Uncategorized – Page 25 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

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)

“Barns Burnt Down,” fiber art by Rebecca Mezoff

Love As Care and Confrontation

Years ago, a wise therapist said: “Steve, remember– love is a combination of care and confrontation.” That came as a shock. I had assumed “love” only meant “care.” But over the years I’ve reflected on this insight many times.

This week I will explore how this perspective on love is reflected in our spiritual journeys. I am going to let Rembrandt’s understanding of Jesus do most of the work by considering one of his masterpieces, “The Hundred Guilder Print” from 1650.

If you look at the full picture, what do you see? At first glance, it may look like just a pleasant portrayal of Jesus amid a crowd. It’s easy to identify him – he’s at the center, with rays of light shining from his face. But a closer look reveals it’s a not just a visual dose of religious saccharine, but a multifaceted masterpiece.

Rembrandt took Chapter 19 from the Gospel of Matthew and imagined how Jesus was interacting with each character in the story.

Let’s start with the right half of the picture, illustrating verses 1-2: “…large crowds followed him, and he cured them there.” Rembrandt imagines the various sicknesses and disabilities of the time and uses a variety of facial expressions and postures to show each person as they hope for healing. The compassion he showed such people is what I think of as “caring.”

But the mood changes as we shift to the left side. In verses 3-12, Pharisees pose a hard question about marriage and divorce. Jesus gives them a provocative response and they are discussing it. Loving these people meant challenging their beliefs.

In verses 13-15, a woman brings her child for a blessing. The disciples “speak sternly to her” implying a woman with a child shouldn’t bother Jesus. But he contradicts his disciples, putting his right hand in front of Peter (personifying the disciples) to silence him. Peter gets “the back of his hand,” but the palm of that same hand opens to welcome the woman. Behind her is a woman who has a baby in her arms; a second child is tugging on her sleeve, encouraging her to also accept the invitation. In this one hand gesture, Jesus is rebutting Peter and welcoming the women and children – confronting and caring at the same time. (As one feminist scholar has pointed out, this is a common dynamic in the Gospels – in scenes where both women and men are present, Jesus often speaks and acts in a way that humbles men and affirms women.)

We now focus on a character described as a “rich young man” (verses 16-22). He asks what he needs to do to deepen his spiritual life. Jesus first cites the Ten Commandments, assuming that is sufficient. The young man says he has done that but still feels something is lacking. I imagine Jesus pauses and looks more deeply into the man’s eyes before telling him he needs to sell all he has, give the proceeds to the poor, and follow him. “He went away grieving, for he had many possessions.” Rembrandt pictures the young man in deep introspection before leaving. His conversation with this young man – confrontation? Or care? Or both?

In many traditional religious paintings, every character is depicted as being in adoring rapture, surrounded by heavenly shafts of light. Not for Rembrandt. Other people in the scene are doing things ordinary people do. Some are listening to him, but others aren’t paying attention at all and are talking among themselves. A scrawny dog is hoping for scraps of food at the feet of the woman with children. On the far right, a camel driver looks bored and tired as he rests his head on the camel. The point: sometimes when a gifted teacher is speaking, some people are paying attention, but others are not.

Coming back to our theme: if Jesus channels the “love of God,” it’s not a one-size-fits-all warm and gentle feeling, like we have when we see a photo of a puppy. Far from it. For the characters in this etching, the love of God is customized for each person, directed at what they need in that moment in their life. For some it’s healing, comfort and blessing. For others, it’s challenging righteous assumptions, posing provocative questions, or causing them to discern their true motivations.

Looking back on my life, this expresses how I’ve experienced divine love and leading.

Many times, I’ve reached out in a time of need and been given “a peace that surpasses all understanding.” Sometimes that came right away, sometimes it came later in the day, sometimes several days later. But when it came, I felt cared for. I know many others have this experience.

Other times I’ve reached out for guidance, I was really hoping I’d find some pleasant reassurance or an easy way out. And instead, I was given something better.

