Uncategorized – Page 6 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

The Clothes We Wear

Do you remember being in Junior High and desperately needing to wear exactly the right clothes? Or how it felt the first time you dressed up for a prom or wedding? Do you notice how we go out in public and instinctively evaluate people based on what they are wearing?

January was a month where extra attention was given to what people were wearing – from the First Lady’s hat at the inaugural ceremony to the elaborate outfits stars wore at the Golden Globes. I recently came across two passages illustrating the significance of what people wear – one from 1990s New York and the other 1390s London.

In 1993, Ruth Reichl began a career as a restaurant critic for the New York Times. “As a critic, she went to extreme lengths to try and make sure the restaurant owners and chefs didn’t recognize her. She made reservations under different names and switched credit cards regularly. She had 12 different personalities with full disguises for each. There was Molly, a retired public school teacher who had suddenly become wealthy from her husband’s work in real estate. There was Betty, a frumpy old woman. And there was Chloe, a beautiful blond interior decorator. She said, “I did not know I had that person inside of me. Chloe can get a cab; stop traffic; doors are opened for you; everything changes for you. Not only that, Chloe knew how to flirt, something I didn’t think I knew how to do.” She wrote about how differently she was treated at classy restaurants depending on her disguise — Betty, especially, got treated poorly. And she would write about that in her reviews, exposing the snobbishness of fancy New York restaurants, and how they would suddenly fawn over her and offer to move her to a better table if they figured out who she was mid-meal.”[i]

Six hundred years earlier, England passed detailed laws dictating what people could wear based on their income and social status:

Following the broadening of prosperity after the plague epidemic and the upsurge in trade following the development of charged trading guilds, demand for fine clothes is high amongst the prosperous citizens of London. Moreover, by the 1390s, you’ll find a wider range of clothes available than ever before due to some mid-century quantum leaps in tailoring, namely the arrival of the button and new ways to tailor clothes to hug the body rather than have them hang more loosely …

All of which unsettles the ruling elite. The problem is that fashion- fueled judgments are inevitably based upon fleeting perceptions. And perceptions are very easily manipulated if people dress ‘above their station’ as they are wont to do. This is less of a problem in tight-knit rural communities where it’s generally pretty obvious who is a villain, who are yeomen (farmers) and who is a lord. But a city with a resident population of about 40,000 and a daily headcount of many more is in danger becoming a catwalk of deceit, giving people ample opportunities to reinvent themselves…

To this end …. the government tries to regulate what people wear in London … a Europe-wide phenomenon which used to limit what you can wear according to your social status, and to prevent grooms (people who care for horses) dressing like craftsman, craftsman like gentlemen, gentlemen like esquires, esquires like knights and so on.

Regarding what you can wear, they are detailed and unequivocal. Knights with an annual income of 135 pounds may wear cloth up to a value of four pounds, but not cloth of gold, nor a cloak or mantle aligned with pure miniver or sleeves of ermine. They should stick to other types of fur. Esquires with land yielding 200 pounds per year and merchants with goods worth over 1,000 pounds can’t wear anything made with cloth exceeding three pounds six shillings in price nor jewels, unless in their hair. Cloth of silk and silver though is fine. Craftsman and yeomen must stick to the native rabbit, fox, cat, or lamb fur. Those lucky enough to have lands worth 1000 pounds per year can wear whatever they damn well like, though swineherds, dairy maids, oxherds, and the like, who have 40 shillings to their name must settle for blanket and russet (a coarse cloth) — and rope girdles.[ii]

What fun Ruth Reichl would have had in Medieval London — one day dressed up as Lady Chloe, the beautiful wife of a knight dressed in gold cloth and ermine fur, and the next as poor peasant Betty with only a blanket and rope.

Ruth Reichl wore a dozen different disguises at New York restaurants and people treated her differently based on her appearance. But she was the same person underneath.

While we may always be aware of how other people are dressed, spiritual perspectives invites us to look beyond someone’s outward appearance to see their inner dignity:

“… ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you or naked and gave you clothing?And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you? And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me.’[iii]

In every culture, it’s fun to dress up for special occasions.

In every culture, it’s a gift to see people for who they are and not judge them by what they are wearing.

