandstone boulders were swept along like ping pong balls. It uprooted dozens of oak trees and obliterated buildings. The fast-moving wall of mud and debris became a liquid battering ram as it headed toward the sea.

It happened in the darkness of night, so there is no video record of what it looked like. It wasn’t until morning that the extent of the destruction began to be understood.

As it turned out, 23 people died, 2 were never accounted for, and 163 were hospitalized. More than 100 homes were destroyed and more than 300 damaged. Highway 101 was closed for two weeks.

I was Director at La Casa de Maria Retreat and Conference Center at the time. La Casa was on a 26-acre parcel adjacent to the San Ysidro Creek and in the direct path. 14 acres of our historic property were wiped clean by the flow. Nine buildings disappeared, including the two-story administration building that had been designed to withstand floods and earthquakes. Crushed oak trees were everywhere.

The flow propelled a large boulder through the wall of the historic chapel, filling it with mud and broken furniture. The crucifix, calm and still as it overlooked the scene, was untouched; photos of it went viral. For many people the chapel scene became an image of both tragic destruction and transcendence amid suffering.

It quickly became clear that we would not be able to operate again. Our staff of 45 was cut by two-thirds as we began to assess our future. More layoffs soon followed. Eventually, a decision was made to completely shut the facility down until a later date. I retired that summer.

In the weeks after the event, I walked the property, trying to fathom all that had happened. I looked for lessons I could draw from this experience. I came up with four.

Embrace Environmental Humility Modern industrial culture has assumed it can do whatever it pleases, “taming” nature if nature gets in the way. We build homes wherever we want, consume natural resources as quickly as we please, and assume we’ll find technological fixes for any problem. This arrogance is no longer viable. We must return to a state of mind where we revere and respect the natural forces and ecosystems we are part of and live our lives accordingly.

Invest in Friendships and Community Whether it’s floods, wildfires or COVID, one of the keys to survival is support found in friends, family, neighbors, and communities. Hundreds of people sent messages of concern and pledges of support to La Casa – never before had we realized how much the property meant to so many. As David Brooks has said, our fragmented digital life shapes us into isolated individuals, but we can resist that trend; instead we can “overinvest in friendships.” In frightening and challenging times, it’s other people we need — we need each other. Treasure your friends and neighbors every day.

Go Deep and Reach for Unity As a pastor and hospice administrator, I have witnessed ways people face mortality many times. If people have time to reflect, they often go deep within themselves and discover what really matters in life. This frequently becomes a spiritual quest. When people do clarify their deepest beliefs and values, they often experience not only a sense of inner peace, but also a new appreciation for both nature and other people. Sitting alone outside in the afternoon, a slight breeze passes, and it feels like a sign of grace. The person who comes to our door to help can seem like an angel. What is true for our individual experiences is also true when we face disasters. When we find our spiritual core, we begin to see other people, including strangers, as members of our human family.

Become Determined to Claim Your Integrity Several years ago I read a piece by a Navy Seal who helped other vets get through PSTD experiences. He believed we have an option when we face hardship. Do we ask, “How will this affect me?” and passively let circumstances determine who we become? Or do we say, “Facing these challenges, how can I respond in a way that will help me become the person I want to be?” After the debris flow, all of us who loved and served La Casa became determined to see it rebuild and reopen because we knew how valuable it was to so many. I now participate with a group that is working tomake that happen. We hope La Casa will emerge stronger than ever after enduring so much.

Embracing environmental humility, investing in friendships and community, going deep and reaching for unity, and a determination to claim our integrity – these are the lessons I learned from the Montecito debris flow.

We have entered the climate change era, regularly facing wildfires, floods, and disasters of all kinds, as well as the COVID pandemic. I believe these four lessons can help us find our way through it all.

Sadako Peace Garden, La Casa de Maria, January 2018

Dear Reader: Any thoughts about what helps us get through disasters? Please join the discussion and leave a comment. Always interesting to hear from you! — Steve

[i] https://www.conservation.ca.gov/index/Pages/Fact-sheets/Post-Fire-Debris-Flow-Facts.aspx

Celebrating the Light, Wherever It Appears

In 2006, I went on a personal pilgrimage to Amsterdam and Paris. Art had increasingly become a source of inspiration and revelation for me, and I wanted to know more. I was not disappointed.

