Uncategorized – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

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

Playing the Cards We’ve Been Dealt

Recently I’ve known several people making important decisions in their life. Take a new job or keep the one you have? Stay in your small town or make a move to a big city? Folks who are getting on in years wonder, “Can I keep doing this activity or do I need to give it up?” “Shall I go forward with this recommended surgery or wait?” Meanwhile, I’m facing some of my own decisions. In the process, an old country song started playing on my inner personal jukebox: “The Gambler,” which was major hit for Kenny Rogers back in 1980. Here’s the chorus:

You’ve got to know when to hold ’em

Know when to fold ’em

Know when to walk away

And know when to run

You never count your money

When you’re sittin’ at the table

There’ll be time enough for countin’

When the dealin’s done.

Investigating the song’s history, I learned about the scene it imagines. Two strangers are riding a lonely train at night. The older fellow offers to tell the younger one the secret of life in exchange for some whiskey. The young guy accepts and hands him the bottle. The old timer tells him that getting through life is a lot like playing poker. “The gambler states that every situation can be played for better or worse. The trick is to recognize what is worth keeping, choose one’s battles, and not dwell on losses. After he finishes talking, the gambler crushes the cigarette out, and dies in his sleep during the night, leaving the narrator to ponder his wisdom alone.”^[i]

You’ve got to know when to hold ’em

Know when to fold ’em

Know when to walk away

And know when to run…

I have limited expertise playing cards. I mastered “Go Fish” by age 5 and later learned how to keep up with “Uno;” more challenging games such as bridge were beyond me. But my older brother taught me how to play poker when I was young, and when I got to college I enjoyed playing with friends. I appreciated the blend of luck, strategy, and acting that made for winning poker hands.

One of the life truths revealed in poker is reflected in the saying, “You’ve got to play the cards you’ve been dealt.” We say that when we look at a situation and realize we can’t change the facts, as much as we’d like. But a skillful poker player over time makes the best of whatever cards they have.

We know some people are born into families and situations with many advantages – financial and emotional security, for example. Others come into life with factors that make it difficult to feel safe or believe they’ve got much of a chance to do well. We also see examples of people born into wealth, privilege, and fame who have difficult and sometimes tragic lives. We don’t get dealt the same cards as everyone else — we all get different cards and must learn how to play them as best we can. In that truth, the old gambler was right. “The Gambler” meets the standard for every great country song: “Three chords and the truth.”

But as much as I like the song, I kept thinking about the message. For me it’s missing some key bits of wisdom.

One is the value in having a higher purpose beyond just playing to win for ourselves. Our personal experiences and strengths can help us find our way. But we can also use them to benefit other people.

I think of the many hospice volunteers I’ve known. Often, they have been through personal losses and tragedies and, over time, were able to heal. Having been through that, they felt a calling to help others who are facing the uncertainties of life and experience of grief. They don’t try to fix people but instead care for others with patience and reverence. They take the cards life has dealt them and play them in a way that helps others, and in the process find a sense of satisfaction not possible if they focusied only on themselves.

The same is true in recovery and mentoring programs, and many kinds of service.

Another missing element is the power that comes from being known and cared for by a force beyond ourselves. In many Gospel stories, Jesus is traveling from village to village, encountering a wide range of people. Some have an illness that makes them socially unclean and untouchable. Others have made poor choices in life and have assumed those decisions will define them forever. Others feel they are of little worth due to their gender, age, or ethnic background. Each of these characters hold certain cards in their hand and assume their disappointing lives are the product of bad luck and fate; these are the cards they deserve, and they’ll never have another chance. Why not “fold em” and give up? But Jesus comes, sees them, and engages them. He touches and heals people who are ill. He gives women and children honor and respect. He sits at tables to break bread with social rejects. In his actions and words, he offers each person a spiritual wild card — the wild card of grace. With this new card in their hand and heart, they can see new possibilities in their life and a new community where they are welcome. They discover that, “when the dealin’s done,” a winning hand is not how many chips we have stacked up for ourself, but how we’ve played the game and why.

Lead image: keepnaturewild.com

^[i] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gambler_(song)

Presence of Mind and the Search for Soul

Last week I shared personal thoughts on what it means to have “presence of mind.” I considered examples of how we use the word “mind” and what it means to have the mind “present.” I offered examples: the performance of a master teacher, the act of a gracious theologian I once shared lunch with, and watching Willie Mays play baseball. I ended with this:

It seems “presence of mind” appears when someone can observe multiple thoughts, feelings, or sensations simultaneously and, from a calm place in the middle of it all, decide what is best to do or say. What emerges often feels like fresh insight rather than just a reaction. Truly wise and spiritual people seem to be able to do that well, and it has very little to do with formal education. I have decided to begin contemplating the relationship between “presence of mind” and what some call “soul.”

