Uncategorized – Page 10 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

We’re Skipping School and Making the Pilgrimage

On Wednesday, May 8, I’m taking our 6 and 8-year-old grandsons out of school for the day. It’s not for academic enrichment or to observe a religious holiday. We’re going to a Dodger game.

I chose this game for three reasons. 1) The game starts at noon, which is ideal for young kids since you’ll get home at a decent time. 2) Unlike the Yankees, Red Sox, Giants, or Cubs – teams with millions of fans all over the country — the Marlins have few fans. As a result, I was able to get terrific seats for a fraction of the usual price, and the traffic should be light. 3) I love the idea of ditching school or work to see a baseball game.

The first time I made the journey to Dodger Stadium was with my father, 62 years ago. I’ll never forget the feeling of coming out of the tunnel and seeing the splendor of the emerald-green grass of the outfield, the red brick dust of the infield, and the perfectly delineated white chalk foul lines. There is seating for 54,000 people and everybody is happy as they find their seats. As a kid who loved baseball, I was in heaven.

We will be retracing those steps on May 8. We’ll take the same “Stadium Way” offramp from Interstate 5. Then, like pilgrims going to a sacred mountain, we will slowly ascend to the sacred site. After parking we will continue heaven-ward on foot, using escalators as needed. Then we’ll take our seats.

But this journey is not just about reliving childhood dreams. The deeper reasons for making this sacrifice of time and treasure were revealed anew to me this week as I read “Ballparking It,” an article in the April 1 New Yorker, by Adam Gopnik.

Gopnik begins by focusing on the history of baseball in New York City. He then gets philosophical, exploring why baseball and sporting events of any kind evoke so much passion in so many. Here is a sampling of his points with my comments:

Referring to the legendary sportswriter Damon Runyan from the last century: Runyan knew that these two things were true: the contests were epic in the enjoyment they provided, and they were miniature in their importance. That makes sense. Why would millions of people watch the Super Bowl, March Madness, or the World Series when the outcome doesn’t make any real difference in the world? Because they can be “epic in enjoyment,”

Sports are an artificial, deliberately narrowed activity that we create, in order to have moralizing stories to tell. I have a weakness for “moralizing stories.” Barry Bonds may have hit more home runs than anyone, but we knew he was a cheater who used steroids. We booed him when he came to LA. It felt great.

We live with our bodies and honor them by admiring ones nimbler than our own. There seems no way out or up from this preoccupation. It gets its grace by becoming common. Have you ever watched Steph Curry of the Golden State Warriors play basketball? He’s as graceful as any ballet dancer, and he’s got five 200-pound guys chasing him. He makes it look easy; “grace becomes common.”

The strength of our moralizing instinct is shown in the vindictive nature of our assessments of right and wrong in sports. See the Barry Bonds comment above and the Houston Astros comment below.

Only in games do we pursue orderly means towards ridiculous goals: touching home plate with your toe is by itself a meaningless purpose, but we learned to do it in ways that are beautifully shaped and orderly and teachable. Both our grandsons play Little League. Every time they come around to score, there is a sense of victory. I know the feeling. You’ve been out in the world exposed to danger and now you’re safe; you’ve come home.

Sports are “an unstructured escape from responsibility…” Some might say it’s irresponsible for a grandfather to take kids out of school for a meaningless sporting event — they might miss some important instruction. But isn’t it important to teach kids that, if you do it well, occasionally escaping responsibility for a few hours can be good for the soul?

The fans regard the game as joyfully ridiculous, and the players regard the fans as deeply ridiculous, and there’s a fluid interchange between the game we see in the play we share. Who cares if a grown man can take a piece of wood and hit a ball 420 feet over a fence? It’s ridiculous. And it’s addictive. I hope we see some rockets.

That’s why diehard fans, on the whole, take losing harder than the players do. Pro athletes can often say, “They just played better than we did, “or, alternately, “That’s just the way it broke,” more serenely than the fans can. When we watch the players congratulate one another after the game and exchange warm words, the social ritual they are enacting is a way of turning a game back into some decent form of play: Hey, we competed, we all did well, see you next year. It’s been seven years since I sat in that stadium to see the Dodgers lose the seventh game of the World Series to the Houston Astros. It turned out the Astros were cheating. When I remember that game, I don’t experience serenity. I feel an emptiness that hasn’t gone away.

Go ahead, baseball, fill me with joy and hope, then break my heart. Coming back year after year is a discipline — one I hope to pass on to my descendants.