In the Van Gogh Museum bookstore in Amsterdam, a book caught my attention: Van Gogh and Gaugin: The Search for Sacred Art, by Deborah Silverman. I ordered a copy when I got home and found it fascinating. Silverman explores how both artists sought new ways to experience and portray the presence of the sacred. They came from different backgrounds –Van Gogh from a pious Dutch Reformed tradition, Gaugin schooled in Catholic mysticism – and both created their own style. But they shared a common purpose.

Van Gogh’s The Church at Auvers is one of his many fascinating works when viewed from this perspective.

Here’s a common interpretation: “The foreground of The Church at Auvers is brightly lit by the sun, but the church itself sits in its own shadow, and ‘neither reflects nor emanates any light of its own…’” Van Gogh had become disillusioned by the “empty and unenlightened preaching” he had heard too often. Painting became a way to seek and share spiritual truth and energy found beyond the walls of any religious building — in the light and colors all around us.[i]

This painting, then, suggests the sacred is best found outside the church and its buildings – in the glory of the blue sky, in the light that illuminates ordinary paths and landscapes, and perhaps even within the private thoughts of the anonymous villager passing by.

I get the point. In modern times, religious institutions can often seem irrelevant. Fewer and fewer people participate in worshipping communities. I’ve attended my share of worship services that left me feeling more discouraged than inspired. I appreciate seeing what Van Gogh sees, and not being limited in any way in my search for the sacred.

But as I thought about The Church at Auvers this week, I realized my perspective on it has shifted. Not everything that occurs behind such walls takes place in dull shadows.

I’ve heard some terrific, life-changing sermons in my day. Many times, hymns and songs moved me in ways that words cannot. Within such walls, I’ve met many ordinary people who carry light within them, who gratefully gather with each other and form strong, vibrant communities.

And I’m not just talking about experiences in my own tradition.

I’ve attended Torah studies at my local synagogue where everyone fearlessly wrestles with ancient stories and timeless questions, uncovering fresh insights into contemporary life.

I’ve listened to and meditated with Buddhist teachers who have helped me see life in new ways.

I’ve sat in mosques in Jerusalem, Hebron, and Goleta where I felt a strong, quiet sense of reverence.

These experiences happened “inside” institutional walls, but there was nothing dull about them.

In essence, I don’t feel we have to choose being inside or outside these walls to find spiritual light.

I remember years ago attending a mass in Yakima, Washington where the priest said, “We don’t come to church to experience God. We can experience God every day of the week. We come to church to celebrate what we’ve found.”

I’m grateful for all the experiences I’ve had — inside and outside spiritual buildings — that have instructed, inspired, challenged, delighted, and nurtured me.

May we each find the light we need in this new year, wherever it may be.

[i] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Church_at_Auvers

The Nativity: A Hospital Epiphany and Three Works of Art

In September of 2017, I went to Cottage Hospital to see our newborn grandson. This was during the first year of our former President’s time in office. I must have heard some distressing news item as I drove to the hospital — I remember walking down the hallway toward “Labor and Delivery”, feeling despondent. I came to the nursery. There were seven or eight newborns snug in their blankets, sleeping in basinets. I took a moment to look at each one. I remember hearing these words: “Steve, you may feel discouraged about the world right now, but get over it. These innocent children deserve a chance in this world. Stop moping and do your part.”

In a recent post I included a comment from a friend of David Brooks. As she held her infant for the first time, she realized “I love this child more than evolution can explain.”
Endless songs, carols, poems, sermons, Christmas cards and works of art have been inspired by the story of the birth of Jesus. There are three images I want to share with you today – two photographs and a painting.

In 2009, the Guardian asked nine artists to reimagine the nativity in contemporary society. The photographer Tom Hunter submitted this piece. The lighting and pose reflect classic manger scenes, especially from the Renaissance. But Jesus was born in a perilous time, and his parents had to flee their homeland to preserve his life. Having the mother and child be Somali refugees makes the social context of the birth clear.

This “Nativity” was created in 1865 by Julia Margaret Cameron. She began her artistic career at age 48 when her daughter gave her a camera; she became a pioneer in portrait photography. Some critics thought she was overly sentimental, but I like her work. This “Nativity” isn’t staged as a manger scene, but simply portrays a working-class family with an infant. And who is the mother embracing? A sibling? A cousin? Or an angel?

