Uncategorized – Page 24 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

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)

Honey and Other Things: Exploring Our Inner Selves

Years ago, I heard a presentation by Tom Boyd, a philosophy professor from the University of Oklahoma. As a boy he spent summers with his grandfather on a ranch in Texas. One chore was to help harvest honey. After collecting, they would filter it and pour it into jars, then apply a label, “Pure Honey.”

One time a particle had gotten past the filter. Young Tom didn’t want to put it through the filter again. He told his grandfather they shouldn’t worry about it and sell it as is.

“We can’t do that, Tom,” he said. “Because then we’d have to make a new label: “Honey and Other Things.”

Tom said he never forgot that.

Years ago, I was driving downtown on my way to volunteer at the local soup kitchen. As I was driving, I remember a voice saying, “You know, going to serve the poor means you are a really good person. Other people will think that when they see you. It will add to your reputation.”

Another voice was shocked. “How self-centered can you get? That’s not why you’re doing it. You’re doing it because it’s the right thing to do. It’s not at all about showing off.”

It was only me in the car, so I had to own both voices.

The genuine voice within me I’m going to think of as the honey. And the self-centered voice will be “other things.”

There are endless ideas about how many “selves” or personas we have within us. Philosophy, theology, and psychology have all explored this question. I’m going to work with just these two.

Honey can be the divine presence in us that goes by many names: soul, higher self, inner light, Self, divine spark, etc. And “other things” can represent our less-than-lofty aspect: the ego, self-centeredness, etc.

Until my early 20s, I don’t think I was aware of two voices within. I went day by day reacting to the world as I encountered it.

After a mystical, transformative experience, I realized how incredibly self-centered I’d been. It had been all about me, and I’d made a mess of my life. But my soul had woken up. There was now a small drop of honey within, not of my creation. It was a divine gift, it was grace and it became a guiding light.

As I began to explore Christian spirituality, I often heard the assumption that we must be relentlessly focused on our “sinful nature.” “You are selfish through and through. You don’t deserve grace. You’ve got to beg for it every day,” was the idea.

I tried to extinguish that selfishness; I wanted to be pure honey. But in time I realized it was futile. I concluded my ego wasn’t bad…it was simply trying to protect me.

Sometime after that, I was on a long drive on the freeway (apparently a good place for epiphanies). I visualized standing apart from my ego self. It was alone and cringing, frightened at being exposed. I walked over, put my arm around it, and said, “Hey, I know you are trying to do the best for me. I appreciate how hard you work. But I don’t want you to be in control all the time; you’re a better servant than master. Let’s collaborate instead of compete.” My ego passively accepted my embrace.

I believe selfishness is a product of our evolutionary past. We do many things to survive, protect ourselves, get what we need, etc. The “other things” are our biological inheritance. But if we are on a spiritual journey, we’ve decided we don’t want to be stuck there. We want to find something more, a higher good for ourselves and others.

When I was at Hospice, a group of us attended a 5-day training at the Metta Institute in Marin County on “Cultivating Presence.” We practiced Zen meditation several times a day, discussed how to care for the dying and heard a variety of speakers. One of them was Ram Dass, a popular figure from the 60s who had turned from drugs to an Eastern spiritual practice. I’d read some of his work and seen him in person once, but never felt a connection. One afternoon at the retreat, we had a video linkup with Ram Dass from his home in Maui. He was talking in general terms and responding to questions in a relaxed and light-hearted way. But at one point, he paused, looked very serious — almost like he was in a trance — and said to us, “You are not a collection of your thoughts. You are loving awareness.” Then his face relaxed and he continued his talk.

I’m not sure what was going on, but I honestly felt a pulse of energy at that moment. I have not forgotten that feeling or those words. Maybe deep within, beyond all the “other things,” we are pure honey … pure loving awareness.

I don’t know what young Tom and his grandfather saw in that jar…was it a twig? A piece of grass? Whatever it was, it came from the same blessed earth as the honey. It wasn’t inherently bad. It was just out of place.

I have been blessed to know some people who seem like they are “Pure Honey.” But I think most of us are “Honey and Other Things.” And that’s ok. We can accept the “other things” as part of who we are. We can keep a filter handy. And we can be grateful for any “honey” we find as we go on our way.