“Ballparking It: When America’s Pastime was New York’s.” By Adam Gopnik. New Yorker April 1, 2024

“Ungainly Resurrections”

We’ve had some intense rainstorms in Santa Barbara in recent years which have caused many trees to fall. This eucalyptus fell over San Jose Creek several years ago. I see it every morning when I walk over the bridge near my home. When it fell, one of its branches landed on the ground on the opposite side of the creek and became a support for the rest of the tree:

I’ve been fascinated to watch new growth rising skyward from the fallen branch. I remind myself that this branch began its life going vertical, then fell to its current horizontal position. But that unexpected event did not change its purpose — it’s thick with new growth.

I recently came across this poem from Catherine Abbey Hodges who lives in Springville on the western foothills of the Sierras. She witnessed something similar in her “neck of the woods:”

After the Flood

They looked like goners,

the cottonwoods and alders

downed when the river

went wild. And no wonder:

for two days we’d heard

the boom of boulders

above the water’s roar,

heard the crash and snap

of sturdy trees.

But now they’re sprouting

branches, new green

thrusting skyward

from prone trunks.

It’s a strange sight, hopeful

though not yet beautiful,

this ungainly resurrection,

early days of a miracle

etched in the seed.

I kept rereading the last stanza:

such trees are indeed a “strange sight” – something that defies our everyday expectations.
It’s “hopeful though not yet beautiful” — it’s impressive not because it fits some pre-determined idea of what it should look like, but because it demonstrates the raw power of hope.
It’s an “ungainly resurrection” – it looks more clumsy than graceful, yet the impulse to thrive and be reborn shines.
This “miracle” is manifesting itself day after day, but the power to do so was given long ago when a regenerating life force was “etched in the seed.”

I began to imagine how such trees are metaphors for the lives of many people I’ve known in my life and career.

Most of us begin life full of optimism, confident we will keep growing according to our plan as we reach for the sky. But storms come. Branches break. We fall. It’s tempting to give up. Can we find some new way to live?

The German mystic Meister Eckhart said, “The soul grows by the process of subtraction.” I take this to mean that when we are full of our selves and rigid expectations, there’s no room for soul. But when losses come and we break open — as our illusions are “subtracted” from our sense of self — the divine Spirit comes near to offer us a chance to experience new life that is “etched in the seed” of our soul. We may never stop grieving for what we’ve lost along the way, but shoots of regeneration begin appearing.

In my Goleta congregation, we would have annual retreats called “Crossroads” which would include 15 or 20 people. We’d begin Friday night by sharing a meal and getting to know each other. On Saturday morning we’d study a story from Scripture that I had chosen for its potential to offer insight into the experience of living. I’d then give everyone a large sheet of newsprint and a box of markers and ask them to go off for two hours to create a “life map” — a visual representation of how their life had unfolded. People would often draw a winding pathway with many ups and downs, then draw pictures or choose words to describe key events. (Some of our engineers were more comfortable with bar graphs.) You’d see things like, “depression” or “fell in love” or “divorce” or “new job.” When people were finished with their maps, I’d ask them to go back and mark any places on their road where they encountered God.

We’d regather. Each person had a turn describing their map and journey. They would then tape their map to the wall of the meeting room. When everyone was done, we’d take time in silence to survey the range of life experiences in our group. There was always a sense of awe at what people had been through and how, in many ways, they’d experienced unexpected growth and blessings.

The human spirit is like a seed, and etched into it is the potential to heal, integrate, grow, and adapt.

I once traveled with a group to Ghana. In many cultures, if someone asks, “How are you?” the response is something like “I am well” or “I am fine.” But our host said when someone in Ghana asks, “How are you?” a traditional response is “Yesu Adom,” which means “By the grace of God” or “By the grace of God I am well.”

I imagine standing on the San Jose Creek bridge asking my friend, “How are you doing, Fallen Tree?” I would not be surprised to hear: “By the grace of God, I am well. I have not given up. I am determined to thrive. Join me.”

By the grace of God, I will. May we all.

“After the Flood” by Catherine Abbey Hodges in Empty Me Full. (forthcoming by Gunpowder Press, 2024) Used with permission.

Our “Immemorial Feelings”

A writing teacher once said the difference between prose and poetry is that good prose keeps our attention moving forward, while good poetry causes us to slow down. I recently came across this poem by Wendell Berry. I had to look up a word I did not know, then re-read it several times to appreciate what it offers. It was worth the effort:

It’s the immemorial feelings 

I like the best: hunger, thirst, their satisfaction;

work-weariness, earned rest; the falling again 

from loneliness to love; 

the green growth the mind takes from the pastures in March; 

The gayety in the stride of a good team of Belgian mares 

that seems to shudder from me through all my ancestry.

— “Goods” by Wendell Berry, New Collected Poems, 2012.

What does the word “immemorial” mean? According to the Cambridge Dictionary, it describes something that has been “existing or traditional for an extremely long time;” e.g., “She said it was the immemorial custom of the villagers to have a feast after the harvesting.” So, an “immemorial feeling” is something we can experience that is not new to the human condition but one we share with our ancestors. Wendell says he likes these kinds of feelings more than those that might be new. He then lists five. As I thought about each one, I wondered about my own similar experiences. I invite you to do the same.