This past week I set out on that exploration. I reviewed what I had previously written about “soul.” I found three excerpts worth sharing.

“Your Soul Is Like a Wild Animal”

In 2009 I read A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life by the academic-turned-spiritual-mentor Parker Palmer. Early on, he says he will be using the word “soul.” He knows his academic friends will be dismissive of both the word and the concept. But he believes there is something within us best described with this word — a point of connection and wholeness that all spiritual traditions understand. He also offers a useful metaphor: “The soul is like a wild animal — tough, resilient, and shy. When we go crashing through the woods shouting for it to come out so we can help it, the soul will stay in hiding. But if we are willing to sit quietly and wait for a while, the soul may show itself.”

He goes on to say that much of our culture keeps us distracted, and so our soul withdraws. But in moments of quiet and inner attentiveness, our souls cautiously appear. In those moments, we realize who we really are and how miraculous the world is; in those moments, we often find guidance, assurance, and hope.

Palmer says there is another quality of soul that is like a wild animal: “Like a wild animal, the soul is tough, resilient, resourceful, savvy, and self-sufficient: it knows how to survive in hard places. I learned about these qualities during my bouts with depression. In that deadly darkness, the faculties I had always depended on collapsed. My intellect was useless; my emotions were dead; my will was impotent; my ego was shattered. But from time to time, deep in the thickets of my inner wilderness, I could sense the presence of something that knew how to stay alive even when the rest of me wanted to die. That something was my tough and tenacious soul.”^[i]

Takeaway: Finding ways to cultivate “presence of mind” sets the stage for getting in touch with our “soul.”

“Mind Proposes, Soul Disposes”

I once attended a week-long retreat at Esalen with the wise scholar of global spirituality, Huston Smith. My notebook was filled with things he said I wanted to remember. One was a phrase: “Mind proposes, soul disposes.”

I take this to describe an experience we are all familiar with. A thought arises within our mental awareness that seems like a suggestion or an impression. It can appear like words on our inner screen, or perhaps our personal voice speaking to us from within. This is the mind proposing. What do we do with this proposal? A different kind of awareness comes into play as we consider the suggestion. We ask ourselves: Is this the way I want to feel? Is this suggestion something I really want to do? Is this a path I want to follow? As we decide, it is the soul disposing — our inner, “higher self” coming into play, indicating a possible direction like a compass. Then it’s up to us to decide whether we go that way.^[ii]

Takeaway: When “present,” the mind can consider all the information and feelings coming into our awareness. The soul then chooses the best path to follow.

“The Buddha Touches the Earth”

I cited the ancient story in which demons pester the Buddha, trying to sow doubt about his enlightenment. He responds by touching the earth, and the demons flee. I like to think of our traditions as ways of “touching the earth.”

Spiritual traditions include specific teachings, participation in community life, and the practice of serving others in tangible ways. As our culture becomes more fragmented and people more socially isolated, many studies have shown that being part of a spiritual community leads to increased emotional and physical health. Our traditions ground us in what really matters, giving meaning to all we do.^[iii]

Takeaway: Presence of mind creates a space for our soul to show up. Then we ponder our choices. We may choose to rely only on our own perspective. But we don’t have to. Our traditions give us a vision for what a meaningful life looks like. Sometimes that means putting aside our personal priorities. Sometimes it may mean following new paths that lead to unexpected joy and renewed purpose. In moments of decision, we can ask ourselves: Is this a direction that my best spiritual ancestors and community wisdom would recognize as worth pursuing?

What helps you find “presence of mind”? Regular times of unplugged, silent contemplation? Worship experiences? Long walks? Immersing yourself in music, art, activities, or acts of service that inform and inspire you? And when your shy soul appears, what voices do you trust to help you know what direction you might go?

^[i] ^[i] https://drjsb.com/?s=soul

^[ii] ^[ii] https://drjsb.com/2023/11/04/mind-proposes-soul-disposes/

^[iii] ^[iii] https://drjsb.com/2025/09/06/touching-the-earth-grounding-our-soul/

Having “Presence of Mind”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will Rogers On Getting Old

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

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

About Growing Old From Will Rogers…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choosing Our Copilots

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The challenge becomes knowing how far to take the relationship.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The article evoked several thoughts for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Are Your “Takeaways” In Life?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Art Work: ”Family,” Kathe Kollwitz, 1931

Moments When I Knew Why I Love My Country

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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