Some years ago, I was at a wedding in the Sierras. Guests stayed at a resort for the weekend. The groom was a well-known mountain and rock-climbing guide and offered to teach any guests the basics of rock-climbing.
I remember my lesson well. I was on a safety rope, and slowly made my way up the rock face with Doug coaching from below. I was maybe 20 feet up the rock face when I looked back down. Even though I logically knew I was safe, the adrenaline began to flow, and I envisioned falling. My brain offered a vision of my head hitting the granite below like a dropped watermelon.
“Ok,” I said. “I’m experiencing some fear right now. Should I just ignore it and keep focusing on the next move?”
Doug smiled. “No, your fear has important information to give you. You want to take in the information, but not let fear control you.”
Acting brave, I continued to climb for another ten minutes or so before I slowly made my way back to the ground. I thanked him for his patience.
I learned two lasting truths that day:
I don’t like rock climbing. I’ve never tried it again.
“Your fear has important information to give you. You want to take in the information without letting fear control you.”
I’ve thought of this insight often over the years. It’s come to mind as I’m dealing with unexpected family medical situations, occasional crises at work, financial decisions and even when responding to political events.
I know there are times when fear and adrenalin may save us from danger and there’s no time for thoughtful contemplation.
And I know many people live with phobias, panic attacks, and chronic anxiety – those complex issues are not solved by remembering a simple principle. (In such situations, I’ve seen impressive results from skilled practitioners using Cognitive-Behavior Therapy.)
But I continue to value the basic insight.
It reminds me of one of the five principles taught by Frank Ostateski as he applies Zen mindfulness principles to end-of-life care: “Welcome Everything, Push Away Nothing.” If we can find a still center within, we can observe thoughts and feelings as they arise in us and deal with them calmly and wisely, rather than in a state of fear.
I’m grateful for that lesson: “…your fear has important information to give you. You want to take in the information, but not let fear control you.”
And I’m also grateful I don’t have to pretend I’m calm while I’m clinging to the side of a boulder.
Have you ever been listening to someone and you hear something that strikes you with a jolt of energy and you’re not sure why? The story goes on but you’re not paying attention. A word, a phrase or an idea has nested in your awareness and settles there. Your attention moves on to other things. Time passes and you almost forget about it, but every so often, you notice it is there reminding you: “When you’re ready, I’ve got a message for you.”
I had an experience like this five years ago. We were on a road trip listening to a book by Mark Nepo. I don’t remember the name of the book or the topic. But at some point, he referred to an incident in Homer’s Odyssey, the great epic about Odysseus’ ten-year journey at sea returning from victory in the Trojan War. A prophet tells Odysseus that there is a task he must do as he reaches the end of his life – a journey he must make with his oar. I had no idea why that fragment of a story attracted my attention. But it did.
Recently I decided to discover why that story had caught my attention. I pulled out my copy of the Odyssey and did a little research. It soon became clear to me why this ancient tale of a heroic wanderer is an important one for me to hear. It’s given me a fruitful way to think about the stage of life I am in now as someone recently retired.
I hope it becomes useful for others who are at a similar point in their journey.
Here’s the story.
After twenty years at war and at sea, Odysseus is home. He reunites with his beloved wife Penelope and restores his authority over his household. As Odysseus and Penelope prepare to turn in for their first night together in a long time, they exchange stories of all that has happened. Towards the end, he tells her about the prophet he had visited in the land of the dead midway through his journey. The prophet gave him a task he needs to complete:
Then you must go off again, carrying a broad-bladed oar,
Until you come to men who know nothing of the sea,
Who eat their food unsalted, and have never seen
Red-prowed ships or oars that wing them along.
And I will tell you a sure sign that you have found them,
One you cannot miss. When you meet another traveler
Who thinks you are carrying a winnowing fan,
Then you must fix your oar in the earth
And offer sacrifice to Lord Poseidon,
A ram, a bull, and a boar in its prime. (Bk. 11, 119-128, Lombardo)
After he recounts the story, his long-suffering and ever-supportive wife says hopes she this will be the last trial they have to face.
It didn’t take long for me to see the significance the story has for me, 2700 years after it was told.
