Uncategorized – Page 24 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

Is Your Intention to Cure or to Care?

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.

Tenet Nine: Companioning is about respecting disorder and confusion; it is not about imposing order and logic. (For a full list, go to https://www.centerforloss.com/2019/12/eleven-tenets-of-companioning)

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.

Seeing People Through a Spiritual Lens

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

“The Patience of Ordinary Things”

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)

Claiming the Power of Serpents and Doves

Many Biblical quotes are presented as if they were created for a Hallmark card — pleasant, sunny words of advice that can help us be good people and do nice things. But not all of them. I’ve always been struck by the words Jesus gives to his disciples in Matthew 10:16:

“Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”

Over the years, I’ve grown to love the audacity and practical wisdom in this saying. I believe it can have great value in our personal and professional lives. It presents two personal qualities that can seem, at first, mutually exclusive, and asks us to hold them together.

Let’s start with “wise as serpents.”

When hearing this, people will often say, “What a minute… ‘Be wise as a serpent?’… don’t snakes represent evil in the Biblical tradition?” That is a popular belief, going back to the writings of St. Paul in which the snake in the Garden of Eden story represents evil. But that’s not what the original story suggests, nor how I think Jesus intended the reference to be understood.

Genesis 3 begins “Now the serpent was more clever than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made…” Other translations use “subtle,” “shrewd,” “cunning” or “wise.” Traditional cultures sensed various animals had qualities that can be respected, admired, and emulated. Many sensed something particularly mysterious in snakes, and some even worshipped them. But in the original text, the serpent doesn’t have an evil intent; its role is to communicate possibilities in thinking that expanded the imagination of the human characters in the story. The dialogue between the serpent and Eve engages her curiosity and she begins to think for herself.

The way Genesis and Jesus portray it, the serpent can be respected for its cleverness and wisdom, and we can benefit from its example.

So, we are encouraged to be wise and creative. But that raises a question: to what purpose? Are we going to use creative thinking for our selfish agendas, which may be deceptive and manipulative? Or are we going to use our “smarts” for a greater good, something that serves, uplifts, and liberates others?

Jesus pairs “wise as serpents” with “innocent as doves.” Doves were seen as symbols of the divine spirit, a spirit which only works for the enhancement of life, not its exploitation. If we are to be “innocent as doves,” we will use our intelligence for the higher good.

When I think of people who have used natural intelligence for noble purposes, several come to mind.

When I was serving the Goleta congregation, we had an ambitious capital campaign. It began with the intention of creating a new, contemporary sanctuary. As it evolved, it included collaborating with the Cerebral Palsy Foundation to build 13 units of low-income, special needs housing, as well as the ecological restoration of the adjacent creek. People brought their “best game” to the project. One such person was Edith Newman, a retired businesswoman from Philadelphia. Edith loved getting the best return for any money entrusted to her, and she was our campaign treasurer. In the pre-internet era, every day she would check the CD rates at the local banks. If she found a better return somewhere, she’d get in her car and move our money from one bank to the next. Several years later, when our project was completed, one of the finance committee members looked over the records. “Do you know,” he said, “When I added it up, Edith’s account management earned us more than $100,000?” That was twenty years ago, and a lot of money for us. And it was because Edith was a wise money manager and used that gift for a higher purpose.

I recently watched Steven Spielberg’s film Lincoln for the fourth time. It shows how complicated issues of race were in that period, even for Lincoln himself. But it also shows how crafty and brilliant Lincoln was as a politician. Without those skills, the 14^th Amendment ending slavery would not have passed.

As a sports fan, it’s always exciting to see someone use creative and strategic intelligence in a game. A favorite memory involves the Hall of Fame pitcher Greg Maddux. In 2008, he was 42 years old and far beyond his best years. The Dodgers signed him, and he played a total of 7 games for them that year. He’d been a crafty pitcher, but a poor hitter and runner. I was watching one game when, much to the surprise of everyone, he got on first base. When he got there, he was chatting with the first baseman, and they seemed to be joking about the fact he’d made it that far. Everyone, including the first baseman, expected him to stay put at first base. But Maddux sensed the other team’s guard was down. Suddenly he took off for second base and arrived safely before the other team realized what was happening. He stood there smiling. What he’d done was fair play and he did it to help his team. I still smile every time I think about it.

A core value in spiritual life is to cultivate a purity of purpose – to be “innocent as doves.” But that doesn’t mean we should be satisfied with a lazy, passive, or naive mind. The world will be a better place if we take some of the smarts we have and get the job done.

