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.

When Compassion Isn’t Enough

As part of my work at Hospice of Santa Barbara, a group of us attended a week-long retreat at the Metta Institute in Marin County. The theme was “Cultivating Presence” and led by Frank Ostateski, an accomplished teacher of both Zen meditation and hospice care.

            In one of his talks, Frank focused on the traditional greeting in parts of Asia – “Namaste.”  You clasp your hands palm-to-palm in front of your chin and sometimes follow with a slight bow.  It had become well-known in the West through its frequent use as a way to close a yoga class and was often said to symbolize “I bow to the sacred in you.”  Frank had closed his classes with the familiar gesture, and as students we returned the blessing.

At one session, Frank focused on a deeper meaning “Namaste” can have. One hand can represent the virtue of compassion and the other hand wisdom. He went on to describe the importance of the two virtues always being combined. We may feel great compassion for someone and feel the impulse to take an action. However, actions arising from a genuine motive may have unintended consequences. Therefore, it is critical to evaluate the compassionate urge with patient and practical wisdom if we want to make the best choices.

            I thought this was very helpful and began to share this concept when I was doing the initial training session for hospice volunteers.  Many are led into hospice service out of a compassion for those who are dying, but it is critical we always seek to place that emotion in the presence of wisdom from trained staff and veteran volunteers.  I often used the following story as an illustration. 

            Once we had a very caring volunteer assigned to a low-income family where the father had died.  The volunteer had spent time with the young son in the afternoon and when he dropped the boy off back at home, realized the family had very little food. Moved by compassion and wanting to make a difference, he and a friend went to Costco and bought several hundred dollars’ worth of food for the family and dropped it off at the house.  Soon after, one of the family members called our staff member responsible for the case. They noted how appreciative they were but said they did not have sufficient refrigerated storage to keep so much food and were embarrassed it would be going to waste.  If the volunteer had run his idea by our trained staff member, he would have been affirmed for the impulse, but guided into an action that would better fit the situation.  The compassionate value needed to be matched by wisdom.

            I was reminded of the charge Jesus gives his disciples when he sends them out in pairs for the first time: “… so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” (Matthew 10:16).   The serpent was seen a very subtle and clever creature (it was not always identified as evil as it became in later tradition.)  Doves were seen as pure and often symbols for the divine spirit.  Jesus is saying: be open and trusting, but also be smart and strategic.

            I have thought of this many times in my life and career, which I have spent in religious and nonprofit communities.  It was always natural for me to approach any challenging situation with compassion and tact.  Many times, those values led to outcomes I felt good about.  But as time went on and my responsibilities grew, I encountered more complex situations where compassion and “innocence” alone were not enough. I benefited from practical wisdom from others who understood the complexity of organizational challenges and the need to make unpopular decisions that could be perceived as uncaring. When I was able to incorporate that wisdom, outcomes improved.  

            Anyone who has been involved in 12-step programs knows this well.  If someone you care about is struggling with addiction and they beg you for money or help, it is a natural reaction to meet their requests. But that can often make the situation worse.  You need the accumulated wisdom of the support group and the program to make the best choices.

            Caring, empathy, love and compassion are prized virtues.  But the best outcomes arise when they are blended with voices of experience and wisdom. Namaste!

What Jonas Salk Learned from Spilled Milk

         Years ago, after a junior high teacher in my congregation returned from an education conference, I asked if she’d learned anything memorable. She responded with a story she’d heard about Jonas Salk, the legendary scientist who created the polio vaccine.  As the story goes, someone asked Salk what helped him become successful.  He gave credit to his parents, saying that when he was growing up, he wasn’t scolded if he spilled milk.  Instead, his father would ask him, “What did you learn from that?” This made him unafraid to fail in his work – which happened in one experiment after another. But, unencumbered by negative self-judgment, he persevered and eventually developed the vaccine.

         It’s a question I’ve found very useful over the years.

         If I say or do something I regret, it’s easy to get angry with myself. My adrenaline rises along with feelings of self-doubt, and I can get entangled in an emotional thicket.  But if I pause, take a breath, and say to myself, “What did I learn from that?” – the adrenaline isn’t summoned.  Instead, I try to call forth a curious, inquiring mind.  If I take time for reflection, I may recognize patterns of behavior that were present and bring them to light. That, in turn, may help me truly learn something useful from a painful experience.

         It is a key concept in Buddhist mindfulness practice…we observe and accept the feelings we are experiencing but don’t identify or become attached to them. We try to cultivate a calm, non-judgmental perspective.

         It also resonates with Jesus’ teachings.  His followers were encouraged to embrace forgiveness freely.  That didn’t mean they were to evade personal responsibility.  Instead, they could look at themselves through the lens of the limitless love of God, which can liberate us from destructive self-judgment and the ever-present temptation to judge others. 

         “What did I learn from that?” can be useful in many situations.

         I’ve found it is a useful question in parenting.  If we are dealing with a decision one of my children made that has not turned out well, and the mood is right, I like to ask them,  “What did you learn from that?” and listen with respect and curiosity.

         In my role as a leader, I’ve found it’s an excellent question to ask an employee who has made a mistake, and to ask myself when something has not gone the way I had expected.  It’s also effective if the organization has been through a difficult time to pose the question for the staff: “What did we learn from that?”  