Odysseus is a sailor. The oar represents his identity. His life as a warrior at Troy and as a seafarer have earned him respect and honor. But the prophet is telling him that after he returns home, the heroic stage of his life will be over, and he needs to let it go. If he wants to find peace, he must take his oar and go to a distant place where his reputation is not known. The residents of that land live far from the sea and won’t even know it’s an oar he is carrying – they will mistake it for a winnowing fan used harvesting grain. There – where he no longer has his reputation to define him — he must make an offering to the god Poseidon whom he had unintentionally offended in his journey. Only then can he find peace.
For me this challenge is about identity in retirement.
I’d been planning to retire in 2018 when I would turn 66. I had attended seminars to prepare myself for the transition. I was looking forward to having fewer responsibilities and more time to explore my interests. I’d accomplished two heroic feats – working long enough to qualify for social security and a pension and figuring out how Medicare supplemental insurance works. I had grandchildren to spend time with, trips I’d dreamed of making, and skills I wanted to develop but had never had the time to pursue.
I did retire in 2018. But at times, I have found it hard to let go of my “oar.” I empathize with the athletes and performers who knew it was time to retire but miss the excitement of being in the game or on stage.
I volunteered to raise money for our local clinic and accepted an interim pastoral job, which were opportunities to perform tasks I’ve always enjoyed. I was grateful to not to go to too many meetings. But I also realized I was becoming less important.
At one point, we considered moving to a new place in Northern California. At first, I thought, “But I will lose all the relationships in town that I’ve enjoyed for 30 years. That’s what’s given me meaning.” Going to a place where I had no identity – a place where my oar would not be recognized – would be hard. But at a later point, the story of the oar came to mind, and I was ready to move and see who I would become. (Ironically, the COVID real estate boom nixed our plans.)
How hard it can be for some of us – especially for guys, perhaps? – to go to that “far-off land,” leaving the work and environment that’s defined us for years.
I know some will never give up the oar, and proudly say they want to die at their desk. My father kept his business license long after the phone had stopped ringing.
A recently retired college professor was coming to terms with what he had lost, commenting that he used to have roomfuls of students listening to him. “Now I’m just another guy with opinions.” Many of my friends have had to find new ways to contribute, not wanting to disappear gently into that good night.
Of course, there’s always golf! Out on that deep-green grassy sea I find companionship with other retired adventurers who now boldly face the perils of sand traps and misplayed shots. My oar has become a 7-iron, and I’m grateful for the chance to play. Still, it’s hard to imagine Odysseus playing golf.
As they turn in that night, Odysseus tells his wife he intends to go and plant that oar. But we’re not told if he ever does. As one writer notes, it’s easy to imagine Odysseus lying in bed at night hearing the sea, longing for the life he knew so well.
I’m not turning back. I truly enjoy the freedom I have and my new pursuits. But I appreciate Odysseus’ dilemma – and the fact that this ancient story can still open me up to the mystery of what remains.
There’s a precious gift for your loved ones that’s easy to give and doesn’t cost a nickel.
I’ll start with two personal stories.
We always thought my dad would die before my mom, as he had ongoing health issues. But on a Saturday morning in 1993, my mom had a massive cerebral hemorrhage. She lingered for ten days, and, as far as we could tell, may not have been able to understand anything we were saying to her. Suddenly she was gone. We were left with the decision many families face: what do we do for a memorial service? Luckily, we all remembered something she said many times: “When I die, I want to go out to ‘When The Saints Go Marching In.'”
We focused on creating a service that would honor mom’s spirit. We were all willing to speak and, working with the pastor, chose some hymns and readings. We gladly accepted an offer from a family friend to play a medley of Gershwin songs that mom loved. But the most important act was to honor her request for “All the Saints.”
The church organist found a trumpeter in town who could play “When the Saints” Dixieland style. The pastor gave the closing blessing. From the back of the church the trumpeter began playing very quietly and slowly as Dixieland musicians do. Then he picked up the tempo. The organist joined in. Soon the sanctuary was rocking. We walked down the aisle with smiles and tears. This is what mom wanted.