We close with the visionary “Mystical Nativity” by Botticelli, created in 1501. Here’s the scene at the center of the canvas:

Boticelli, “Mystical Nativity,” close-up, 1501

Joseph may be sleeping, the baby is reaching for his mother, and Mary is adoring her child as animals stand quietly in the rear. But Botticelli imagined a scene beyond ordinary sight, where the meaning of the birth is celebrated:

Angels are everywhere…embracing each other at the bottom, drawing close to the manger in the center, and joining hands in a circle dance at the top. There’s no suggestion that Joseph and Mary can sense their presence in this moment, but, as viewers, we are invited to see it all.

Botticelli apparently painted this at a time of great anxiety in Florence. Political leadership was in an upheaval and some prophets proclaimed the end of the world was near. Perhaps this is the message: no matter what challenges we face in the world, the birth of this child represents the appearance of light amid darkness, and is reason for great rejoicing.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness shall not overcome it.”

May we honor the birth of every child as a sacred event, and accept the responsibility of creating a better world on their behalf.

Spiritual Guardians: Carpenters, Mentors and Drummers

This month I’m exploring several traditional Christmas stories and sharing with you insights I’ve discovered. This involves looking beyond the surface of the original story and seeking a symbolic or “soul meaning” that might be there.

We started with Mary’s story, and I offered Thomas Merton’s revelation that we all have a “pure point” within us. We followed Mary as she went to visit her pregnant cousin Elizabeth and reflected on the importance of spiritual friendship. This week we turn to Joseph.

As the tradition tells us, Joseph was engaged to Mary. When he found out she had become pregnant, he was going to respectfully annul the contract. But he had a dream in which he’s encouraged to make a different choice. He’s told the child Mary carries is from God and has a great destiny awaiting. This woman and child need him. Joseph wakes, thinks about his dream, and comes to a decision. He will marry her after all.

Mary’s been asked by a divine messenger to bear a child. Joseph is being asked to step beyond the social norms or obligations and protect Mary and the child. It’s more than traditional parenting — it’s extending oneself to be a guardian of someone for whom you have no legal obligation.

Once the child is born, Joseph continues to protect mother and child. Led by more of his dreams, they flee to Egypt to escape persecution, returning home only when it is safe. We’re told Joseph was a carpenter. He’s mentioned once more when Jesus is 12, but then disappears from the story. He never says a word.

For me, Joseph can be a symbol of many people who choose to become spiritual guardians for people in need.

I can think of many people I’ve seen take on such a role over the years. Adoptive and foster parents. Volunteers at Boys and Girls clubs. Mentors and sponsors of all kinds.

At Hospice of Santa Barbara, we had a program known as “I Have a Friend.” Children who’d lost a parent were paired with an adult who had also lost a parent when young. The two would get together once a week to take walks, do homework, or share a meal. Over time these relationships had a profound effect on both the child, who now had a role model for how to survive such the loss, and the adult, who had a chance to give a young person guidance they had not had themselves.

And one person who comes to mind is Mike Ray.

I first met Mike in a hospital room when his father was dying. I spent time with him and his family planning the service, but we never really connected.

Time passed. One Sunday morning Mike showed up at my church. He had a light in his eye and smile on his face. When I asked how he’d been doing, he simply said he’d had a spiritual awakening. He started coming every Sunday. He offered to lead a band for us, which he did. He and his wife became regular coordinators for serving a monthly meal at Transition House, a special program supporting homeless families.

Over time I learned more about Mike. Born in 1943, he said he had not been a great student because he was constantly distracted — always tapping his foot, counting out beats, and dreaming of music. He became a drummer. As a young adult, he played in a variety of different groups at clubs and concerts. But as he got older and began a family, the lifestyle no longer worked. So, he opened a drum shop.

Mike’s Drum Shop was more than a place that sold instruments. It became a music school and a gathering place for many young people. Teenagers who did not have a stable home life would show up often, and Mike took them under his wing. He also volunteered countless hours teaching music in local schools throughout the county. His shop was an institution in town for more than 40 years.

Mike lived with Parkinson’s his last 23 years but never lost the glint in his eye.