Images of Our Lives: Resumes, Eulogies, Compost

PBS and New York Times commentator David Brooks has experienced a major spiritual transformation in recent years. One of his epiphanies is that many of us live with two sets of virtues in play. As he wrote in a column entitled “The Moral Bucket List”:

It occurred to me that there were two sets of virtues, the résumé virtues and the eulogy virtues. The résumé virtues are the skills you bring to the marketplace. The eulogy virtues are the ones that are talked about at your funeral — whether you were kind, brave, honest or faithful. Were you capable of deep love?

We all know that the eulogy virtues are more important than the résumé ones. But our culture and our educational systems spend more time teaching the skills and strategies you need for career success than the qualities you need to radiate that sort of inner light. Many of us are clearer on how to build an external career than on how to build inner character.[i]

From the first time I read this column, I appreciated this distinction and its implications. In this post, I’m going to comment on my own experience with resumes and eulogies, then add an additional thought.

Resumes: Much of my career was spent building my resume, and it was always interesting to read the resumes of others. Earning degrees, seeking accomplishments that I could quantify, publishing articles and serving on boards were all facts to add to the resume. This is what it takes to create a meaningful work life in a competitive society. It’s part of life in the modern world. But a resume does not a life make.

Eulogies: One of the activities I treasured as a pastor was participating in memorial services. I was always keen to hear what would be said about the person being remembered, and how the stories would cause each of us to pause and reflect on our own lives.

If I was organizing the service, I would work with the family to create a simple outline of the person’s life: where they were born, what they did, and what they accomplished – something like their resume. But that just set the stage for the stories people would share about the person: how they treated other people, and what moments friends and family look back on with appreciation. As David Brooks noted, in eulogies we often hear examples of the virtues of kindness, bravery, honesty or faithfulness – many ways in which people manifest “deep love.”

So far, so good. I like identifying these two important aspects of our lives.

But as I’ve been thinking of this distinction, I kept feeling like there was something missing, and only recently felt like I knew what it is.

Resumes exist in print and are plain for all to see. The “eulogy virtues” may be affirmed as part of a memorial service or obituary. But what if the person lives a very long life, and dies when there is no one left to hear the eulogy?

I think of my own father. He lived to be 91, and almost all of those years were lived in Redlands and San Bernardino. He was active in many civic organizations and a well-known man in his day. In his last few years, my sister and I brought him to a retirement home in Santa Barbara so we could see him more often. When he died, we arranged for a service back in San Bernardino. We published an obituary in his hometown paper and spread the word as well as we could. But on the day of the service, only 3 or 4 people showed up besides family. It was understandable – he had outlived most of the people he knew – but it was also disappointing.

I’ve done services for people who die in relative obscurity. There’s no one there to describe and affirm the virtues and integrity they saw in the person. It doesn’t seem right.

A similar thought arises when I’m with my young grandsons. We share meaningful and fun times. I find myself hoping they’ll remember our time together when they are older. But what if I die before the memories take root? Will the time we share “count?”

It reminds me of the familiar riddle, “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” We could rephrase it: “If someone dies and no one is there to give a eulogy, is the life a waste?”

Ruminating on this question has led me to think of compost.

Compost Many years ago in seminary a preaching and communications professor challenged us to think about how we envision the preaching task.

“You might tend to think of your sermons as roses,” he said. “A masterpiece that you cultivate it until it’s a thing of beauty. Then you carefully cut it, and bring it to display before the congregation on a Sunday morning . As people leave the service, you hope people will tell you what a beautiful rose you created. Well, I invite you to not think of preaching that way. Think of your sermons as compost. Compost you work into the soil of peoples’ lives you are serving. The beauty comes from what flowers in their life.”

The purpose of compost is to disappear into the soil, freely giving itself to produce new life. It doesn’t need to be named to be real and everlasting. So it is with our lives. The good we do for others may not be quantified on a resume or be lauded in a eulogy, but that doesn’t mean it’s of no value. It’s a gift we can give, and then let it go.

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2015/04/12/opinion/sunday/david-brooks-the-moral-bucket-list.html

The Gift of Disillusionment

It’s a hard word to hear…disillusionment.

In our relationships: Someone we’ve trusted does something that hurts or disappoints us. We feel deflated, confused, betrayed.