Mom told us one thing she wanted to have at her memorial service. That one thing was an anchor in a confusing time. It didn’t take away our shock or grief. But the memory of it still brings us joy.
Here’s the second story.
When I was a pastor in Goleta, a woman named Lela came to my office. She wanted to transfer her membership to my congregation and have me lead her memorial service. Two years later, she died of cancer. When I met with her family, they gave me a complete script Lela had created. She’d been a musician herself and knew exactly what she wanted at each point in the service, including readings and specific recordings of favorite classical pieces. Knowing “this is what Lela wanted” allowed us to honor her wishes to the letter.
In my 40 years as a pastor, I’ve been involved in a great variety of memorial services. Some were in overflowing sanctuaries. Some were with two or three people at a graveside. Every time, I did my best to create an experience reflecting the unique spirit and life of that person. The variety is endless:
In my rural parish, I did a service for a ranch hand that ended with his favorite song, “Streets of Laredo.”
Several services ended with a bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” and escorting us out – there’s something about those “pipes” that stirs the soul.
I led a service for a much-loved Hispanic man in Santa Paula who had been a Korean War vet. When we got to the cemetery, a military honor guard carried his casket to the gravesite – followed by a mariachi band.
I attended a service at the Santa Barbara Mission for Richard Aberle, a long-time Hospice board member. Richard loved life and music and had specified what he wanted in his service. As I walked into the sanctuary, instead of hearing a dreary organ, a string ensemble was in the balcony playing “The Blue Danube Waltz” by Strauss. It was joyous, life-affirming music that expressed the way Richard lived his life.
The common thread in these services was following the wishes of the person who had died in a way that expressed their unique character and spirit.
Have you told anyone what you would want?
I’m just now updating notes for my service. It includes readings (the 23rd Psalm, King James version), favorite hymns, Joe Cocker singing “A Little Help From My Friends” at Woodstock (a favorite memory from my youth) and the final scene in “The Natural,” when the aging Roy Hobbs (Robert Redford) hits his last home run and knocks out the lights.
My dear friend Father Larry once said there’s a date on the calendar that will be the date of our death. Every year we pass that day not realizing the significance it will have. We don’t know the day, but we do know there are simple things we can do to support those who will be faced with the task of honoring us with a service when that day comes.
It can be as simple as telling someone one or two things you would like. Do that today or in the next few days, in person or in writing. My mom had one wish, and we are forever grateful we knew what it was.
Or you can take some time and make a list of suggestions, like Lela did. Below is the checklist I’m using this week to update my plans. When I complete it, I’ll put a copy where we keep other important documents.
I’ve been doing memorial services for more than 40 years – I guarantee you anything that you do will be a gift to those you love.
I encourage you to do it now.
Steve
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Suggestions for My Memorial Service
Dear Family: These are suggestions for my service…use them if they seem fitting and practical at the time:
Several years ago, I attended a workshop led by a gifted poet, writer, teacher, friend and mentor, Marilyn McEntyre. Among her many books is Make A List: How A Simple Practice Can Change Our Lives And Open Our Hearts. Marilyn discovered that the value of making lists goes far beyond detailing what we need at the store – making lists can uncover important aspects of our inner life and creativity that may be hidden from us.
One exercise we did at the workshop really hit home for me, and I later put it to good use when my wife and I observed our 40th wedding anniversary. I’m sharing it in this post and encouraging you to try it.
Let’s start with what we did at the workshop.
We were asked to make two lists of ten items each.
The first was to list difficult situations we’ve faced.
When we finished, she had us review what we’d written and share impressions. It was sobering to remember what it felt like to live through those challenges.
Then she asked us to make a second list: significant blessings we’ve experienced.
When finished, we again shared reactions. It was a revelation. I thought, “I’ve faced some hardships in my life,” I thought, “But look at all the graces I’ve received!”
By doing the list of hardships first, the list of blessings became much more than pleasant memories of just positive thoughts. Instead, it became a testimony to the fact that we can find blessings in the hardest of times.
A few months later I decided to adapt the idea for our 40th anniversary and share them with our daughters at dinner. (The original list included specific details about our personal lives known to our family, which I’m omitting here.)