[i] Ruth Reichl

[ii] London: A Travel Guide Through Time, Dr. Matthew Green, 2011; pgs.104-105

[iii] Matthew 25: 37-40

The Way of Nature and the Way of Grace

I’ve been ruminating over these words for fourteen years:

Τhe nuns taught us there are two ways through life-

the way of nature… and the way of grace.

You have to choose which one you’ll follow.

Grace doesn’t try to please itself.

Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked.

Accepts insults and injuries.

Nature only wants to please itself…

– Get others to please it too.

Likes to lord it over them…

To have its own way.

It finds reasons to be unhappy…

when all the world is shining around it,

when love is smiling through all things.

Τhey taught us that no one who loves the way of grace

ever comes to a bad end.

We hear this in the voice the mother of the O’Brien family (Jessica Chastain) at the opening of The Tree of Life. As she recites the first six lines, we see dream-like images of her with her young sons in 1950s suburban Texas. At the line, “Nature only wants to please itself…” the camera shifts to the father (played by Brad Pitt) at their dinner table. After several viewings, I realized the shift in focus suggests the mother embodies the grace the nuns talked about while the father embodies “the way of nature.”

“The way of grace:” self-less, tolerant, forgiving. The “way of nature:” self-centered, willful, domineering. Those living “the way of grace” experience a world shining with love; those living the way of nature are blind to all that shines, and instead “finds reasons to be unhappy.”

From the beginning of my spiritual awakening in my twenties, I wanted to “live in the way of grace.”

As a pastor, living “in the way of grace” felt like the ideal job requirement. I strived to lift that up and live that out with the people I was serving. It brought me joy.

As time has passed, I am less certain one can always live in the way of grace.

As Malick uses the phrase “way of nature,” it feels selfish, insensitive, and destructive. But we can think of it another way. I am going to interpret it as our biological and evolutionary history. We carry primal instincts within us that recognize our need to survive. We can draw on a stubborn stamina that enables us to endure hard times with grit and determination. If we lose at something and it hurts, we may resolve to recover instead of giving up. Winning and accomplishing a goal feels good. We find ourselves in a position of power and appreciate what that offers – not only for ourselves, but for others. Are these moments we want to run from?

I once organized and participated in an Earth Day retreat at the La Casa de Maria Retreat Center. We had invited a local trail guide to lead a tour of our property. He had an interest in both the natural world and ways we can listen to our ancestors. Our group took an hour to make a slow walk around the 26-acre property, stopping along the way.

We came to the organic garden and paused. He reminded us human beings have been farming for several thousand years. He asked us to close our eyes and visualize our own ancestors farming and what their life was like. Most of my ancestors came from Scandinavia. I found myself traveling back in time, watching them work in the cold climate and bare soil.

We came alongside the San Ysidro Creek. Before agriculture, our ancestors were hunters and gatherers. We closed our eyes and imagined their life. I realized my ancestors survived by learning to fish the North Sea and hunt elk. A hard life.

Living “the way of nature” involves cunning and a strong will. That can get messy when it demeans other people. But those instincts in themselves are not bad.

In 2008 I transitioned from parish work to leading nonprofit organizations. I discovered I could not be, in the eyes of everyone, always “full of grace.” Sometimes I had to make unpopular decisions. We had to let some people go, and as they left they didn’t feel like “love was smiling through all things.” But these actions had to be done. Looking back, I don’t regret them. It was part of my job.

The spiritual life is not an unending experience of grace and beauty. Jesus was more a lion than a lamb. Many of his conversations comforted, healed and renewed. But other times he confronted people with their self-righteousness, and they walked away dejected or angry. He told people what they needed to hear.

Trying to be gracious every moment doesn’t guarantee ideal outcomes. Sometimes things just go badly. But we do the best we can.

Is it true — “…there are two ways through life – the way of nature… and the way of grace. You have to choose which one you’ll follow?” I’m not so sure it’s that simple. I believe there is a third way, one which draws on both nature and grace. There are times when we need instincts for survival that nature has given us so we can protect ourselves and others and do the right thing. But that doesn’t exclude “the way of grace.” Grace is always worth striving for, and when it emerges it comes with a radiant awareness.

Images: The Tree of Life, Terrence Mallick

Last October I wrote another post inspired by Tree of Life: Where Were We?