At work: The organization we are working for makes a decision that shocks or upsets us. We realize we’ve been trusting the organization to act a certain way, but it makes a decision that betrays its stated values.

In politics and public life: A leader or group performs in a way that seems to be counter to basic principles we thought everyone shared.

In our spiritual journeys: Something happens in our life we thought would not happen if we are being faithful, responsible and caring.

“I’ve become so disillusioned…” someone says and describes what’s happened. And we hear tones of sadness, detachment or even depression.

But there’s another way to hear it.

Parker Palmer, a writer who has been a mentor for me and many others over the years, has a surprising perspective on this word. As he said in an interview with Krista Tippet:

When a friend says, “I’m so disillusioned!” about this or that, why do we say, “I’m so sorry! How can I help?” We ought to say, “Congratulations! You’ve just lost an illusion! That means you’ve moved that much closer to reality, the only place where it’s safe to stand!”^[i]

This insight has been very useful for me.

Let’s start with personal relationships.

I remember hearing a radio program with a noted marriage and family therapist. He was talking about the need for all couples to use marital counseling to truly get to know each other.

“But we got to know each other when we were dating,” people had told him.

“No, dating is about deception,” he said. “It’s about you wanting to see the best in the other person, just as you are working hard to show them your best side. But after a while, you might start to see each other as you really are. That’s a good time to begin to really get to know each other.”

Instead of dis-illusionment leading to despair, it can lead to increased clarity.

In the workplace, I’ve been on both sides of disillusionment.

As a nonprofit executive director, from time to time I had to terminate employees. I was restricted by labor law and HR policies from giving a satisfying explanation to the other employees. We’d talked often about “being a family” together, and abrupt terminations led people to say, “What’s going on? I thought we were a family. Are we just a heartless business?”

When that happened at Hospice of Santa Barbara, I thought about it for several weeks, trying to figure out how to describe what kind of entity we were. I had an idea and made a presentation at a staff meeting. First, I listed the ways in which we were a business – our financial practices, our legal limitations, etc. Then I listed ways in which we could be caring and supportive of each other within those boundaries.

“Without meeting the requirements of a good business,” I said, “We would not exist. But within those restrictions, we will try to be like a family when we can. So, let’s think of ourselves as a “Biz-imly” – a business first, and like a family when possible.” That seemed to reframe it in a way that people found useful, and employees would quote that back to me as time went on.

I’ve also been on the employee side – seeing “upper management” make decisions that to me were clearly contrary to their espoused values. It helped for me to say to myself, “The idea that they would live up to their values has been an illusion. It’s been “dissed. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Disillusionment is something we can easily experience in political life. That what George Washington felt when he left office. He had hoped the leaders of the new country would be dedicated to personal humility and public virtue, which he had modeled so well. He was disheartened to see them falling into factions and cynical politics. But James Madison was more realistic about human nature. He helped shape the constitution in a way that would accommodate selfish partisanship by a series of checks and balances. Washington’s (hopeful) illusion led to his despair; Madison’s clarity led to a constitution that has, for the most part, endured. I see leaders like Barack Obama and John Lewis as people who have always held on to the highest hopes and ideals, but also had a realistic understanding of human behavior and political realities.

Disillusionment in our spiritual journeys can take many forms and are almost always a result of assumptions we have made.

In Buddhism, it’s a given that our human nature is prone to see permanence where there is no permanence. The path, then, is to be always vigilant about our illusions with the goal of seeing how things “really are.” A well-known quote from the Japanese poet Mizuta Masahide captures how truth can follow loss: “Barn’s burnt down / Now I can see the moon.”

In the Biblical traditions, it can be complicated. There are passages that suggest people of faith will be protected from harm and disappointment. Other verses are more realistic. Jesus staked his life on the belief that the one enduring reality is the love and justice of God. “Blessed are the poor in spirit” – meaning those who have been emptied of false hopes and illusions — “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

One qualification: I don’t offer this perspective on disillusionment as some glib, “tea-bag wisdom” that assumes dealing with disappointments is easy. There are losses in life that cut very deep into our souls and won’t vanish with a clever word play.

But I invite you to give it a try. Next time you feel “disillusioned,” ask yourself if you’ve come closer to reality. And don’t give up.

^[i] (https://onbeing.org/blog/losing-our-illusions)