First, I listed 40 challenges my wife and I have lived through. Here’s a sampling:
Getting married when we were naïve and unprepared.
At one point realizing we didn’t have $74 for a dentist visit for our five-year old.
Experiencing my own depression at age 38 when I saw all my friends “getting ahead” – buying houses, vacationing in Hawaii, and going skiing when we could not afford any of that — and feeling I was a total failure.
Raising kids and you realizing you can’t save them from potential harm. The many sleepless nights and ardent prayers. And realizing it doesn’t end when they turn 18.
The sudden death of my mother and brothers.
Caring for our aging and dying parents.
🚴♂️Family medical emergencies that involved ambulances and times in the ICU when we felt helpless and afraid.
Several crises and conflicts in my career.
The tragic death of people we loved over the years, including young mothers and teenagers.
Watching our bodies age and how we could no longer do activities we had taken for granted.
Then I read my list of ”40 Graces.” Here’s a sample:
The amazing discovery of God in our lives.
The way we were embraced and supported by the Point Loma, Santa Paula, Wapato, and Goleta congregations through 30 years.
Looking into the eyes of each of our daughters when they were born and seeing them grow.
The excitement of moving to New Jersey for seminary, even though all we arrived with was a rocking chair and Hoover vacuum cleaner.
Moving to the Campbell Farm in rural Washington and discovering the richness of rural life.
The abiding friendships we’ve developed every place we lived.
The positive impact of the teen “Love Of God” program on each of our daughters.
Holding each of our three grandsons in our arms and seeing them grow.
The love and support we received from friends during emergencies and crises.
The care our parents received at nursing homes from nurses and aides.
Making a list like this is easier than you might think. I encourage you to do something similar for special events, or as a simple way to review your life. You can just start with lists of ten. Like I said, it’s a profound way to appreciate what you’ve gone through and the gifts you’ve received. And when you find yourself once again facing a serious challenge, it can be a reminder that grace is already close and waiting for you.
Photo credit: “Inspiration Point, Santa Barbara,” Brianne from Everyday Runaway
I didn’t prepare a personal blog post this week and figured I’d just take a pass. But this morning I came across a column by long-time New York resident Peggy Noonan and want to share a portion of it with you. She’s reflecting on 9/11 as a “Day of Grief and Human Glory” and towards the end writes:
…There was Welles Crowther. Remember him? A young guy, 24, just starting out, worked as a junior associate at an investment bank on the 104th floor of the south tower. He always carried in his back pocket a red bandanna, and they teased him. WHAT ARE YOU, A FARMER? He’d laugh and show bravado: WITH THIS BANDANA I’M GONNA CHANGE THE WORLD. And that day as the world exploded he did. He led people to safety, carried them down to lower floors. He kept going back for more. To protect from the smoke he put the bandanna over his face. He never came home from the towers that day or the day after, his parents were anguished, hoping against hope. Then one day, three days in, his mother was at her desk at home in Nyack, N.Y. Suddenly she felt a presence behind her. She didn’t look, didn’t move. She knew it was Welles. She knew he was saying goodbye. She said: “Thank you.” She knew now he was dead. Months of mourning, no word on how he’d died. And one day, Memorial Day weekend 2002, the New York Times had a story about the last minutes in the towers, and they mentioned survivors who spoke of a man in a red bandanna who’d saved them. And Welles’s mother thought she knew who that was. She got a picture of her son to the survivors and they said yes, that was the man who saved me. Some time later they found his remains, near the command post the firemen had set up in the South Tower. When his family opened his apartment they found an unfinished application to become a New York City fireman.
Just a few days before 9/11, on Labor Day weekend, Welles, visiting his parents, was unusually subdued. He told his mother he had a feeling he was going to be part of something big, had a role to play in it or a job to do.
Isn’t it funny how the mind works, how it knows things it does not know?
“Courage comes from love,” was my summation in 2016. “There’s a big unseen current of love that hums through the world and some plug into it more than others, more deeply and surely.” It fills them with courage. It makes everything possible.”