Dreams and Realities: Thoughts on the LA Fires

In the aftermath of the recent Los Angeles fires, LA Times theater critic Charles McNulty shared his impressions in a column titled “Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’ illuminates an existential truth revealed by the Los Angeles fires.”[i]

McNulty writes from a neighborhood just east of the decimated neighborhoods. He’s been reassuring friends back East that he is OK as he tries to make sense of what he has witnessed. He says, “Shakespeare helps me envisage the unimaginable, and a speech from “The Tempest” has been running through my mind since images of charred sections of Pacific Palisades and Altadena started circulating.”

In the play, the exiled Duke Prospero has put on a “supernatural pageant” to entertain his daughter and her fiancé. But at one point Prospero realizes his enemies are plotting to take his life. He abruptly ends the performance. Speaking of the imaginary world the play created which has suddenly disappeared, he says,

“And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-cappped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a rack behind.[ii] We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”

McNulty describes how the things that make up everyday life can seem so solid and permanent but are, in fact, subject to disappearing at any moment. “The grief of those bearing witness to the fires is more than sympathy. We’ve all been given a shocking lesson in the “baseless fabric of this vision” we call reality but which Prospero recognizes is no more solid than a dream.”

Have you ever had an experience in which something that seemed so “real” suddenly disappears like a dream?

My parents built our home in San Bernardino in 1953. They stayed after my siblings and I moved away. After mom died in 1993, dad lived there on his own there for more than a decade. Eventually he sold it and moved to a retirement residence; at that point it had been our family home for fifty years. A year later, the house burned down in a wildfire (after the new owners evacuated). Months later my sisters and I visited. All that was left was the partially collapsed chimney. I took a charred brick as a memento. Now I look at old family photos taken there and wonder: ‘Where did it go?”

I was Director at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center in 2018; our work was thriving and the future was bright. On January 9, the Montecito Debris Flow destroyed eight buildings and left half the property a barren field of mud. La Casa has yet to reopen. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I imagine giving a tour of the property like I used to. I can clearly see everything as it was. It’s still hard to believe that all those structures, oak trees and our vital work could disappear in an instant.

How many of us have suddenly lost a loved one or treasured friend and find it hard to accept the person is really gone?

Is everything tangible in life nothing more than a dream?

Like Shakespeare, the spiritual traditions teach us that what seems so real one minute can be gone the next.

One of the foundational truths of Buddhism is the impermanence of all material reality. Much of our suffering arises from our tendency to ignore that. The path to enlightenment begins with this understanding.

Jesus teaches a similar truth:“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal, but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Matthew 6: 19-21)

Are we to avoid being attached to anything that might perish? If so, how do we live?

For centuries, one path has been to become a monk or a nun. You give up all your possessions and don’t own anything apart from the clothes on your back. You become celibate. Being unattached to long-term relationships and material goods means you can totally focus on the path to enlightenment and “treasures in heaven.”

But there is another path. This path does not forget how quickly things can vanish but does not shy away from embracing them . This path means we remember that many things in life that seem permanent may disappear at any moment. But we don’t turn away from them. We invest ourselves in relationships that matter. We obtain and care for basic material things, including the dwelling in which we live. We plan for the future, knowing nothing is guaranteed. We remember that everything material is subject to change. But we appreciate what we have while we have it and are ready to share it with others. We know the deepest meaning in life is found in pursuing spiritual values, yet we also allow ourselves to be grounded in the material world in which we live.

Life is like a dream. But the people, dwellings, possessions, and commitments in our life are, at this moment, not a dream; they are real. We hold both perspectives as true. And we go on.

The brick from our home.

[i] https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/story/2025-01-13/los-angeles-fires-shakespeare-tempest

[ii] McNulty notes the word “rack” meant “a wisp of a cloud’

Lead image: “Still Life with Ham and Fruit,” Jan Davidsz de Heem,1656

Taking Care of Your Gyroscope and Your Compass

I follow different weekly columnists looking for useful insights. I recently saw a comment by Peggy Noonan giving advice to fellow commentators as we face what might be a chaotic year: “Keep your tools, compass and gyroscope, clean, dry and level.”[i]

I liked this statement. The metaphors weren’t new, but I appreciated putting them together: “Keeping your…compass and gyroscope, clean, dry and level.”