In 1986, my wife and I had spent a year as volunteers at The Campbell Farm, an apple farm and retreat center within the Yakima Reservation in rural Washington. I had never lived in an area with a high poverty rate. I thought we’d be there for a short time, then move on to some setting where life was easier. The local church had offered me a position as pastor, but I was reluctant to stay. I prayed for guidance. One afternoon, I was out in the alfalfa field changing irrigation lines. These words appeared in my awareness: “Instead of being served, think of serving.” After a moment of reflection, I knew what that meant. I didn’t like it. But I sensed I needed to trust that message. I accepted the call. We ended up staying for six years. It was not an easy time, but a rich and rewarding time as I learned about myself and rural communities and served as best I could. I’m forever grateful my ego was confronted rather than appeased. Looking back, it was a message I needed to hear.

Divine love can be a combination of care and confrontation. That’s one of the many reasons grace is amazing.

— Steve

(For a full view of the 100 Guilder Print, go to https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b8/Rembrandt_The_Hundred_Guilder_Print.jpg/1280px-Rembrandt_The_Hundred_Guilder_Print.jpg)

Disciple Dog’s Mother’s Day Card

In my life and career, I’ve listened to many people describe their family life. I learned many people have had deeply nurturing relationships with their mothers. I know others whose relationships have been painful. And I know the experience can also be a complicated mix.

I can affirm being a parent is not an easy task.

Over the years, I also learned to appreciate the power of being in spiritual communities, where people of many ages and life experiences come together to care for and support one another. These spiritual families can become like an extended family.

Last May I was serving as interim pastor at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church. My mentor and friend, Disciple Dog, shared some personal thoughts with the congregation on Mother’s Day. This week, he gave me permission to share it with you:

DD named some specific people in his spiritual “pack.” On this Mother’s Day weekend, he suggested I encourage all of us to do the same. Who comes to mind for you?

My Costco Hearing Test: A Spiritual Perspective

Like many other signposts of maturity, I knew if I lived long enough, my hearing would diminish and I’d need some help. But my male vanity was hesitant. “I can get by without hearing everything,” my inner stubborn voice muttered. But recently I decided to man up. I made an appointment at Costco to have my hearing checked this past Monday.

The technician hooked me up for a series of tests. After 30 minutes, he gave me the assessment.

“You do have some hearing loss, but it’s in the mild to moderate range,” he said. “It’s focused on one specific area.” He printed out the graph and wrote a note on it:

“It’s not diminished enough to sell you hearing aids,” he said. “If it gets worse, come back, but otherwise, plan to check back in two or three years.”

As I walked out, I felt relieved.

Later in the day, I was looking at the chart and began imagining the symbolic possibilities in his note. Beyond the physical act of hearing, maybe it’s a useful metaphor for not “listening” to voices in our midst.

Hearing is the physical act of our ears receiving sound vibrations. Listening involves giving conscious attention to what our ears hear.

For instance, we can certainly recognize how much our society has not listened to women’s voices over the centuries. They’ve been there all along, but only recently are they being heard.

Along with women’s voices we could add black voices, a deficiency our institutions are trying to remedy.

I know this selective listening can apply to music and the arts.

In my teenage years, I was hearing plenty of rock music, but the words didn’t mean much, including the sad love songs. But once my teenage heart was broken for the first time, all those “I lost my baby and I’m really sad” songs felt like my songs. Only then did I begin to “hear” their meaning.

And how about hearing voices of what might be a divine spirit?

I’d gone to church occasionally growing up, but I don’t remember a single moment when something was said that meant anything to me. In college, I took it for granted that such perspectives were outdated and irrelevant. I remember being stopped by an evangelistic student on the UCSB campus who wanted to convince me I needed Jesus. The more we talked, the more I was convinced I had no interest in “knowing Jesus” as he wanted me to. The intentional gap in my attention could have been labeled “religion.”

But after an unexpected personal, mystical experience, I became fascinated with the spiritual experiences of others. That became a focus of my attention.

Over time, I found many people of faith who intrigued me. They weren’t trying to convert me or make me into something I didn’t want to be. They were humble, caring people, continuously open to spiritual insight and serving the world.

One thing led to another, and I ended up in seminary, followed by 40 years of ministry. I had my own experiences of “hearing” or sensing a voice addressing me, comforting me, and challenging me. It was not some deep male voice of tight-fisted judgement, but more like a novel idea, a prompting, a whisper.

Movies have captured it well. In Field of Dreams, Ray Kinsella hears a voice in his cornfield, “If you build it, he will come.” No one else can hear it, but his curiosity sets him on a journey of self-discovery. In the end, the journey is not about baseball but about reconciliation with his father. Or when Luke Skywalker hears Obi-wan Kenobi saying “Trust the Force Luke” – it’s a voice he can choose to follow or not. But he’s learned to trust it, because he knows it will lead him to serving the higher good.