Watching the River Flow

“When we spend time in nature, our ego realizes it has no audience to perform for and it slowly quiets down.” (David Brooks). We’ve been in the Sierras for a week. As my wife and I were fishing along Rush Creek, we came to this spot. We stopped fishing and sat there for an hour and a half. We were the only people there. I’m grateful for that moment in time, and for knowing the river flows on and I have been, at most, a witness.

Practicing or Performing?

As you go through your day, do you feel like you are on stage every minute, striving to give a stellar performance?

I once heard an engaging talk by a theology professor, Tom Boyd. He noted how we may hear someone is “a practicing Christian” or “a practicing Buddhist.” He then explored the difference between the words “performance” and “practice.”

Think about playing the piano. If we are performing a piece and make a mistake, we may be embarrassed and frustrated. But if we are practicing the same piece and miss a note, we don’t worry about it; “I’m just practicing,” we tell ourselves. Performing can make us tense, afraid and nervous. But if we are practicing, we are relaxed, open and curious.

He went on to say some people make their spiritual life a performance, rather than a true practice. They feel great internal pressure to always do the right thing and think the right thoughts, and to appear blameless before anyone who may be watching. That’s a lot of work, a lot of pressure.

I remember fondly a professor in seminary, Chris Becker. He grew up in Holland and had lived through World War 2. Seeing so much suffering led him to become a Biblical scholar. He was brilliant and flamboyant. He smoked a cigarette using a cigarette holder, something I’d only seen in movies. He often had a stylish scarf tossed around his neck. He was known to never turn down an invitation to have a beer with a student. He was popular not only because he was brilliant but because he was deeply passionate about life.

One day a student asked him a question about how a clergy person should live. It touched something in Chris. He took a long pause as he searched for a response. He looked at the student, then all of us earnest seminarians. “Please,” he said with heart-felt concern, “Don’t let your life become an ordeal of piety.”

I’ve been an ordained for 40 years, and I’ve never forgotten his plea: “Don’t let your life become an ordeal of piety.”

If we are living our life as an “ordeal of piety,” it may be because we see it as a performance, not a practice. Our spiritual journeys are meant to make us aware of the choices we make as we go through the day. But hopefully we are centered in a sense of gratitude for what we’ve been given and the path we are on. This should put us more at ease. From an inner awareness of blessing, we don’t have to prove anything; we don’t have to perform. We can practice responding to grace as best we can.

The same perspective can be useful in other areas of our life.

If you are in a relationship, how are you approaching it? is it a performance in which you must do everything right? Or is it a daily practice where you are always learning how to live with and love each other?

How about parenting – is it a performance you’re being graded on by someone, especially yourself? Or is it a practice in which you are constantly learning while trying to do your best in new and challenging situations?

Clearly there are times to “perform.” I know if I’m “performing” a wedding, I want to do my very best. And if you are a musician, actor or athlete, there is a special excitement in doing as well as you possibly can when you perform. But it’s helpful to remember most of the time, we can simply practice doing whatever we are doing.

I’ve been playing golf since I retired. Recently I ruptured the bicep tendon in my right arm. After tests and consultations, I began physical therapy. When I asked the therapist about playing golf, he said I could try it and see how it felt – but be careful not to try to do too much.

After a month I decided to see how it felt to play just 9 holes. In my mind I said, “Take it easy. Don’t push it. You’re just practicing.”

On the second hole, my drive took one bounce and disappeared into the hole. It was my very first hole in one. I was shocked. I played well the rest of the day.

A week later I came out again, convinced I could build on my success. My expectations were higher, and I began pressing. It was a disaster. I played poorly all day.

We can bear in mind the distinction between performing and practicing and choose which approach we want to use in different situations. Who wants life to be an “ordeal of piety?”

The Art of “Living in the Tragic Gap,” Part Two: The American Dream

I’ve been wondering what the 4^th of July could mean this year, given all we’ve been through. I decided to do some reading.