I take our personal gyroscope to be what keeps us balanced when our life gets topsy-turvy – what keeps us in touch with our deepest values and best thinking.

A compass helps locate where we are at any one moment. It gives us trustworthy information with which we can decide on the best direction to go.

It is common for us to start our day, our year and any new chapter in our life with certain assumptions about what’s going to happen and how we will respond. Sometimes things unfold like we expect. But often unforeseen events happen – events that we did not see coming — and we can feel like we’ve been knocked off balance and are lost. Time to check our navigational instruments.

I have previously written about a scene from the movie Lincoln. [ii] In the winter of 1865, Lincoln wants to have Congress pass the 13^th amendment (abolishing slavery) before the Civil War ends. He needs the support of Thaddeus Stevens, an abolitionist who wants an amendment that goes beyond just the abolition of slavery to declare the total equality of the races. Lincoln and Stevens have the same inner conviction that equality is the ultimate goal – they share a similar gyroscope. But Lincoln knows Steven’s amendment won’t pass. Lincoln grew up on the frontier and has been in wilderness. He says, “The compass points you true north but does not warn you of obstacles and swamps along the way.” Where we want to end up may be clear but the way to get there may not be; we must forge ahead as best we can. Stevens reluctantly agrees to compromise and with his support the amendment passes.

I’ve performed many weddings in my ministry. Early on, I wanted couples to have a good experience in premarital counseling, but knew I was not equipped to provide it. I found marriage and family counselors whom I trusted and arranged with them to see couples for three sessions. I would tell the couples that an added benefit would be becoming familiar with someone in town they could always go back to for support and advice as time went on – people who could help them get in touch with their “compass and gyroscope” when needed.

One topic I did personally discussed with couples was the vows. Sometimes people wanted to write their own vows, which I could support. But I would also have them consider the traditional vows:

I, ____, take you, ____, to be my lawfully wedded (husband/wife), to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

I would tell them to consider the three couplets: “for better/for worse, for richer/for poorer, in sickness/in health.” When events in life are going for the “better,” if we are feeling “richer,” and if we are in good health, loving another person is easy. But consider what might happen when life events are becoming “worse.” Or circumstances mean you are getting “poorer.” Or one person becomes seriously ill. These vows mean that you will not turn away in hard times but promise to dig in and deepen your commitment. “Hollywood movies show how wonderful falling in love is,” I would say, “but over the years I’ve learned to look at the couples who hang together in hard times. They develop a love deeper than just emotions – they create a bond that is lasting and profound.”

I would add that spiritual beliefs and practices become particularly valuable in disorienting times. There is wisdom beyond just ourselves that can be found in prayer and contemplation, in timeless teachings about what makes life worth living, and what our ultimate purpose can be. Calling on these resources is turning to our spiritual gyroscope. Then we can check our compass to see if we are headed in the best direction and not get stuck in an egocentric wilderness.

Sometimes we need to find an environment which helps us tune in to our gyroscope and compass. For three decades, I was involved at the La Casa de Maria Retreat Center as a board member and director. Individuals and groups would come for a day or several days for retreats. There were no televisions or newspapers, and we enjoyed limited cell phone service. People were free to wander our 26-acre oak forest, orchard and spiritual gardens. They could enjoy good food, leisure time and opportunities for meaningful contemplation and conversation. This was our mission statement:

The mission of La Casa de Maria

is to be a sanctuary of peace

Where groups and individuals

Can renew their purpose

Strengthen their community

And increase their effectiveness in the world.

La Casa was a place where 12,000 people every year people could tune into their gyroscopes and compasses. It was inspiring to see what a difference the right environment could make and what it means for people to find a direction in life they know to be right.

In the days to come, may we each make good use of our gyroscopes and compasses.

[i] https://www.wsj.com/opinion/what-is-your-attitude-toward-trump-2-0-f3f8532c

[ii] “Faith and Sight,” Dec 9, 2023, https://wordpress.com/post/drjsb.com/2925

Lead image: La Casa de Maria, givinglistsantabarbara.com;

Waking The Dead

The documentary filmmaker Ken Burns was raised in a small, 2-bedroom home in Ann Arbor, Michigan. A recent article[i] describes his personal journey, which began with a traumatic childhood:

Ken was 11 and his brother, Ric, was 10, when their mother was on her deathbed. Their father, Robert Kyle Burns Jr., an anthropologist, was mentally ill.