… hunger, thirst, their satisfaction…

I think of times in the summer when my wife and I go hiking on a warm day and then stop somewhere for a cold beer. That first sip? Amazing.

…work-weariness, earned rest…

I think of times when I’ve done hours of yard work, completed it, and called it a day. What a good feeling to do the work and know I’ve earned a rest and may sleep well.

…the falling again from loneliness to love…

Maybe he’s thinking primarily of romantic love — one day we think we are isolated and the next day realize another person has captured our heart. Maybe it can also mean finding love in other ways, such as with a devoted pet (“Who rescued whom?”). Or maybe a new hobby or activity. But that feeling of feeling alone one minute, then aware you want to be deeply connected to someone or something else – it’s a kind of “falling” that comes like a gift.

…the green growth the mind takes from the pastures in March… 

I look out my window and see our redbud trees, Chinese Fringe Flowers, and yellow freesias in full bloom. After the generous winter rains, the naturally brown hillsides in Southern California look like Irish meadows. We can’t help but sense a fellow “greenness” in our minds, bringing hope and possibilities.

…The gayety in the stride of a good team of Belgian mares 

that seems to shudder from me through all my ancestry.

Wendell is a fifth-generation farmer in Henry County, Kentucky. His people knew the splendor of strong horses, which he instinctively shares and physically feels.

I do not know horses. What comes to mind for me is the ocean. I recently discovered that one of my family’s ancestral lines goes back to Bornholm, a small Danish Island in the North Sea, where they lived and fished for 400 years. Another line goes back to Halmstad, a fishing village on the Swedish coast. Another line includes one of my great-grandmothers from Denmark. After immigrating to America and spending her life raising her family in Iowa, they moved to Selma, California where she died in 1922. One of her sons wrote that in her last years she kept going back to fond memories of the beach in Copenhagen where she played as a child. Our mother loved the sea, and we scattered her ashes off the beach she loved in San Clemente. I guess it’s in our bones.

The five experiences Wendell names are not new for human beings. They existed before there were factories in China, televisions in our homes, or images on our digital devices. They did not need artificial intelligence programs. They are older than that – they come from “time immemorial.” And we have the privilege of sharing these with our ancestors. What a blessing.

It’s the immemorial feelings 

I like the best: hunger, thirst, their satisfaction;

work-weariness, earned rest; the falling again 

from loneliness to love; 

the green growth the mind takes from the pastures in March; 

The gayety in the stride of a good team of Belgian mares 

that seems to shudder from me through all my ancestry.

Bornholm, Denmark

Lead image: “Wendell Berry and his granddaughter plowing” “https://www.pinterest.com/pin/542613455076383854/ Ediblecommunities.com

Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock Sneak Into the Oscars

One of the most popular television shows in my generation was Star Trek. In the year 2256 (“Star date 1207.3”), a multi-racial crew plunges into space to “boldly go where no man has gone before.” In some episodes, they find portals through which they can go back in time. More than once they would visit specific periods in American history like the Wild West or the “Roaring Twenties.” Before beaming down to earth, they would have to dress in a way that they would not be conspicuous when they arrived. They’d be transported down to materialize in some carefully chosen time and spot. They’d then explore, observe, and discuss how people were behaving – something like interstellar anthropologists. When their reason for being there was fulfilled, they’d beam back up to the Enterprise and to the future in which they lived.

I watched most of the Academy Awards this past Sunday. I’d seen some but not all the movies. As the ceremony progressed from category to category, I became aware of the wide variety of themes, issues, and emotions in our contemporary culture that were represented and tried to make sense of it as a whole. As I continued to puzzle over this, I began to imagine what it would be like for some outsiders like Kirk and Spock to show up at this year’s ceremony. What would they think of our culture in 2024?

To begin with, I realized they would not have to create disguises. They could materialize in some alley near the theater and then boldly walk the red carpet dressed in their Star Fleet uniforms. They’d pause for fashion photographers – Kirk smiling and Spock stone-faced — and the press would become desperate to know who designed their costumes. Unlike other such visits, Spock would not have to cover up his pointed Vulcan ears – that would probably become a new fad.