I love this:
“Courage comes from love…There’s a big unseen current of love that hums through the world and some plug into it more than others, more deeply and surely.” It fills them with courage. It makes everything possible.
On January 20, 2006, at age 78, she made history by being the first popular singer to have a solo concert at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. She was a sensation on Broadway when she was younger, winning many awards including an Emmy for her role in the original The Music Man. She had the voice, looks, and acting skill of a star. But after years of success, her career faded. She withdrew from public performances as she struggled with alcohol, obesity, and depression. In time, a close friend and collaborator convinced her she still had a great gift to share with audiences. She began performing in public again, which led to that night at the Met.
When Barbara Cook walked on stage that night, she got a standing ovation.
The second song she sang was particularly poignant given what she’d been through. It was from a 1973 Broadway musical, “Seesaw:”
After reading a rave review of the concert album, I bought a copy and have grown to love this song. It has that spunky, sassy, celebratory spirit of so many Broadway songs, and she is amazing. “It’s Not Where You Start” begins playing in my head some days, and the spirit of it makes me smile and swagger.
Barbara Cook died in 2017, beloved by her colleagues and fans not only for her many gifts but also for her comeback. If life’s about “how you finish,” she finished her life “on top.”
But I’ve been reflecting on the theme of the song. I find myself thinking of all the people I’ve known over the years in my personal life, ministry, and hospice work, and ask myself: Is it always true? Is “where you finish” the most important measure of your life?
Bob was a member of the first congregation I served in Santa Paula. He was a big guy and full of life. He was a proud Marine who had been in some of the most intense battles in the Pacific and achieved the rank of captain. He’d then made a career in the fruit packing business and raised six children with his wife Jean. We rented a house just one door away from Bob and Jean, and grew to be close friends, often sharing wine, crackers and cheese on our front porches and vacationing together. He took delight in needling me. Sometimes when I’d call young people to come forward for a children’s sermon, he’d walk up with them and sit on the steps, staring at me with a deadpan gaze. After retirement he became a Hospice volunteer and told me it was the most meaningful thing he’d ever done. I loved the man.
After we left Santa Paula for Washington state in 1985, we stayed close. Moving back to Santa Barbara in 1992 meant we were only an hour away from Santa Paula, which enabled us to spend time together once again.
Bob became ill in 2005. In his last months he was in a nursing home with dementia. The dementia released some of the long-suppressed traumatic memories of the war, and Bob’s anger and confusion was a serious challenge for staff and guests. He died early in 2006.
I think of the life of my dear friend Bob, and ask: Is it always about how we “finish”?
My answer: No. Bob’s life was full of hard work, responsibilities, sacrifice, service, joy, and love. What he went through in the last few months does not define him or take away all he did.
I can think of many people I’ve known who have died in nursing homes and car accidents, from heart attacks and strokes. They did not have a chance to complete their journey as they would have liked. But their end doesn’t define their life.
We long for perfect, inspiring endings in movies, television series, musical pieces, novels, careers, and personal stories. But real life doesn’t always supply them.
I am going to keep on listening to Barbara Cook sing “It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish.” I will always be inspired by her story and legacy. I am also continually inspired by the life of my friend Bob.
I want to live with “guts” and “grit.” Yet I know I cannot be guaranteed an ideal conclusion to my life. What I do know is that I can trust the grace of God, which is far greater than my expectations.
Steve
Barbara Cook singing “It’s Not Where You Start” in Melbourne. The picture quality is grainy, but her spirit shines:
In 1990, I attended a ceremony installing Bishop Francis George as the new bishop of Yakima, Washington. It was a fancy event, but his personal remarks were brief.
“I would like you to know,” he said, “that when I was young, I had polio. As an adult, there are times when I lose my balance and fall. If that happens and you are near me, don’t be alarmed. Simply lend me a hand so I can get up, and we will go on.”
He paused.
“And as your bishop, there will be times when I may make a mistake performing my duties. When that happens, don’t be alarmed. Simply lend me a hand so I can get up, and we will go on. Thank you.”
I’ve thought of this often.