He died in 2018 at age 77. There was a memorial service in Texas near his family. A few months later, I was asked to lead a local gathering at Mulligan’s Café.

The room was packed. As different people stepped forward to speak, they all had a similar story: Mike had noticed them when they came to his shop. He saw potential in them. If they needed a job, he’d find them one. If they didn’t have money to buy instruments, he’d work something out. One speaker said Mike co-signed on a car for him, which he desperately needed to get to his gigs.

One fellow told us he had come to Santa Barbara when he was four years old with his recently divorced father. They lived in a one-bedroom apartment and knew no one. One afternoon they were walking down the street and heard drums. The boy followed the sound, and the father followed the son. They walked into Mike’s Drum Shop and met Mike. Mike saw how important music was for the young boy and told the dad his son could come by the store after school to help out, and Mike would watch over him. Mike gave him lessons. The young boy became a successful musician and entertainer. In fact, he told us he had just flown to Santa Barbara from Berlin where he was performing as a member of the Blue Man Group. He made the trip to honor Mike. He said he owed his career to Mike who had seen the potential in him.

Mike was more than a store owner or music instructor. He became a spiritual guardian for many young people and lived to see them flourish.

I give thanks for the many spiritual guardians in this world who go beyond routine expectations to protect, guide, and nurture others.

______

Image at top of post: Joseph’s Dream, by De La Tour

The Power of Spiritual Friendships: Thoughts and Images

Dear Reader,

For December, I’m turning my attention to the traditional readings of the Christmas story. These stories have inspired many artists, and I am including a sampling of images that invite us to imagine the story in new ways.

At a retreat years ago, I was shown how each story can be a rich source for spiritual psychology. Last week I began the process by considering the story of the angel Gabriel visiting Mary (Luke 1: 26-38). I suggested the “soul meaning” of the story is that the divine can be born within each one of us, and quoted Thomas Merton who described it as a “pure point” of brilliant light.

Now let’s pick up Mary’s story after Gabriel departs (Luke 1: 39-56).

Gabriel had told Mary her cousin Elizabeth was six months pregnant, despite being past the normal age of childbearing. This was a sign that surprising events were unfolding in other lives as well as Mary’s. Mary travels from Nazareth to Elizabeth’s house in the Judean hill country. Here’s how the Italian sculptor Luca dell Robbia imagined their initial encounter:

Here’s a close-up:

As Mary enters, the child within Elizabeth “leaps” in her womb. The Spirit reveals to Elizabeth that Mary’s child is a unique gift from God, and Elizabeth declares how honored she is to have Mary visit. Mary responds with her own declaration of what it means: “My soul magnifies the Lord…” The story reads like the script to a play or a musical, and is intended to convey truth and joy.

If you’re Catholic, the words the women exchange (for example, “…blessed is the fruit of thy womb…”) may be familiar from prayers you were taught when you were young. For many others, the story may be unfamiliar.

But if we look for the “soul meaning” of the story, here’s what I see. Two people have an unexpected personal spiritual experience. They carry within them a new spark of life that’s both a mystery and a wonder. Who can they tell? Who can they trust? Not everyone will understand. The scene is about finding a soul mate, a spiritual friend. They form a bond that transcends their age difference.

A spiritual friendship is similar to other types of meaningful relationships in many ways. What makes it unique is that, at its core, it’s about nurturing a life force that reaches beyond the private lives of just two people. Mary and Elizabeth are giving birth to children (Jesus and John the Baptist) who will have a profound effect on the life of others. Each person benefits from the friendship, but the positive effect of their relationship goes beyond just the two of them.

Here’s a close-up of Rembrandt’s version of the scene:

Elizabeth is looking up, perhaps describing the inspiration she’s having. Mary listens affectionately to her older cousin.

The scene has been envisioned through different cultural lenses. Here’s one by a Vietnamese folk artist:

This is how the contemporary American feminist artist Janet McKenzie portrays the scene; the women’s attention is turned inward:

However we imagine it visually, the story of Elizabeth meeting Mary affirms the bond we feel when we find a friend with whom we can share the experiences of our spiritual life.

I’ve known many young women who have come to church and ended up forming bonds with older women who’ve become treasured mentors.

I’ve found my own mentors in older men in my congregations, and am greatful for the wisdom they’ve passed on.

I’ve seen many groups in which people form bonds that go beyond gender and age.