I imagined them sitting through the entire 3 ½ hour show. Here’s a sampling of what they would have seen:

Oppenheimer: a morally complex story of the creation of the atomic bomb and its potential to both win a war and destroy the world.
Barbie: a pink and pastel depiction of what the Barbie Doll has meant and how contemporary feminism can transform it into a message for liberation. They’d see two Barbie songs performed: “What Was I Made For” describing the yearning to find one’s true identity, and “I’m Just Ken,” an over-the-top, extravagant musical number lamenting the limitations of life as a Ken doll.
The Killers of the Flower Moon: based on a true story of the careful systematic murder of Osage Native Americans by greedy white men who want to steal their oil. They would watch a live and powerful of an Osage drum-circle ceremony. (“Wahzhazhe” – “A Song for My People”).
Poor Things: a surreal fantasy of a young artificially created woman who comes of age in terms of her sexuality and personal identity.
Zone of Interest: a group of privileged Nazi families living adjacent to Auschwitz and ignoring the suffering and incineration of countless innocent people while tending their gardens.
Maestro: a portrayal of the musical tour-de-force genius of Leonard Bernstein, with a focus on his complex sexual identity and relationships.
Nyad: the true story of an extraordinary female open-water swimmer.
Perfect Days: a Japanese man finds spiritual peace and meaning as he earns his living cleaning public toilets.
20 Days in Mariupol: the suffering of the Ukrainian people as the Russians needlessly invades their country.
The Last Repair Shop: the dedication of a small of people determined to keep music education alive in Los Angeles public schools.

They would see other vignettes that may have been a bit puzzling: a nude wrestler hiding behind a partition holding an envelope like a fig leaf, an apparent message criticizing the show’s host from the country’s former ruler, and constant shots of a dog named Messi sitting in a theater seat watching the show with greater focus than many of the humans.

I imagine Kirk and Spock skipping the Governor’s Ball and beaming back up to discuss and share their findings.

“What’s human life like on Planet Earth in 2024?” they’d be asked.

It’s full of darkness and tragedy, cruelty and violence.
It’s full of courage and heroism, a longing for justice and a yearning for peace.
It’s full of humor and delight.
It’s full of visual and musical creativity.
People are constantly trying to find meaning in what they do and who they are, and find many ways people to deal with their desires and duties.
It’s a wild and complex world with many moments of tender feeling and transformational insight.

The Enterprise had navigators, communication officers, engineers, scientists, security forces, and medical personnel. But I don’t remember any intergalactic spiritual counselors. If there was such a person, and he or she was asked what they made of this world, they might say:

“Human beings seem to be very complex creatures. In their best moments, they’re magnificent beings. In their worst moments, they’re beasts. It’s hard not to have compassion for them, and I wish we could give them guidance on how to live in peace and mutual respect. But our Prime Directive prohibits us from intervening in the natural development of other civilizations. Let’s hope they can figure it out.”

What Do We Know?

“Even though life is quite a sad business, you can have a good time in the middle of it. I like to laugh, and I think the unsung, real literary geniuses of the world are people who write jokes. Both the Irish and Jews are very fatalistic, but they laugh a lot. Only the Protestants think that every day in every way, life is getting better and better. What do they know? — American writer Mary Gordon (daughter of a Jewish father and Irish Catholic mother)

My beloved mentor Huston Smith once gave a talk at the Lobero Theater here in Santa Barbara. With a smile, he announced his theme: “Five Things You Won’t Agree With.” One theme was “There’s no such thing as progress.”[i]

Huston told the story of being a young American scholar in the 1960s when he was invited to speak on the future of society at a conference In Europe. He spoke glowingly of what he thought the century would bring. After he finished, the next speaker said, “Professor Smith has just spoken out of 200 years of American successes. I’m now going to speak from 1,000 years of European failures.” Huston listened and was humbled.

He went on to say that, to be sure, some things have improved in our modern life. Plumbing, for one. Public health, for another. And there has been some progress in human rights. But in many ways, our human nature has not changed. We have not outgrown the destructive impulses of our ancestors. No century in human history saw as many people die in war as the 20^th – somewhere close to 50 million. Some things are better, but we are a long way from having the world we would like to have. Those “Protestants” who “think that every day in every way, life is getting better and better – what do they know?”

This perspective could lead to being “fatalistic” – why bother trying to make anything better? I don’t think that’s an option.

Social teachings of the Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, and many secular traditions have always included a strong emphasis on “trying to make the world a better place.” Basic compassion and a spiritual calling compel us to do all we can to confront hunger, poverty, injustice, violence, and threats to human dignity. Here and there, there are signs of “progress.”

We moved to Santa Barbara in 1992. With our daughters active in athletics, we became passionate supporters of the UC Santa Barbara women’s basketball team — along with many in my congregation. The team was having great success, making it to the “Sweet Sixteen” in 2004. One year we invited the outstanding center to speak at the beginning of our worship service. She was several inches over six feet tall, and it was striking to see her walk down the aisle and step to the pulpit with poise and ease. UCSB had just won a dramatic game against the University of Hawaii the night before, and someone asked her if she had prayed for a win. She said she did pray at halftime – but not to win. She simply prayed that she would do her best, whatever the outcome. Everyone sensed this young woman possessed great inner strength and character.