I don’t know what it’s like to have had polio or any other challenges people face. I do know I’ve been absent minded since I was young; I’ve often said most of my life has been an out-of-body experience. I work at it. And I’ve made it a practice to tell co-workers that I may forget things. If they see me deciding on an action and wonder if I’ve failed to take something into account, I’ve asked them to let me know. I want to do things well and I can use the help.
In our current “gotcha” culture, people are quick to make judgments about those who make mistakes. To be sure, many times people need to be held accountable for their harmful actions; various politicians, sports figures, corporate executives, and entertainers quickly come to mind. But if we make an innocent error, what a gift it is to have someone close to us not be alarmed and, instead, smile and offer us a hand. We can recover and correct it. And we can go on together.
Art work: “Hands of Emperor Maximillian I,” Albrecht Durer, 1506
In my years in ministry and hospice, one of the common tasks was caring for people. It sounds easy, but it can be challenging. A key theme is remembering the difference between curing and caring.
Imagine you are going to visit someone who’s dealing with a difficult event. Maybe they’ve lost a loved one or are facing a serious challenge with their health or family.
As you walk up to the door, what is your intention?
A common response would be, “I want to help this person feel better. I’ll do whatever I can to cheer them up. Maybe I can tell them something I went through that will help.”
If this is your intention, how is your body feeling? For most of us, it could be tense. It’s like we are stepping on stage for a performance, and the adrenalin is starting to flow.
One way to describe this intention is simple: we want to cure this person. Obviously, we can’t bring their loved one back or change what is happening. But maybe if we work hard enough, we can “cure” them of feeling anxious, lost, or depressed with some good advice and encouragement.
We go in and visit. We talk about different things, and whenever we can, insert an upbeat comment or personal story. If there is a pause in the conversation, we think of something to talk about so it’s not awkward.
The visit concludes. We exchange good wishes, step out and close the door.
What might we be thinking and feeling?
We may be glad to know we made the visit to show our concern, but we’re probably relieved the visit is over. It’s stressful to have to fix other people. We may also sense that, despite whatever well-intended words we said, our friend is not really “better.”
How might the person we visited be feeling?
They may have picked up on the dynamic created by our intention to “cure them.” They didn’t want us to feel bad, so they played along, forcing a smile when they could and in the end thanking us for coming. But they may also be relieved when the visit is over. They may feel guilty that their situation is creating stress and concern for others.
All this can flow when we try to cure people.
Let’s start with a different intention. Instead of trying to cure the person, we are simply going to care for them.
As we come up to their door, we pause to clarify that intention. We say to ourselves, “I’m not here to change how they are feeling. I am going to listen carefully to what their situation is really like for them. If they describe their pain or confusion, I’m not going to redirect them. I’m going to simply be with them, listening to them with a sense of genuine, restrained reverence.”
So, in we go. We do our best to truly listen to what they are saying. Our own mind may want to interject an opinion aimed at changing how they feel, but we let those thoughts dissipate. Whatever unfolds, we simply try to come alongside and truly appreciate what they are experiencing in all its complexity.
In a simple form, that’s caring instead of curing.
A leading grief counselor, Alan Wolfelt, has another word for caring: companioning. He believes grief is ultimately a journey of the soul that needs to be honored, not a psychological problem that needs to be fixed. Here’s a few of what he calls the essential tenets of companioning:
Tenet One: Companioning is about being present to another person’s pain; it is not about taking away the pain.
Tenet Two: Companioning is about going to the wilderness of the soul with another human being; it is not about thinking you are responsible for finding the way out.
Tenet Seven: Companioning is about discovering the gifts of sacred silence; it does not mean filling up every moment with words.
As you can see, it’s very different from curing. The focus is fully on the other person, not my need to prove myself. To be truly “companioning” is not a performance that summons adrenalin, but a spiritual practice in which we seek to be calm, alert, and unafraid.
When I’m practicing being a “companion,” I’m not being passive. My mind, heart and body are active as they attune to the person’s experience. But I’m not going to grab the steering wheel and direct the conversation the first chance I get.
Some years ago, the agency I worked for received a request from a local retirement home to have one of our people visit a new resident. The woman’s children had initiated the move so they could be closer to her. But in the process, she had to give up a lifetime of relationships in the community back east where she’d lived all her life. Since moving in, she rarely came out of her apartment and the staff was concerned.