I started with First Principles: What America’s Founders Learned from the Greeks and Romans and How That Shaped Our Country, by Thomas E. Hicks. After the presidential election of 2016, Hicks, a military historian, sensed our core values were being challenged. He decided to take a fresh look at our origins. The book gave me new appreciation for the character, complexities and contributions of Washington, Adams, Jefferson and Madison. But it also added complexity to the story.
While praising the virtues of our founders, he lists issues where, in retrospect, they fell short: “Third, and most troubling, was their acceptance of human bondage, which would prove disastrous to the nation they designed. Often seeing it as part of the natural order, they wrote it into the fundamental law of the nation, so sustained a system that was deeply inhumane and rested on a foundation of physical and sexual abuse, including torture.”[i]

“Some of George Washington’s “famous false teeth,” notes the historian Henry Wieneck, came from enslaved humans, and had been pulled from their living jaws.”[ii]

At Jefferson’s Monticello, “A small boy being horsewhipped by a visitor was just part of the background of the bustling plantation scene.”[iii]

In late 1775, Lord Dunmore was the British Royal Governor of Virginia. Knowing the colonists were getting close to rebellion, he “…issued a royal proclamation declaring martial law and promising freedom to slaves who joined the royal forces. This concern about freeing the slaves, concludes the historian Jill Lepore, was the factor that, more than issues of taxation and representation, or the fighting in Massachusetts, tipped the scales in favor of American Independence.”[iv]

Of the four founders, three were slaveholders, and only George Washington freed as many as he could in his will.

When I finished First Principles, I wanted to learn more about the experience of slavery.

I read Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead. It portrays the struggle for freedom of a young woman born into bondage. It’s a compelling story describing the brutality, torture, sexual abuse, degradation, daily fear, and family chaos of her life, and the casual disregard shown by most whites. And it also illustrates the tenacity and courage of someone knowing they deserve to be free.

I have always felt deep respect for my own ancestors and what they endured as immigrants, and I always will. This book made me realize how the challenges they faced, while very real, were a world apart from the suffering of African Americans.

Now I’ve started Frederick Douglas, Prophet of Freedom by David Blight. I’ve always heard about Douglas, but never took the time to discover his story. His father was most likely the white overseer at his childhood plantation who routinely raped and beat slave women, including his mother, who was taken from him at an early age. But he learned how to read – a dangerous thing for slaves – and his brilliant mind began grappling with the cruel paradoxes of America. In a church in Baltimore, he heard a message of faith that he realized applied to all human beings, not just whites. He escaped and became one of the most eloquent and impactful figures in American history.

Our history is a harsh reality. How do we deal with it?

Last week I introduced Parker Palmer’s concept of the “Tragic Gap,” and how it can apply to our personal lives. I believe it’s also a helpful way to look at our shared American experience.

America certainly began with high ideals, truly revolutionary for the time. But our story has been complicated from the beginning. We make some progress, but then discover new reminders of how we fall short.

We can experience two temptations. One temptation is to become so defensive of the ideals that we don’t want to acknowledge anything that challenges them, a state he calls “irrelevant idealism.” On the other hand, we can become so discouraged we descend into “corrosive cynicism,” giving up on the hope for any progress.

But we can find that third way by learning to stand in the “Tragic Gap.”

Standing in the tragic gap means we are still devoted to the ideals but have the patience and fortitude to deal with hard realities as they emerge.

It helps to remember times in which we have seen light come out of darkness.

We can see the harsh realities of war in every generation. But we also know that war and conflict can be followed by peace and reconciliation.

We regularly see examples of personal greed and exploitation. But we also see examples of generosity and sharing.

The COVID pandemic revealed a “harsh reality” of life around the world, creating great suffering. But it has also been a time when nations, communities and neighborhoods have learned how to cooperate in new and profound ways.

This spring I participated in a writing seminar on Zoom. One class member was an African American woman, recently retired as a Navy chaplain. At one point in a discussion, she said she has a quote from the writer bel hooks at the top of her computer screen: “How do we hold people accountable for wrongdoing and yet at the same time remain in touch with their humanity enough to believe in their capacity to be transformed?” She said this helps her persevere.

The harsh reality of racism continues to create seen and unseen suffering every day. But the dream of freedom and justice based on the inherent dignity of all human beings is alive. Living in the “Tragic Gap,” we can face the realities while holding on to the dream. John Lewis never gave up. Barack and Michelle Obama are not giving up. The many women and men of color elected to office are not giving up.

The dream lives and is worth celebrating.

[i] Hicks, pg. 11

[ii] Pg. .11

[iii] Pg. 11

[iv] Pg. 119

The Art of “Living in the Tragic Gap”

There are two stages of life: the first is when we are aspiring to perfection, the second is when that is no longer viable, and we begin to look within. — David Brooks

Commencement speakers often encourage young people to dream big. I don’t remember who spoke when I graduated from UCSB years ago, but I had big dreams. My plan was to work six months and save enough money to travel in Europe, where I had a connection for a job. After a year I’d come back and begin law school. By age 40 I was going to be a millionaire — then retire and travel more.

I knew it was possible. I’d heard stories about people who had done things like that. If it happens for some people, why not me?