A few days later, I ran into Michelle, one of our members. I asked her what she thought of hearing the player speak. Michelle said she had wept. That surprised me and I asked her why. As a woman who was six feet tall herself, as a teenager she was constantly walking bent over with slumped shoulders so she wouldn’t seem as tall as she was. But on Sunday, when this tall, young woman entered to the delight and admiration of the congregation, she realized how much had changed in just one generation. Her tears that morning were tears of gratitude that maybe life for young women was improving.

On the other hand, I remember visiting the “Museum of Communism” in Prague in 2020. The museum was divided into three sections: “The Promise,” “The Reality,” and “The Nightmare.” “The Promise” told the story of the genuine idealism that had convinced many earnest people to support the revolutions in the early decades of the last century. “The Reality” displayed exhibits of how this social experiment was troubled from the start. “The Nightmare” showed how grim and heartless communist societies became. People hoped they could make society “better and better”, but it was not to be.

I believe we should never give up trying to make the world a better place. At the same time, we can recognize our human nature has a dark side that may resist and undo our best-laid plans and hopes. Along the way, we welcome the great artists in our midst who help us laugh:

[i] I previously wrote on one of the other points: “Living on the Back Side of the Tapestry”

Ever Feel Like You’re an Extra in Someone Else’s Play?

“Remember you are just an extra in everyone else’s play.”

–Franklin Roosevelt

Years ago, I took a class on “Organizational Development.” We read a fascinating book, Images of Organizations, by Gareth Morgan. His basic point is that we often use metaphors to describe organizations. But it can be helpful to be aware of what metaphors we are using and to know that we can use different ones.

For instance, if we want to use “organic” or biological imagery, we might say “This place has come alive since she took over…” Or: “There’s a cancer in that organization and it’s growing.” If we use a mechanistic metaphor, we might say “This place runs like a well-oiled machine.” or “…he showed up and threw a wrench into the works.” Other options include a brain, cultures, political systems, and systems of domination. But my favorite metaphor was “psychic prisons” – a rather harsh way of saying that in any place we might work, everyone shows up with their private and personal agendas. (I might have preferred he call this “psychic dramas.”) What we do is determined by our job; but what our work means to us drives much of our behavior and sense of satisfaction.

Another way to put it is this: every day, each of us is writing a drama about our life in which we are the central character. I interpret what my boss or coworker says and does based on what is unfolding in my life. If I need affirmation, are they affirming me? If I’m climbing the ladder of success, are they doing what I need them to do to advance my career? If I’m looking for social support and companionship, is work a place where I can find friends and social relationships?

When I started in my career, I had high hopes for what I would accomplish. I wanted to do what I was hired to do and do it well. But I also wanted to put on a good “performance” so that my career would advance. Even as I genuinely respected others and wanted to serve them, in one way they were playing supporting roles in the drama I was writing in which I was the main character.

This perspective was helpful to me when I became responsible for a staff of employees. I found it enlightening to try to understand what each employee’s life script might be as they came to work so I could look for ways to support them.

It’s fun to consider the possibility that everyone is doing this – everyone has a script they are writing in which they are the main character and the rest of us are “extras” — everybody comes to work as both an employee and a private playwright.

This is also applicable to family dynamics. I had a colleague who described how stressful Christmas was for her and her sister as they were growing up. They lived in the same town as their grandmothers. During the holidays, the grandmothers would compete for the affection of the two girls with gifts and special parties. The girls could sense the competition and were often anxious that they would disappoint one or the other grandmother. Each grandmother was writing a play in which they were center stage, and the grandchildren were supporting actors.

FDR was a skilled leader and shrewd politician. He had a strong sense of what personally motivated other people and how to shepherd them toward a common purpose, letting both their self-interest and higher ideals come into play. He knew that even as president, he was “just an extra in everyone else’s play.”

As life goes on, the role we play in our life-drama can change. I do not need to “build my resume” anymore or impress an employer or board member. I don’t need to be center stage in my drama. Now I can focus on how to be useful to my community and my family, content with being a “supporting actor.”

A few years ago, I was wondering – and worrying — if my grandkids would remember much about the time I was spending with them. Then I realized I was making it about me, not them. They are now the garden where the future is growing. My job is to simply be compost in their lives; I don’t need to imagine my name in the long list of credits when the movie is over. This has become a liberating thought.

What does spirituality have to do with this? I believe spirituality has at least two dimensions: it begins with finding something greater than us that inspires us. We then feel a call to serve that greater reality by serving others. In the process, we find both a joyful humility and a clear call to action. We become part of a larger drama where we are not the star – we’re “just an extra.” But somehow, we discover we’ve never played a more satisfying part.

Answering Mr. Vinegar

In a writing class I took from Marilyn McEntyre, she mentioned we all have different “personas” within us. She encouraged us to experiment with writing from the perspective of each one. Maybe it’s a familiar concept, but it was new to me.