On the first visit, they simply became acquainted. But by the second visit, she sensed she could be open about the pain she was experiencing. She began sobbing intensely, which went on for 40 minutes. The counselor simply sat there with her. When he arrived for the next visit, she said, “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s take a walk outside,” and she showed him some of the beautiful flowers near her apartment. He visited her once more and they parted ways.
He didn’t cure her. But he honored and cared for her like a trusted companion, and a new chapter in her journey could begin.
There is ample evidence from evolutionary psychology and brain science that we are wired to make quick assumptions about people based on our culture, perceptions, and experience. This can be particularly true in our current political climate.
The spiritual traditions have offered us alternative ways of seeing people, aimed at encouraging us to not judge by outer appearances, but assuming every person has inherent worth.
Quakers have held that every human has an “inner light” worthy of respect. This core belief led them to oppose slavery long before others in Europe and America.
In the eastern traditions, a common practice is to bow to others with hands pressed together near our heart and say “Namaste,” meaning we acknowledge the sacred presence in the other.
Fifteen centuries ago, St. Benedict created a book of precepts to guide the life of the monks. Rule 53:1 reads: “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, for he himself will say: I was a stranger and you welcomed me (Matt 25:35)” This rule is still followed at Benedictine monasteries and has been adopted by many in the Catholic tradition.
With this in mind, I appreciated the following piece by Mike Kerrigan, a lawyer in North Carolina. He has been distraught by the “rancor” that is characterizing our culture and sought out a mentor from his past who might help him approach others in a better way:
I reconnected recently with an old friend and Jesuit priest, Daniel Sweeney, with the intention of asking him.
In the 1980s, Father Sweeney taught world history at Georgetown Prep, the high school in North Bethesda, Md., where I was a student. He’s now an assistant professor of political science at the University of Scranton.
Surely my clerical companion, whether drawing on his priestly or academic vocation, could offer the customary good counsel to which I’d grown accustomed in adolescence. Still teaching by anecdote, Father Sweeney didn’t disappoint.
He recalled a time he’d repaired from the hurly-burly of instructing adolescent males to the tranquility of a faculty lounge. Seated beside him was another Jesuit faculty member, James A.P. Byrne, a priest known for saintly serenity and heroic patience.
Their peace was interrupted by an obscenely loud knock on the door. It was the kind of gratuitous pounding both men instantly knew had been delivered by the sort of student from whom they’d sought respite. Father Byrne got up, exchanged words with the impertinent young man, and returned to his seat.
“Who was at the door?” Father Sweeney asked. “It was just our Lord,” Father Byrne replied serenely, his Irish eyes twinkling, “in one of his most unrecognizable forms.” [1]
I hope to remember that description and use it when needed.
Image: “My Portrait Surrounded by Masks,” James Ensor, 1899
[1] “A Priest Finds Serenity in Humor,” by Mike. Kerrigan, WSJ, August 3, 2021
I don’t read much poetry. But sometimes I find a poem that speaks to me. I recently came across this one in a handout from a writing class I took last winter:
It is a kind of love, is it not? How the cup holds the tea, How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare, How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes Or toes. How soles of feet know Where they’re supposed to be. I’ve been thinking about the patience Of ordinary things, how clothes Wait respectfully in closets And soap dries quietly in the dish, And towels drink the wet From the skin of the back. And the lovely repetition of stairs. And what is more generous than a window?
I’ve reread it often in the last few days. It helps me pause and find a surprising appreciation for cups, chairs, floors, shoes, clothes, closets, soap, towels, and stairs. And windows.
I’m sitting at my desk looking out the window at our front yard and the street. This window has been here 28 years and I never paid attention to it. But now, if I tell my busy brain to pause for just a moment, I see the window as generous and patient. What a gift!
From where you are at this moment, what patient, ordinary things do you see?
Steve
Painting: Window of Vincens, by Henri Matisse
[i] From Another River: New and Selected Poems by Pat Schneider (Amherst Writers and Artists Press, 2005)
Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D 