As his mother’s cancer metastasized, Ken overheard conversations — his mother pleading with relatives, asking for someone, anyone, to take her boys in the event of her death. “I remember being scared — scared all the time,” he said.

With their mother in the hospital, the boys were left to wait at home for the inevitable. On the night of April 28, 1965, Ken went to bed with one of the worst stomachaches he had ever had — his body registering what none of the adults would speak about.

The pain disappeared suddenly. The phone rang. His mother was gone.

Following his mother’s death, his father would disappear “for hours and then days at a time” and sometimes be gone for months.

There is a saying I learned when I was at Hospice of Santa Barbara: “Pain that is not transformed is often transferred” — meaning if we don’t’ find a way to channel personal hurt and anguish into something positive, we can end up inflicting that pain on ourselves or others. In his grief and confusion, Burns found such a path:

The filmmaker remembers the exact moment when he decided what he wanted to do with his life: He had never seen his father cry — not in all the years his mother had fought an excruciating illness, not even at the funeral — until one night after her death. His family was in the living room in front of their black-and-white TV, watching a movie, and suddenly his father began weeping.

“I just understood that nothing gave him any safe harbor — nothing,” Ken Burns said, except the film, which had created the space for a bereaved widower to express the fraught emotions he had suppressed.

Burns began creating historical films that would present the past as something much more personal than just a series of facts. Through stories, letters, photographs, and music, he has been able to bring real people to life, whether the topic is baseball, music (jazz and country), war (World War 2 and Vietnam) or any other topic.

The article ends with this:

Years ago, a psychologist finally gave him an answer to the meaning of his work. “Look what you do for a living — you wake the dead,” the psychologist told him.

When I finished the article, I realized much of my life has been about “waking the dead.” I’ve been reading history and biographies since grammar school, constantly looking for how real people endured hardship and crises. I love listening to music that can seem to bring the composer’s lived experience accross time and directly into my heart and mind. I gaze at works of art hoping to time-travel into someone else’s world and imagination. I turn to the great spiritual traditions to listen to their wisdom and insights. I never thought of it as “waking the dead” but maybe that’s what I’m seeking – and not just to “wake” them but to be in a living and learning relationship with them.

Some years ago, I heard the writer, activist and defender of rural values Wendell Berry speak at UCSB as part of a series on environmental poets. In the question-and-answer period, someone asked if, given his dedication to family farms, gardening should be a required subject in high school. Berry paused for a minute, then said, “No, students should read Homer and the Bible, because they need to know they problems they are facing are not new.” Our world has changed a great deal in terms of technology and science, but the challenges of being a responsible and resilient human being have not. I’m grateful for those who can wake the dead so we can learn from them.

“As a baby, Ken Burns appeared in this photo showing his mother spoon feeding him.” (NY Times)

[i] “The Land That Allowed Ken Burns to Raise the Dead,” New York Times, Nov 27, 2024

Lead image: “Burns in the mid-1970s, just as he was starting to create his film studio” (from the Times article.)

Wherever You Go, There You Are

“Wherever you go, there you are” is a quote that has been around for many years.[i] It’s been nudging me recently.

This past week I decided to go through some old files. They included a selection of my academic papers, published articles, old sermons, early courtship letters from our marriage, and family Christmas letters we’d sent to friends over the years. I was surprised at some things – I didn’t remember taking that particular class or having that specific experience. It felt like I was watching my life go by and also sensing I’m the same person as when it all began. It’s like being on a train, passing through unknown places and having unexpected experiences, but realizing it’s an unchanged “me” looking out the window the entire trip. Wherever I went, there I was.

What I see now in the mirror looks different than what I’ve seen the past but it’s the same me that’s looking.

What will eventually happen to this “me” that seems to be the ongoing observer of my life?

A good friend of mine has been a hospice volunteer for many years and at the bedside of many dying people. Given the right care and support, he tells me people coming close to having their “me” leave their body feel no fear but experience a calm trust in the unknown.