Reflecting on Marilyn’s invitation, I realized the “voice” I usually seek to embody when writing is a thoughtful and patient one. It looks for grace and wisdom in a variety of situations – I could call it the “Mr. Nice Guy” voice. But the more I thought about it, I realized it was not the only voice within me. I can summon up a “bad boy” voice –- one that’s skeptical, judgmental, smug, and cynical. (What some psychologists would call a part of my “shadow side.”) As I began to become more aware of it, I found it to be quite amusing. I’ve given that voice the name of “Mr. Vinegar.”

Recently I’ve been hearing from Mr. Vinegar just as I am finishing writing one of these blog posts. I usually ignore him. But this week, I decided to let Mr. Vinegar have a conversation with Mr. Nice Guy.

Here’s what the conversation sounds like.

MR VINEGAR: “Well, Steve, everything you write is so pleasant. One week you have a nice epiphany while contemplating an oak tree. Another week maybe it’s a little birdie on a branch. Another week it’s all about some amazing spider web. But you know, Mr. Nice Guy, the world we live in is a mess. There’s the war in Gaza and Israel, a war in Ukraine, the breakdown of our politics, the rapid creep of Artificial Intelligence into our lives, global warming, personal tragedies everywhere you look…Why do you avoid these topics? Afraid?”

MR NICE GUY: “Well, Mr. Vinegar, that’s a good question. I’ll tell you why I do what I do.

“I think there are many troubling events in the world. I worry that Russia will overcome Ukraine and we’ll be back in a Cold War that will destabilize a peace in Western Europe we’ve taken for granted for 80 years. I see the immense tragedies in Gaza and Israel – friends on both sides are frantic with concern – and I don’t think anyone knows when or how it will get resolved. I truly believe we need to show respect for all sides in our political discussions, but I am deeply concerned that we may re-elect a man who delights in ignoring and mocking the rule of law and being a corrosive personal force.

“And A.I.? That worries me more than almost anything else. It will certainly have some beneficial effects. But it’s creeping into our lives and millions of people will start depending on it. Many will find it irresistible to use for selfish and destructive ends. Kids aren’t going to know what it’s like to have to labor over writing an essay or a poem. Our “entertainment options” are going to become wild and warped. Unscrupulous political leaders, countries, and crime cartels are going to find A.I. to be an unprecedented weapon to use for their own purposes. It’s the end of an Age of Innocence. We won’t know what news report, what video, what photo, or what information sources we can trust. We will become increasingly enfeebled, dependent, and distrustful.

“And global warming? It’s very sobering. Especially for the poorest people on the planet who don’t have the freedom and resources to adapt.

“So yes, Mr. Vinegar, I see and worry about these things. But I don’t write about these topics much because there are many others more qualified than me to do that, and I avoid the debilitating effect of constantly focusing on bad news and crises.”

MR VINEGAR “What you just said – did that feel a little risky? Is it hard to talk about the scary stuff? Afraid you’ll lose some readers?”

MR NICE GUY: “Maybe. But here’s the deal. There’s so much going on that can get us down. To face and endure the challenges before us, we need to be grounded in genuine, personal experiences where we find glimpses of grace and reasons to hope. We need to be reminded of the importance of the many people in our lives – past and present – who demonstrate integrity, wisdom, and compassion. We need to tap into the insights of our spiritual traditions that have helped guide people for centuries as human life has evolved. I’m not going to write about issues unless I have something hopeful and constructive to say.”

MR VINEGAR “Well, OK, that’s your choice. But just don’t let yourself become a pleasant waste of time.”

MR NICE GUY “OK, point taken. And now that you’ve had a chance to speak out, can I finish writing this?”

MR VINEGAR “Of course. But I’m not going away – I’ll be back. I have too much fun prodding you.”

*****

I remember hearing a Jewish story about a rabbi in a small village. An old man would show up at every event where the rabbi was speaking. He would pester the rabbi with skeptical questions and criticize him time after time. When he died, no one was expected to show up at the cemetery when he was buried. The gravediggers were surprised when the rabbi showed up. They asked him, “Why are you here? We expected you’d be glad this man is gone.”

“I’m going to miss him,” said the rabbi. “He was the one person in town that kept me honest.”

Got Enthusiasm?

After Jim Harbaugh led his Michigan football team to a national championship, he was hired to coach the Los Angeles Chargers professional team and was interviewed in the LA Times:

“The only job you start at the top is digging a hole, so we know we’ve got to earn our way,” Harbaugh said in his statement. “Be better today than yesterday. Be better tomorrow than today. My priorities are faith, family and football, and we are going to attack each with an enthusiasm unknown to mankind.” [i]

As a casual football fan, I know what an amazing career Mr. Harbaugh has had. We used to live in San Diego, and I always felt badly for the Chargers when they were uprooted from their natural habitat and relocated to Los Angeles. I hope Mr. Harbaugh can bring the Chargers back to being a great team. I like the idea that he’s coming not only with a great deal of wisdom and experience but also enthusiasm. I wish him well.