Over the years, I’ve never tired of hearing stories from ordinary people who have “heard” in subtle ways a divine voice or prompting. In time, I went beyond my initial boundaries to listen to what people of other spiritual traditions “hear,” which led to my interfaith work. It’s been endlessly fascinating.

I think of one older woman in a congregation I served. Despite many hardships in her life, she was always smiling and ready to help others. One day when she came by my office, I asked what her secret was.

“I was raised Catholic,” she said. “At age 7 I decided I didn’t need to go through a priest anymore but could speak to God directly whenever I wanted. And I’ve been doing that every since.”

“Did you tell any adults?” I asked.

“No, there was no need,” she said.

So at that early age she began tuning in as best she could. Seeing the way she lives her life and the joy in her face, it was clear to me she had been “hearing” something valuable for many years.

It’s possible she was wearing hearing aids from Costco when we had the conversation. Who cares? It wasn’t her hearing that mattered. It’s how she had learned to focus her attention. And listen.

(Image: “Woman With a Lute By the Window,” Vermeer)

Catastrophic Molting, Self-Decapitation and Personal Renewal Options for Seniors

A long-time friend who follows this blog has a vacation home on Lopez Island in Washington. He recently sent me a photo and note saying he had just seen a seal on a nearby beach:

He added this comment: “Steve, they call this catastrophic molting where the seal comes up on the beach for 26 days and tries to shed his winter fur. He doesn’t eat but he really stinks. He often looks very uncomfortable and scratches, I suppose like having a bad sunburn. That would be a good title for a Lenten sermon or for one of your Saturday blogs: catastrophic molting.”

I was inspired. I did some research and found this description from the Point Reyes National Park service. https://www.nps.gov/articles/000/elephant-seals-march-catastrophic-molt.htm

…let’s define molting: “Molting means the periodic shedding of feathers, hairs, horns, nails, shells, and skins – any outer layer. Molt is from the Latin mutare meaning ‘to change'” (Merriam Webster). When we brush our hair, for example, we consider it natural that some hair remains in the brush. We don’t usually shriek in horror, “I’m molting!”—even though we are! The elephant seal catastrophic molt (which simply means that their fur and top layer of skin comes off in large patches) is more dramatic than a few hairs in a hairbrush.

I assume everything I read is ultimately about me, so I thought about my own molting. I was born with a full head of hair. About 15 years ago, I realized a bald spot on the top of my head was spreading. The more it advanced, the more I tried to hide it. When I realized it was permanent, I wanted to lie on a beach and bellow operatically about my fate. I still do. At least the seal gets a new layer of fur and feels renewed. I never will. A catastrophe!

When I thanked my friend for the photo and idea, I included a link to a recent New York Times article about sea slugs: “Meet the Sea Slugs That Chop Off Their Heads and Grow New Bodies.” https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/08/science/decapitated-sea-slugs.html

Ms. Mitoh and her team monitored several groups of Elysia marginata and Elysia atroviridis over the course of the creatures’ lives. Not all the sea slugs they monitored decapitated themselves, but many did — one even did it twice. Bodies regenerated from the heads of both species, but the headless bodies stayed headless. However, those dumped bodies reacted to stimuli for as long as months, before decomposing…For most of the sea slugs, the regeneration process took less than three weeks to complete.

The sea slug story stirred envy in me. What would it be like to have this option as we age? Muscle aches, limited motion, dull pains, insomnia, pills arranged in daily reminder bins, skin turning to parchment…wouldn’t it be great to have the Sea Slug Procedure?

“Yup,” we announce to family and friends, “I’ve had enough. I’ve scheduled my auto-decapitation. I’ll have a new body in three weeks. And in the next few months, if you see my old body inching down the neighborhood sidewalk looking lost, ignore it…our relationship is over.”

But my friend in Washington had a more enlightened perspective after reading the article. In a video included in the article, the liberated head bumps into its old body. My friend wrote: He/she/it looks like it is kissing goodbye to that old body that served it so well. I am usually using strong language on my old body for the things it can no longer do or only do it with lots of aches and pains. I need to be more thankful like that sea slug.

And that led me to think about the mini-stroke I experienced in 2011.

