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            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 In college, I took it for granted that such perspectives were outdated and irrelevant.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)

            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. 

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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.