But I couldn’t help but wonder about that last sentence: what is it like to “attack” not just football but your family and your faith with “an enthusiasm unknown to mankind?”

I won’t comment on his family life because I know nothing about it. I do wonder: with this much enthusiasm, it must be quite a sight every time he comes home or starts the barbeque.

But what about faith?

Let’s look at the root meaning of the word: “…from Greek, enthousiasmos ‘divine inspiration…from enthousiazein, ‘be inspired or possessed by a god, be rapt, be in ecstasy,’ …from en = in + theos= god.”[ii]

So, there’s an ancient connection between “enthusiasm” and intense spiritual experience.

What would it look like for someone to “attack” faith in “an enthusiasm unknown to mankind?”

Does that person rush his family to every worship service? Does he sing every hymn at the top of his voice? Is he overcome with excitement when he puts his weekly donation in the offering plate? What would it be like to preach a sermon that spoke to Mr. Harbaugh? Would he leap up and declare, “I feel possessed! Rapt! I am in a state of spiritual ecstasy unknown to mankind!”

I don’t know if I’d be pleased or concerned.

I do know I was often full of enthusiasm early in my spiritual journey. But, in time, most of us experience disappointments and losses. Not every path we take ends up with us holding a championship trophy amid a cheering crowd. We welcome enthusiasm, but maybe with a bit of tempering after we discover how complicated life is.

In one of my congregations, there was a young man who was a gifted communicator. He was also very clear about what was right and what was wrong, and who was on the side of truth and who was not. A friend of mine came to hear him preach. I asked her afterward what she thought. “He’s a gifted young man,” she said. “I’d like to hear him again after his heart’s been broken.”

Over the years, when I listen to people describe personal experiences of “divine inspiration,” they often describe quiet, reflective moments when they saw or felt something in a new way. They don’t feel like they’ve attacked something and triumphed — they feel like they’ve received an unexpected gift. Such experiences humble us and expand our hearts. They don’t so much exalt us over other people as help us see others with respect and compassion.

I wish Mr. Harbaugh great success in his endeavors.

And I can’t wait for baseball season to start. In baseball, it’s not so much about conquering your opponent with unprecedented enthusiasm. It’s all about coming home.

[i] LA Times, Jan 26, 2024

[ii] https://www.etymonline.com/word/enthusiasm

Bird Time

Recently, my attention has been captured by birds sitting calmly by themselves. Sometimes it’s in a tree in our backyard. Sometimes it’s on a telephone line in the neighborhood. We are both away from our fellow creatures and neither of us is in a hurry. It’s as if we are sharing a contemplative moment.

As an example, a sparrow joined me in my quiet time early this past Tuesday morning. It perched on a branch about 15 feet away from where I was sitting and stayed there. I found myself wondering if she (or he) and I had found a shared wavelength. I couldn’t help but ponder: What is that bird thinking about? It’s not singing or building a nest or foraging for food or looking anxious. It’s just sitting there. Is it sensing things beyond my awareness, like the earth’s magnetic fields or subtle shifts in the weather? Is it hearing sounds beyond my capacity and assessing them?

A meditation teacher once said that our body is always in the present moment, but the mind is a time machine – jumping back and forth between the past and the future. One goal of meditation is to let our mind settle into our body so it can dwell in the present. When we do that, we can become open to an inner awareness that opens us up to subtle forms of knowing.

If you have a dog or cat, you know they can spend a long time sitting in an open doorway looking out. I can get impatient. I’ll say, “Well, which is it? In or out?” Then I get a glance that seems to say, “Is it not acceptable for me to just sit here?”

My doctoral dissertation explored what spirituality might mean to 22 leaders in secular organizations identified by their colleagues as ethical and effective. One of my seven questions was: “Describe what part, if any spiritual traditions have played in the formation of your values, beliefs, ethics.” One Native American woman, who led a large social service agency for her tribe, wrote: “My parents had strict behavior expectations for my sisters and brothers. This included being aware of and respectful of the traditional cultural and religious teachings, customs and beliefs of my people. This included the need to be aware of one’s inner self and to do those things to strengthen one’s inner self, so that one’s life would be in balance. This included time alone, meditation, being quiet, listening, and being respectful of others need to do the same.”

I remember reading her response with amazement – and envy. No one taught me how to be quiet and alone. Did anyone teach you?