I remember well the first intergenerational spiritual group in which I participated. We were newly married with our first child on the way. I had never been in a spiritual study group before and was apprehensive when I first walked in. There were maybe 15 people of varied ages, gender, and backgrounds. Each week we’d simply read a passage and reflect on what it might mean in our lives; everyone took a turn, and everyone listened respectfully. At the close, people offered simple prayers for each other. I particularly remember the oldest member of the group, a widow named Edith, who humbly shared lessons she’d learned in her life. It was exciting. The insights were powerful. The bonds we formed continued long after we moved away.

All spiritual traditions emphasize the importance of community: a sangha in Buddhism, an ummah in Islam, a shul in Judaism. The power of the recovery movement lies not only in the 12 Steps themselves, but also in the regular meetings. Many people I know who’ve suffered the loss of loved ones have described hospice support groups as “lifesaving.” Such groups and friendships can get us through the hardest of times.

Let’s close with a famous work by the Italian Renaissance artist Pontormo. I was able to see it in person at the Getty in 2018 after being fascinated by it for many years. I don’t pretend to understand all the artistic subtleties. Here’s the full painting:

…and here’s a close-up:

The two women are looking deeply into each other’s eyes. You sense a spiritual bond, a deep knowing and appreciation. And there’s that mysterious central figure who is looking right at us. What does she want us to know? What is she inviting us to be part of?

In this gift-giving holiday season, let’s be grateful for the gift of our “soul friends” with whom we share our joys and sorrows, our burdens and our hopes.

The Spiritual Point of Conception: Reflections and Images

Is there an invisible “place” within you in which feelings and thoughts appear that seem different from your everyday thoughts? Something like a “still, small voice” that surprises you at important moments, offering insight, encouragement, or maybe an invitation to do something new?

I am going to explore this “place” by focusing on a figure whose story is very much a part of the Christmas season: Mary, the mother of Jesus. I’ll share reflections from my journey, a famous passage from Thomas Merton, and six paintings spanning seven centuries which illustrate ways the story has been imagined visually.

Growing up we had a small plaster nativity set that we unpacked this time of year. The Mary figurine was painted blue and white; she was kneeling and had acquired a few chips. But she had no personal meaning for me.

In my mid-twenties, my spiritual journey had begun, and I spent three years earning a Master of Divinity degree at Princeton Theological Seminary. You’d think if you became a “Master of Divinity” you would learn all the important things. But that wasn’t the case.

After graduation, I became interested in “the inner life”. I discovered the work of the psychologist Carl Jung and gained an appreciation for truths that come through dreams, visions, myths, and imagination. Biblical stories became richer. I began practicing meditation, times of silence, and journaling. I went on retreats at monasteries and became curious about the Catholic tradition.

A new world was opening, and the figure of Mary emerged. Most of the debates about her had focused on being the “virgin” mother of Jesus. What fascinated me had nothing to do with sex, biology, miracles, or doctrines, but something else – how Mary can be a rich metaphor for spiritual experience.

As the story goes, the angel Gabriel appears unexpectedly one day, telling her she is favored by God and chosen to bear Jesus. She is afraid and questions how this could happen. Gabriel assures her anything is possible for God. She ponders her choices. She decides to accept a role she did not seek or imagine, one that will create many challenges for her. “Let it be to me…” she says. The angel disappears. Her life unfolds.

I know people of good faith who believe the story is completely factual, and others who do not. My practice over the years is to honor both perspectives and look for the soul meaning of the story, which is more like interpreting a vivid dream than performing scientific or historical research. I often think of a quote attributed to Black Elk: “This they tell, and whether it happened so or not I do not know, but if you think about it, you can see that it is true.”

So what’s the “soul meaning” of Mary’s story?

Imagine this: a thought appears within us that has a different quality than our everyday thoughts. It can feel like a message sent specifically to us. We consider it. We know we are free to ignore it. But we decide to trust it and change direction in our life. The change may not make life easier – in fact it may mean taking on challenges and responsibilities we had not sought before. But as time goes on, we are grateful for the change we made. We remember the moment we received the message and realize it came with love and wisdom. We feel awe, and we feel gratitude

Thomas Merton was one of the great spiritual writers of our time. At one point in his life, he had a profound revelation: Mary’s story is ultimately about how the divine can be born in everyone. All of us, Merton saw, have within us a pointe vierge, a virgin point:

“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness

which is untouched by sin and by illusion,

a point of pure truth,

a point or spark which belongs entirely to God,

which is never at our disposal,

from which God disposes of our lives,

which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind

or the brutalities of our own will.