It didn’t work out that way.

It took me a year to earn the money I needed. My time in Europe was cut short when I was denied a work permit. I completed one year of law school and then withdrew, got married and became a father.

I thought marriage and parenting would be easy.

It didn’t work out that way.

Marriage, it turns out, is a lot of work. Parenting as well. “Perfection” turned out to be elusive.

By my late 30s I was depressed. My net worth was zero and my professional path seemed empty. I had friends who seemed to be thriving, which made it worse. I’d been living with unrealistic expectations and was now painfully coming to terms with the harsh facts of life.

This polarity is something the writer Parker Palmer knows well. Having gone through his own journey, he learned how to live with the tension between high hopes and hard realities. It’s a life skill he calls, “Living in the Tragic Gap.” Here’s how it works.

Many of us start out with lofty hopes and naïve expectations, but eventually encounter disappointments and dead ends.

When this happens, we can be faced with two temptations.

One temptation is to keep chasing those hopes at all costs.

“Look at that guy making a lot of money – he seems happy. I am going to keep pushing to succeed, no matter the cost.”

“I deserve to be happy and satisfied every day. If I’m not, it’s clearly somebody else’s fault, not mine.”

“As a parent, I’m going to read all the books and do the right things. If I do that, my kids – and I – will live a worry-free life.”

“Aging will never happen to me. I’ll find a program, a surgery, a diet or a guru that will keep me looking and feeling young.”

We can become completely absorbed by unrealistic ideals of how life “should” be. Parker Palmer calls this, “irrelevant idealism.”

The second temptation goes to the other extreme.

When the realities of work, marriage, and family life fall short of what we thought we deserved, we can become bitter. We lash out at other people, society, God or ourselves. Or we feel broken and ashamed and withdraw into depression and resentment. This is the temptation Palmer calls “corrosive cynicism.”

But there is a third path, one that avoids the two temptations: “Living in the Tragic Gap.” The “gap” can feel “tragic,” as we must accept the fact our ideals may be impossible to fully realize. But accepting the gap and negotiating life within it is the beginning of wisdom. We don’t give up hopes and ideals but begin to balance them in the context of life’s realities. As David Brooks said, once we are done “aspiring for perfection,” we “begin to look within.”

Little is really known of Jesus’ life before he was 30. But it was probably after a long period of looking within that he emerged with his compelling vision of the kingdom of God. He encountered ordinary people struggling with life. Through him they experienced a new, grace-based way of seeing themselves and the world. This was not an escape from the realities of life but instead gave clarity and meaning to life as it is.

The classic story of Buddha’s life is similar. He was rich and healthy. He was carefully protected from suffering, living the first part of his life in the equivalent of a privileged, gated community. But he sensed something was missing. He went out to see the real world and found the harsh realities of sickness, aging, and death. But he kept pressing for a realistic way to make sense of it all. In time, he experienced enlightenment and passed his insights on to countless others; “problems” will never stop arising in life, but we can develop an awareness that keeps us from being absorbed by them and instead find a boundless source of compassion within.

In my work, I’ve met many people who became aware that perfection was no longer an option and were hungry for an alternative. I met them in my role as a pastor over the years. I met many when I was Director at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center. People were looking for something more, some way to stand between high hopes and hard realities. And when they’d find their footing, it was as if real life began. They became humble, but also caring. They took responsibility for their life choices and learned from their losses. They found a certain kind of quiet courage to go on.

Hospice of Santa Barbara has a long history of supporting people of all ages in the grief process. When I was serving there, I was particularly struck by the work with children and teenagers who’d lost a parent. One group support session ended with a time for the participants to create a work of art that expressed how they felt and what they’d learned. A 15-year-old boy painted a picture of a heart broken open with blotches of red coming out of the broken space, growing larger as they emerged. He wrote: “Death is like a broken heart. It hurts and is sad, but you get through it. Your heart is twice as strong.”

Disciple Dog’s “Bow-Attitudes”

Last year I was preparing a sermon on the “Beatitudes” (Matthew 5: 3-12). I shared some thoughts with Disciple Dog on our morning walks. Next thing I know, he told me he’d created his own list. He called them his “Bow Attitudes.” Here they are:

Disciple Dog Shares His List of “Bow-Attitudes”

DD came up with 7 things worthy of “bows” in his life that day. Since then, he’s been regularly creating fresh lists as a spiritual exercise. He’s taught me it’s a great way to start or end our day, and can help when we can’t sleep or are feeling anxious. It actually is a practice that is useful in all kinds of situations. “Tell them to give it a try,” he told me. I said I would.