When I was at Hospice of Santa Barbara, one of our Spiritual Care Counselors was working with a woman who lived alone and was dying of cancer. The woman had a strong Buddhist meditation practice and was content to spend most of her days in solitude. Our counselor established a rapport with her, and at times they would meditate together. The counselor got a call from the woman’s brother in Minnesota. He was on the staff at the Mayo Clinic and a devout Christian. He said he had offered to come to Santa Barbara to be with his sister. Though they were close, she declined. The brother asked if there was anything he could do. After some thought, our counselor suggested that he and his sister pick a time every day when she would be in meditation, and he could set aside that exact ime to pray for her (adjusting for the two-hour time difference.) After the woman died, the brother contacted us to say how grateful he was for that suggestion. Up to the time of her death, in that coordinated silent practice, they felt a deep connection despite the distance.

St. Francis was famous for preaching to the birds. I wonder how much time he spent with them in silence before he knew he had something to say.

Image: “St. Francis Bird Bath Bowl,” catholiccompany.com

Who Are We?

“Human beings are animals. They are sometimes monsters, sometimes magnificent, but always animals. They may prefer to think of themselves as fallen angels, but in reality they are risen apes.” — Desmond Morris, The Naked Ape [i]

“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” – attributed to the priest and paleontologist Teilhard de Chardin

Well, which is it? Are we apes fooling ourselves that we are angels? Or are we spiritual beings inhabiting a body provided for us by our biological cousins?

My favorite movie when I was kid was Tarzan and my favorite character was the chimpanzee, Cheetah. Cheetah was Tarzan’s best friend. They talked to each other in a special language. If Tarzan was in trouble, Cheetah might dash through the jungle and summon a herd of elephants. Or find some lions and persuade them to save his friend. I formed the Monkey Club in second grade and was its first (and only) president. I would have traded all my baseball cards to have a friend like Cheetah.

I was a teenager in 1967 when The Naked Ape came out. It was a popular bestseller describing how similar we are to apes. I loved it. I wanted to be a filmmaker at that time. I took our Kodak Super 8 movie camera to the San Diego Zoo and filmed chimpanzees grooming each other. Then I went back home to San Bernardino and planned to secretly film customers at our local barber shop getting similar treatment. I planned to cleverly edit the clips so the movie would alternate between the human and primate footage, showing how similar we are. But I never did have the chutzpah to secretly film at the barbershop. And I didn’t know the first thing about film editing. Unlike the Steven Spielberg character in The Fabelmans, my cinematic career ended early.

Growing up and going to college, I did not believe in “spiritual” or “religious” experiences. I believed everything could be explained through science.

Then I had a spiritual experience. In a time of personal desperation, I prayed without believing in prayer because I had nowhere else to turn. Three days later, I realized something like a quiet light was now present at the center of my inner emptiness. It was an unexpected and vivid experience that opened my mind to the possibility that there is a divine presence surrounding us, and it means us good. Maybe we are “spiritual beings having a human (or biological) experience.”

I had heard some folks say science and religion were incompatible — you either believe God created the world in seven days or you are a heretic. But that never made sense to me. Science was not shutting out wonder but uncovering more and more for it. What’s wrong with “descending” from apes? I considered that a compliment.

This is not to say everything in nature is pleasant.

In 2015 I attended the Parliament of World Religions in Salt Lake. There were many interesting speakers from around the world, but no one drew as large a crowd as Jane Goodall. I was thrilled to listen to her – she has come as close to any of us as having friends like Cheetah! She said she first wanted to study chimpanzees because she was disillusioned with human behavior and felt that chimps in the wild must have greater nobility. But after living with them, she realized they could become vicious and violent when attacking a rival tribe. Her idealism ended, but not her reverence for our fellow primates.

In 1912, Aldo Leopold was working for the Forest Service in New Mexico. His duties included hunting wolves. One day he shot a wolf on a rimrock canyon: “He reached the still breathing wolf and saw something that forever changed him. In his classic text, A Sand County Almanac, Leopold describes the experience, “We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then, and have known ever since, that there was something new to me in those eyes—something known only to her and to the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger-itch; I thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves would mean hunters’ paradise. But after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a view.”[ii]

Leopold had sensed something profound in the wolf’s eyes and her being – something that inspired reverence. He became an early prophet of the environmental movement.

Have you ever looked into the eyes of an animal and felt a deep kinship?

Would Native and indigenous people believe you must choose between the natural world and spiritual beliefs?

I look at myself and my fellow human beings: we “are sometimes monsters, sometimes magnificent.” And I look at life all around us: it can be messy at the same time it is permeated with the miraculous mystery of life.

So which is it? Are we “just” animals or are we essentially spiritual creatures? I’m not choosing sides. I vote for both.

[i] The Naked Ape: A Zoologist’s Study of the Human Animal, 1967

[ii] http://www.nationalforests.org/our-forests/light-and-seed-magazine/aldo-leopold-in-the-gila-wilderness