It was on the first night of our summer vacation. We’d driven all day to begin a week-long yoga retreat near Mt. Shasta. About an hour after we went to bed, I arose to honor my biology. I realized my left leg was not responding and I was struggling to walk.

“Are you OK?” my wife asked.

“I feel kind of funky,” was what I meant to say, but my speech was garbled, and she couldn’t understand me. At that moment we realized I was having a stroke.

Volunteer EMTs transported me to the local 20-bed hospital. I was alone in my hospital room that night, pondering my future.

By midmorning the next day, my speech was returning, as was the use of my left side. After a series of tests, they consulted my primary care doctor back home. He advised me to continue our vacation at a careful pace and to see him for follow-up when we returned home.

Two days later, I decided to try a few poses in the morning yoga class. In one pose, you put your left leg out in front of you and extend your upper body over it. As I did this, I looked at my left leg. I realized it was once again obeying my command. I was overcome with gratitude. How many times in all my years has that leg done what I asked, day after day without fail? And have I ever noticed? Have I ever expressed my gratitude?

I found myself serenading my left leg with an old country song, “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?”

Maybe the day will come when a cure for “molting” is found, or we can trade-in our old bodies. Until then, I am going be grateful for all the infinite processes beyond my awareness that support my life day after day, year after year. Instead of lamenting my limitations, I want to always honor the miracle of being alive.

Mashed Potatoes

In the late 80s, I was teaching religious studies classes at Heritage College in rural Washington. One of the students was a hospice nurse. During a class discussion, she shared an experience that has fascinated me ever since.

She was recently divorced at the time, but on good terms with her former husband. His father was apparently a cantankerous, ill-tempered fellow few people wanted to be around. The fact that he was dying did not improve his disposition. Her ex-husband asked her if she would be willing to be his nurse. She had always gotten along with her father-in-law despite his behavior, so she agreed.

Two days before he died, he asked her for a favor. His appetite had been diminishing as his body began to shut down, but he asked her if she could possibly fix him a special food.

“I’d be glad to make you anything you want,” she said. “What will it be?” “

“Mashed potatoes.”

“That will be easy,” she said. “Would you like anything special, like extra butter or sour cream?”

“No,” he said, “Nothing special.”

“Ok,” she said. “Just potatoes and a bit of salt for flavor?”

“No salt. Just mashed potatoes.”

She prepared the potatoes as he had requested.

She put a bowlful and a spoon on his tray. He took one bite. He paused and smiled with a calm and radiant appreciation she had never seen before. After a few more bites, he was satisfied and thanked her. It was the last food he ever ate.

I’ve prepared potato dishes many times in my life, and it’s hard to imagine not adding something. I add salt and butter. My wife likes salt, pepper, butter and sour cream. But every time I cook potatoes, I remember this story.

When some people are close to death, the simplest things become sacred.

I’ve known people who are very much alive and have already discovered this secret. I try to be open to those moments when I might taste what they taste, hear what they hear, and know what they know.

Disciple Dog and the Scary Storm

Today I want to introduce you to one of my long-time and trusted spiritual guides – Disciple Dog. We’ve been buddies for years.

If I was working on sermons and feeling stuck, I would visit him. He always helped me see things more clearly.

He was much loved by the congregations I served –people often said they got more from him in three minutes than listening to me for twenty. He knew that, but didn’t rub it in.

I’ve been thinking about sharing some of our conversations from our archive on my blog. I asked him how he’d feel about it. He said, “Sure, why not?”

We start this week with a conversation from last April.

At that time, we were all entering a lockdown in response to the COVID pandemic. It was a scary time. It felt like we were in a storm.

One morning, Disciple Dog told me that the night before he’d had a dream about being in a scary storm. He described the dream to me. Here it is:

Pause for personal reflection. When he got past his initial fear, he began reaching out to others. Looking back over your experience over the last year, did any of your relationships become stronger? Did you develop any new relationships in the storm?

DD is napping right now, but he asked me to share with him any comments you may have.

What’s A Good Death?

“I don’t want to be in pain.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“I want to be at home.”

I’ve often heard people say these things when talking about dying. There is often also an unspoken hope: “I hope my life adds up to something.” If these wishes are met, we might hear “Well at least that was a good death.”

What do you think is “a good death”?