This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty

is the pure glory of God in us …

It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven.

It is in everybody,

and if we could see it

we would see these billions of points of light

coming together in the face and blaze of a sun

that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely …

I have no program for this seeing.

It is only given.

But the gate of heaven is every- where.”[i]

I’ve had experiences that lead me to believe Merton is right. There is something deep within us that is “pure,” an opening to another reality that is “inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will.”

I’ve had promptings that didn’t seem to come from the same inner source that talks to me all day long. These promptings always surprise me. They’ve offered me new possibilities I had not imagined or wanted; over time I find I’m being led into a deeper experience of life and service.

I’ve witnessed such experiences in the lives of many parishioners over the years who, after long periods of struggle and uncertainty, find a peace, calling or insight that surpasses their understanding.

In hospice work, I’ve seen people discover unexpected clarity about life that has nothing to do with what they are supposed to believe, but is fresh and authentic.

Working at the La Casa de Maria Retreat Center (“The House of Mary”), I saw people of many backgrounds find healing, hope, and courage when they left distractions behind and settled into a calmer, more receptive and reverent state of awareness. The new directions did not come from personal fantasies or restless will, but something deeper, an inner light that is subtle and wondrous and real.

We can’t control or predict when such points of light appear. As Merton says, “I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is every- where.”

Hail, Mary, full of grace.

[i] Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

Imagining The Annunciation: A Sampling from Art History

Van Eyck, 1434 Notice the colors in the angel wings; Mary does not “see” the messenger directly, but experiences it during a private moment of devotion.

Boticelli, 1485: The spiritual rays of light seem to be driving the angel forward.

Hitchcock, 1887 I first saw this at the Art Institute of Chicago and found it fascinating. Mary is alone in a field of white lillies.

Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1898 The “angel” is a column of light

Salvador Dali, 1947 — perplexing to me…what do you see?

Imagining the story in an African context

Reflections on Grief, Gratitude, and Maturity

My dear friend Father Larry Gosselin recently posted a quote from Francis Ward Weller, a therapist and grief counselor. I want to share it and a few of my own reflections.

The work of the mature person

Is to carry grief in one hand

And gratitude in the other

And to be stretched large by them.

How much sorrow can I hold?

That’s how much gratitude I can give.

If I carry only grief, I’ll bend toward cynicism and despair.

If I have only gratitude, I’ll become saccharine

And won’t develop much compassion for other people’s suffering.

Grief keeps the heart fluid and soft,

Which makes compassion possible.

At times in my life, I’ve been asked who my “spiritual heroes” are. My response: the many older people I’ve known in my congregations. They’ve lived through hard times and personal tragedies, but somehow have become calm, thoughtful, and caring.

To this I’d add Hospice volunteers who’ve experienced the loss of people they loved, then followed a calling to simply be present with others living in times of fear and unknowing.

Of course, maturity doesn’t always come with the accumulation of age; some young people have unusual wisdom and insight. We call them “old souls.”

I’m wary of simplistic formulas for life. I distrust promises that we can be happy all the time if we just make the right effort.

I’ve known people who have lost loved ones in ways that will always haunt me, and I don’t know how they bear it.

I do not believe there is a divine pain manager who sends suffering our way to improve our character.

Eleven years ago, I participated in a retreat at Esalen with the great mystic and global spirituality scholar, Huston Smith. He was 91 and physically frail. I remember him saying, “We are born in mystery, we live in mystery, we die in mystery.” He said those words with a full smile and clear light in his eyes.

Something is here that holds us.

____

Image: Close-up of “Return of the Prodigal” by Rembrandt

Tacos, Turkeys, and Table Grace

One of my most memorable meals was experienced at a construction site on the outskirts of Tijuana. It came to mind recently as we approach Thanksgiving.

Here’s the context.