         Our country went through great turmoil in 2020. What did we learn from that?

         And COVID has exposed many vulnerabilities in our globalized lifestyle and systems.  Will we learn the many lessons it’s offering us?

          I invite you to keep this simple question close at hand as you go through your day and your week.  If a situation warrants it, try using it.  

         We can’t get the milk back in the glass, but we can always be learning.

What to do with a prize salmon?

What to do with a prize salmon?  The second congregation I served was in Wapato, Washington – a town of 3,000 with an 85% poverty rate. George Palmer was retired and drove an older white pick-up truck. An experienced tradesman, he liked to go around town and do household repairs for people who could not afford to have things fixed.  He took delight in his small white poodle, Taffy, and had built a special car seat for Taffy so that she could sit next to him and see where they were going.  George and Taffy would often stop by my office to visit.  

      He told me once about being a child at World Series time.  Radio broadcasts had not reached rural Washington yet, so everyone who wanted to follow the game would gather in downtown Yakima in front of the offices of the local newspaper, the Yakima Herald. There was a scoreboard with a baseball field painted on it, and as the office would get updates, an attendant would move figures around the field to show and post the scores.  He said it was exciting every time an update came, and the crowd would stand in the street to follow the games for hours.    

      George was also an accomplished fisherman, particularly for salmon.  One time we were talking about fishing and I asked him what the biggest fish was he ever caught.  He told he had been fishing with friends on the Columbia River, and he hooked what was clearly a huge salmon.  It took him some time to get it close enough that he could net it.  He said when it was within arms reach, he realized it was the most impressive fish he had ever seen.

      I said, “So what did you do with it?
      “Steve,” he said with a smile, “It was so beautiful I just had to let it go.”

      So much of our culture is about gaining control over things and making them our possession.  In that moment, I realized that perhaps the best thing we can do is to give thanks for a shining moment, and then let it go.

Siddhartha Visits a Nursing Home

The Four Passing Sights

      As a pastor, hospice worker, and someone who was involved in the long-term care of my father and mother-in-law, I have walked through the door of nursing homes many times.  At one point I realized the thoughts and feelings I (and many people) experience are something we share with that of Siddhartha Gautama before he became the Buddha, as is recounted in the story of the “Four Passing Sights.”

      There are different versions of the story goes, but one captures for me the connection with nursing homes.

      Siddhartha was born into a royal family.  His father wanted to protect him from the harsh realities of life and become a great king, and so had him live within a walled palace.  Within the palace, he never saw anyone suffer.

      But at age 29, he felt a need to venture outside the walls in his chariot, taking with him his charioteer Channa.  On the road he encountered four people.  

      The first was an old person, bent over and struggling to walk. This confused and disturbed Siddhartha.  Channa explained that aging was a natural stage of life.

      The second was a person who was sick.  Channa had to explain that our physical life does not last, and we are all subject to disease.

      The third was a corpse, decomposing by the road.  Channa had to explain to him that our lives will come to an end, and our dust will return to the dust of the earth.

      These three sights deeply disturbed his sense of well-being.  He wondered what kind of life this really is if we can become sick, old and dead.

      He then saw a fourth person walking in the same path in the presence of the same three people.  But this person was not avoiding the three, but seemed to be seeking to understand and live with clarity about these realities.  The fourth person was an ascetic, and Siddhartha became intensely curious as to what the ascetic was finding. 

      Siddhartha decided to leave his life of comfort and privilege and become an earnest spiritual seeker.  Seven years later, sitting under the Bo tree, he experienced enlightenment and became the Buddha.

      Our culture spends a great deal of energy blocking out the realities of sickness, aging and death.  But when we walk into a nursing home, those realities are inescapable.  There are people there who are sick. There are people who are too infirm to live on their own.  And there are people who are dying.

      When I see, smell and encounter these sights, my first reaction is fear and resistance, as my ego is faced with these truths.  But I am reminded that these patients were once healthy.  And I am reminded that if I don’t die suddenly, these realities will be mine as well.  I try to hold space, as we say, for the feelings of fear and flight, but then focus on the spiritual importance of love, compassion and wisdom. 

“Why me?”

The first congregation I served was one in which seven families had all experienced the death of a young son.  Just a few years before I arrived, the pastor’s son had been hiking with his best friend in the backcountry and accidentally fell to his death from a cliff.  Not long after, the friend was in a motorcycle accident and was in a coma for more than a year before he died.  The boy’s mother once told me that during much of that time, she was haunted by the question, “Why me?”  She could follow that question down many paths:  how could something so devastating happen in a family that had been so close and so loving?  What sense does it make for a promising young life to be cut short because of a slight misjudgment on a curve in the highway?

The sense of life’s unfairness compounded the pain of her grief and intensified the sense of isolation.  Then one day she was alone and in prayer, and new words came to her: “Why not me?”  The slight change in the phrase transformed the way she understood her suffering. She began realizing how many people have lost loved ones for reasons that make little sense.  It didn’t solve the riddle of life’s tragedies, but it did release her from her isolation.  Now she felt a bond with countless people.  

I’ve thought about her epiphany many times over the last 35 years, and in countless situations.  If you find yourself asking “Why me?” consider adding an extra word: “Why not me?”