During my time at Hospice, one of our partner agencies suggested we do some collective reflection and research around the question, “What do we mean by a good death?” We scheduled an interagency gathering for the discussion. Being familiar with various spiritual traditions, I was asked to present some spiritual perspectives.

I wasn’t interested in doctrines or beliefs. Instead, I decided to simply explore the stories of how central figures in each tradition died. It turned out to be a memorable exercise.

I started with the Abraham.

Abraham: This is the length of Abraham’s life, one hundred seventy-five years. Abraham breathed his last and died in a good old age, an old man and full of years, and was gathered to his people.^[1] Abraham lives a long life that becomes inspirational to his descendants. Sounds good!

I turned to his grandson.

Jacob: On his deathbed, Jacob gives each of his twelve sons pointed comments. He tells them where to bury his body. When Jacob ended his charge to his sons, he drew up his feet into the bed, breathed his last, and was gathered to his people^[2]. A peaceful death in the presence of loved ones, passing on our best thoughts to each one, knowing our duties have been fulfilled — a “good death” for many.

Moses: After a life full of drama, God lets Moses see the promised land, the culmination of his life’s work. But he is not allowed to enter. And Moses the Lord’s servant, died there in the land of Moab by the word of the Lord.And he was buried in the glen in the land of Moab opposite Beth Peor, and no man has known his burial place to this day.⁷And Moses was a hundred and twenty years old when he died. His eyes had not grown bleary and his sap had not fled.”^[3] Moses dies alone, which is not unusual. He dies knowing he liberated his people from bondage and given them a hopeful future. And His eyes had not grown bleary and his sap had not fled. Dying with clear vision and ample energy suggests his awareness was vivid to the end. Sign me up!

Buddha There are different accounts of Buddha’s death. One popular story is he died at age 80 due to food poisoning. One variant says the meal was lovingly cooked for him by a local villager, who was devastated to learn the gift turned out to be fatal. Buddha assures him there is no need for sorrow — he has been preparing for this transition all his life, and now is finally being released into nirvana. His teachings and example have given humanity a source of wisdom that is still relevant 2,500 years later. Death can be liberation.

Mohammed The prophet was in his early 60s. After completing his last pilgrimage, he was home in Medina with his wife Aisha. His health had been declining and his community was concerned. Near the end, he has a period of increased energy, raising hopes of recovery for those close to him. (This is a common occurrence in the dying process.) But not long after, Aisha felt he was lying more heavily in her lap and that he seemed to be losing consciousness. Still, she did not realize what was happening. She heard him murmur the words, “Nay, the most Exalted Companion in paradise,” and then discovered he was gone^[4]. One of the most transformative figures in human history dies peacefully at home in the lap of his spouse.

I was fascinated by these stories. Living a long life, being in the presence of loved ones (or on our own, if that is our wish), avoiding extreme pain, knowing we had accomplished something lasting, full of spiritual peace – again, this is what many would say constitutes a “good death”. Each tradition has an inherent integrity, and I was finding wisdom in each one.

Then I turned to the figure I thought I knew best.

Jesus I took a fresh look at Jesus’ death, comparing it to common hopes. Here’s what I found:

Lived a long life? Died in his early 30s.
Died in a peaceful loving surrounding? Publicly executed in front of his mother and a crowd of strangers.
Died with dignity? The Romans used crucifixion as a way to execute enemies of the state, designed to destroy dignity as well as life.
Pain-free passing? Death by torture.
Died feeling close to God? “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Jesus said before letting out a loud cry and taking the last breath.^[5]

Jesus dying on the cross has been a familiar story for centuries. Artists and preachers have tried to outdo each other in portraying it. But until I looked at it from a hospice perspective, I had not realized it represents what most of us fear when we imagine dying.

Yet the more I reflected on it, the more it was strangely comforting. Jesus’ community began to re-experience his presence after he died and concluded that “nothing can separate us from the love of God.”^[6] A tragic death loses its sting.

We hope for peaceful, painless and meaningful dying experiences. But that doesn’t always happen. How we die does not have to define the life we’ve lived. It’s the life we’ve lived that counts.

^[1] Genesis 25: 7-8, NRSV

^[2] Genesis 49:33. NRSV

^[3] Deuteronomy 34: 5-7, Robert Alter translation

^[4] Karen Armstrong, Muhammed, A Biography of the Prophet, pg. 256

^[5] Mark 15:34,37, NRSV

^[6] Romans 8:39, NRSV