My congregation’s high school group went on a service project trip organized by Amor Ministries south of the border. Like “Habitat for Humanity,” Amor specializes in building basic housing for poor families. The owners of the house are responsible for securing title to the lot, leveling it, and sharing in the construction as they were able. Amor’s part was organizing work teams of 15 volunteers and purchasing the concrete, lumber, and other necessary building materials. They had created a simple, foolproof 40-page manual that allowed volunteers to build a basic, 2-room home with a concrete foundation, solid framing, stucco exterior, a waterproof roof, two windows and a door — all in the space of four days, and without the use of power tools.

An important aspect of the Amor experience: volunteers had to live near the site in a secured campground that did not have electricity or running water. They’d sleep in tents, cook their own food and learn how to use a 2-gallon plastic bottle for showers. For some teenagers, the prospect of going without hair dryers, electronic games, and hot showers was frightening. But that was the commitment.

Another key theme was cultural sensitivity. The orientation and oversight provided by Amor focused on the principle that the volunteers were not noble Americans displaying compassion on poor Mexican people, but members of the same human family working side-by-side for the betterment of all.

Every trip I went on was inspiring. Teenagers learned they could build something important with their hands using good teamwork, manual labor and common sense. They found living without everyday luxuries liberating. And they got to know ordinary Mexican families.

One year we had two teams working near each other. One of the owners told us she and a neighbor wanted to prepare lunch for us on the final day as an expression of gratitude. We were concerned. She did not have a kitchen and there were more than 30 of us. But she assured us it would be fine.

That morning a friend came over and they began the process. They made more than six dozen tortillas by hand. They chopped the onions, cilantro, and tomatoes she had bought. On a small hibachi, they built a fire and cooked the beef. I remember thinking, “Is it possible to feed this many people with such limited resources?” As noon approached, everything was ready. We joined hands with our hosts and shared a prayer of thanksgiving. Then we ate.

I grew up in California and have eaten tacos all my life. Those tacos were among the best tacos I’ve ever had. We were quiet as we savored them, amazed at the quality of the food, how it had been prepared and what it meant.

What made the meal so memorable?

The tacos would have drawn raves from Anthony Bourdain and Julia Child.
The feast was prepared with joy and gratitude.
The experience of sharing it with our hosts created a human bond of affection that transcended language and culture.

I also have fond memories of interfaith potluck dinners involving Muslim, Jewish and Christian congregations. Everyone brought something special from their cultural traditions. Prayers were offered in different languages. The power of cross-cultural community was palpable – and the food was terrific.

One other setting for such feasts was the dining room at La Casa de Maria, the retreat center in Montecito where I served first as a board member and then Director. La Casa welcomed people of all backgrounds and spiritual traditions. Chef Rene was a culinary artist. He could bar-b-que hamburgers for a Catholic high school group one day and prepare a fabulous vegetarian meal for a Buddhist group the next. It was not unusual for several different groups to be going through the buffet line at the same meal – Narcotics Anonymous women, a farmworkers leadership team, a planning council of environmental activists, and participants in a mediation class. The guests came from different backgrounds and for different purposes. But they all raved about the food. They loved being at tables together. And in that room you could experience the power of diversity within a broader community.

We are approaching the Thanksgiving holiday. In America, that traditionally has meant a turkey dinner shared with family and friends. Wherever we will be, whatever we eat, and whoever we are with, may we be mindful of the varied feasts people share around the world. Some may focus on tacos and some on turkey, some with dahl and some with tabouli. But when delicious food is lovingly prepared, eaten in gratitude, and honoring all members of the human family, it’s more than a meal – it’s a table filled with grace.

Mom, Apple Pie, Technology and the Holidays

My mother had her share of hardships in life. Her first husband died only a few years after they married, leaving her with a young son and pregnant with my older sister. Not long after, her mother died suddenly. She met and married my father; I was born a few years later, my younger sister five years after that. Raising a noisy, blended family of four children while carrying within her the emotional burdens of trauma and grief made it hard for her to be “present” with us individually.

Except when she made apple pie.