They Survived a Pandemic and Built a Cathedral –How Will We Remember COVID?

A great plague struck Vienna in the early 1700s. Rulers often left the cities during such times, but Charles VI remained, joining the inhabitants to pray for deliverance. They particularly prayed to St. Charles Borromeo, who had been canonized out of admiration for the way he cared for victims of a plague in the 1570s. When in 1712 the plague finally subsided, the Emperor, filled with gratitude, pledged to build a great cathedral. Construction began in 1716 and was completed in 1737. It was called Karlskirche, or St. Charles Church. It became an architectural landmark in Vienna; people married in the chapel include Mozart, Mahler and Hedy Lamar. It continues to be a popular sight.

When I arrived in Vienna in January 2020, Karlskirche was not on my list of places to see. But it was close to my hotel and became one of the first places I visited. Initially I was put off by the overly ornate architecture – way too frilly and overdone for my tastes. And the paintings of the saint caring for plague victims seemed to portray events of a distant past. But something kept drawing me back. On a cold Saturday night – you were given a wool blanket when you entered — I attended a performance of the Mozart Requiem there. I visited again two days later. And on my last night in the city, I was on my way to a concert. It was foggy as I passed Karlskirche and its bells were ringing; I realized I had become enamored.

I returned from Europe in early February. A short time later, COVID-19 began shutting down Europe and the world. So far, 3.8 million people have died — 614,000 in America alone – and it is still threatening many people in the world. It is finally subsiding in America, and California is scheduled to lift most restrictions on June 15.

As life begins to return to normal, I’ve been wondering: Will we do what the Austrians did? Will we take time to be grateful for those who helped us survive the COVID plague? Will we find a way to remember what lessons we have learned? We have memorials for many painful experiences, including the Vietnam Memorial in D.C. and the 9/11 Memorial in Manhattan. The art and themes of Karlskirche focus on the spiritual figures and beliefs that were prominent in 18^th century Vienna. What themes might we include for our COVID experience?

If I was on the design committee, here are some themes I would suggest:

Healthcare workers We need to honor the healthcare workers who lived every day on the edges of this invisible and deadly biological disaster, and who, like St. Charles, cared for the sick and dying at mortal risk to themselves. How about a simulated balcony where, below you, images of nurses, doctors, and hospital workers pass by hour after hour? Your job is to pick up kitchen pans and create a cacophony of gratitude.
Frontline workers We need to honor the countless people who could not cocoon at home with Zoom, but worked on farms and in grocery stores keeping us fed. And for post office, FedEx and UPS workers who became human lifelines. Peggy Noonan, longtime conservative columnist for the Wall Street Journal, was in the middle of the COVID apocalypse in New York. She wrote: “We know who kept America going during the pandemic—the stackers, counter clerks and others, some of whom were here illegally. When this is over, give them full U.S. citizenship, no questions or penalties.”[i]
Scientists We need to honor the scientists who created the vaccine that saved our lives and our world. Maybe create a life-size model of the labs where Moderna, Pfizer and J&J employees worked around the clock to develop the vaccine? And testimonies about what it was like to do this critical work?
Nursing homes We need to remember the unique human toll COVID took in nursing homes. This suffering was largely invisible. Millions of elderly and medically vulnerable people had to live as if they were under house arrest, unable to see or hug loved ones. Low-income caregivers kept showing up, often returning to cramped housing to care for their own families. We should not let this be forgotten.
Volunteer networks. Around the country, countless individuals stepped up to organize help for neighbors and people in need. In the parish I was serving, members created a food distribution network that fed thousands of people over several months. Similar efforts blossomed everywhere. We need to remember this display of what it looks like to love your neighbor, no matter who that neighbor is.
Our political failures. When I’ve heard stories of hard times in American history, such as the depression and World War 2, there has often been a common perspective: “It was hard. But we came together. We shared the burdens. We united as a nation to face a common threat.” I don’t think we will hear that about COVID. Politics often took precedence over the clear and present danger. It was a mess. We need to find a way to remind future generations of the cost of personal and political pettiness.

If COVID had never happened, my memory of visiting Karlskirche would be simply one more positive experience in a trip that had many. But it’s become more than that. It’s an example of how one culture expressed gratitude for surviving a plague. We need to create memorials that insure the profound lessons learned during COVID will not be forgotten.

[i] https://www.wsj.com/articles/a-look-back-at-the-pandemic-year-11608847540?mod=article_inline

(Photo: High Altar Apotheosis of Saint Charles Borromeo, by Alberto Camesina.jpg)