I remember watching her from an early age. In time, I became old enough to participate. I learned how to peel, core, and slice the green Pippin apples with a paring knife. The peels were kept in a separate bowl and I would snack on them while we worked. She added sugar and cinnamon to the sliced apples and gave them time to absorb the flavors. She’d make the crust with Crisco, flour, and a few drops of water. She’d roll the dough and create the pie crusts she needed, pressing them into the pie plates. She’d add the apples, dot them with butter and a few drops of lemon juice, then seal them with the top crust. She taught me how to flute the edges of the crust with my fingers before the pie was put into the oven and to use a fork to poke venting holes on the top. The leftover dough was rolled out on the cutting board. She’d add sugar, cinnamon, and butter to it, then cut the dough into strips. She’d roll the strips into “pinwheels,” which would bake along with the pie. Pinwheels only took 10-12 minutes to bake. We’d take them out and let them cool, then enjoy them as the pie continued to bake. The kitchen filled with the smell of a baking apple pie.

My mom wasn’t a great cook, but she was a master at making pies. They were always a highlight of birthday and holiday dinners.

But as I got older, and especially after she died in 1993, I realized what I valued most was not the pies themselves, but the quality of time we shared during the process. Focusing on the manual labor allowed us to become calm and reflective. We listened to each other, laughed together, and simply enjoyed being together. I didn’t realize until I was older how rare and wonderful those times were. What a gift for a child to have such time with a parent!

Eventually, I found a word to describe such activities: “focal practices.” This is a term coined by Albert Borgman, a philosopher who has spent much of his career exploring the role of technology in our lives. The root of the word “focal” is focuser, a Latin word meaning hearth. In Roman families, everything was centered on the hearth. It was location of the family shrine, as it was where symbols of ancestors were carefully arranged and displayed. It’s where food was cooked, and where the family ate together. As Borgmann says, the hearth was where the family gathered to be present with each other and share what they most deeply valued. In our own times, focal practices can include preparing and sharing meals, going on walks and hikes, camping, playing games, crafts, fishing, building things, gardening, and sharing skills of all kinds. Engaging in such activities, we experience life at a deeper level. As Borgman says, focal practices both gather and radiate meaning.

Technological devices are a threat to such practices, he believes. Devices are objects that promise to give us what we want in a more effective way and with less effort. They always promise to save us time and labor. But something is lost when they displace focal practices.

Let’s imagine a device that makes perfect apple pies, like bread-makers make bread. You simply add the ingredients and push a button, and – voilà – a pie as good as mom’s appears. So effortless and convenient. But if we had that when I was a kid, I would have never learned the art of what she did, the satisfaction that came from doing it, or experienced the quality time we spent together. Pie-making was a focal practice. It did “take time”. But time is not an adversary to be conquered. Time is a gift to be received with gratitude.

As we approach the holidays, we can be grateful for memories of “focal practices” we’ve experienced in our past and seek opportunities to share such activities with family and friends this season.

As for me — I’m looking forward to the aroma of homemade pies baking in the oven.

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

_______

Borgman, Albert, Technology and the Character of Contemporary Life: A Philosophical Inquiry, University of Chicago Press, 1984; Crossing the Postmodern Divide, University of Chicago Press, 19

Three Insights from David Brooks

This past week I came across notes I had taken while attending two leadership conferences featuring New York Times columnist David Brooks. I’ve always respected David’s insights into culture and politics. But at these two events, David reflected on his personal journey. He said he had achieved everything he ever wanted in his professional life but felt his life had become increasingly empty. He began searching for clues as to what he was missing and shared with us some of his reflections. Here are three I want to share with you today

“Our culture treats us like brains on a stick.” As we spend more time in a digital world, enticed and tracked by Big Tech, we become disconnected and disembodied from nature and neighbors.

But, he noted, two of his friends had experiences that remind us there is another dimension of life.

One such moment happened in his friend’s kitchen. The friend had come downstairs and glanced out the kitchen window. Outside was a falcon on a branch. They looked into each other’s eyes – and kept looking –and it felt as if they were seeing into each other’s depths. Finally, the falcon flew away. The encounter changed his friend’s life.

Another friend told David a thought that surprised her. As she was holding her newborn daughter these words came to her: “I love this child more than evolution can explain.” Science and evolution explain so much about the world we live in. But there are moments, mystical moments, when we realize there is something more, something wonderful, something holy, and we are in the midst of it every day.

We are not meant to live “like brains on a stick.” Looking into the eyes of our fellow creatures and each other, we can wake up to the great mystery of life, which is tangible, unfathomable, and glorious.

Thank you, David, for sharing thoughts from your journey.