Some say “dust to dust, ashes to ashes” … period. We are made of eleven basic elements, mostly carbon, oxygen and hydrogen. How amazing that eleven elements could come together in just the right way to create a space for a “me” that looks out at this world, tries to make sense of it, lives for decades, then dissipates and disappears.

Some say, “dust to dust, ashes to ashes, yet in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life.” The me that was carried along by the material elements doesn’t disappear when those elements cease functioning but continues in some form, and it all comes as a gift.

I remember someone asking Huston Smith, the great scholar of world spiritual traditions, what happens when we die. He said the spiritual traditions assume one of two possibilities. The first possibility is that we keep our self-awareness and become witnesses of something awe-inspiring like an eternal sunrise. The second possibility is our awareness simply dissolves into the sunrise. Then he smiled and said, “I like to think I might have a choice. If so, I’d choose to first witness the divine sunrise. But after a while – maybe after a thousand years — I’d decide that was enough. Then I’d let go and become part of it all.”

Back to sorting files. Happy New Year.

[i] There are numerous possible sources of this quote, but it gained popularity in 1994 as the title to a book by Jon Kabat-Zinn: Wherever You Go, There You Are: Mindfulness Meditation in Everyday Life.

A Restless Candle

On our last day in Vienna this past September, we decided to visit an impressive sight we had been passing every day: the Votivkirche, or ”Votive Church.”[i] Seeing its tall spires and ornate towers, I assumed it was an ancient Gothic cathedral. Upon entering, we discovered it is less than 150 years old — a “neo-Gothic” structure completed in 1879. The building is 325 feet high (second highest peak in the city) and features 78 stained glass windows; when you enter, it feels vast, mysterious and intriguing.

As we explored the interior, I noticed a small plaque on a stone pillar above a votive candle rack. No one else was nearby and only a few candles had been lit. The words were in German, Italian and English. Here is the English version:

God, there is a candle in front of me.

It burns restlessly, sometimes with a small flame, sometimes with a large flame.

God, I too am often restless.

May I become calm in you.

The candle gives me light and warmth.

God, may I also become a light for the world.

A simple prayer focusing on a single candle.

As we wandered and read more about the history of the building, we learned it was built as an expression of gratitude after the Austrian Emperor Franz Joseph survived an assassination attempt. It was expected to be a place where Austrian monarchs would be buried for generations to come. But history happened.

World War 1 began in 1914. The building was damaged, and the military was permitted to melt down parts of the organ and bells for the war effort. The war also led to the collapse of the monarchy. In the 1930s, the Nazis took control of the city and renamed the square outside the church Göring Square after the Nazi General. Following World War 2, the square was renamed Roosevelt Square after FDR. The building was restored in the 1970s.

A recent addition is the Multhausen stained glass window, designed and installed to commemorate the 90,000 who died in the Multhausen Concentration Camp. The window portrays prisoners helping each other up a stairway, supporting each other in their suffering; Christ is leading them at the top of the stairs.

Amid dramatic change and tragedy, the cathedral has been a sanctuary where anyone can enter, light a small candle, reflect, and pray.

I’ve been thinking how the life of a candle is like the life we live:

Both have a beginning and an end.
Both are vulnerable to being extinguished.
Neither needs to understand how it exists in order to exist.
Neither lights itself. A flame is given to it, which it bears as long as it can.
Both experience the world from its own point of view, and both affect the world around it.

The winter season is a time when we become more aware of light.

Christian communities observe Advent using a wreath with four candies in a circle and a single candle in the center. On each Sunday before Christmas, one of the outer candles is lit. On Christmas, the Christ candle at the center is lit.

Jewish communities celebrate Hannukah using a menorah of nine candles; the one at the center is always burning. Night after night, that flame is used to light one more of the other eight until all are glowing.

Both rituals assume there is a central flame. Both invite us to behold each candle as it is lit. In both, individuals become a community with the divine light at the center. Both affirm light can endure darkness.

I am paying more attention to candles this season, curious about what they can teach me. I know there are many candles burning. I know there are many people wondering. And here I am. This candle is me, burning as best I can, grateful to bear light as long as I can.

God, there is a candle in front of me.

It burns restlessly, sometimes with a small flame, sometimes with a large flame.

God, I too am often restless.

May I become calm in you.

The candle gives me light and warmth.

God, may I also become a light for the world.

[i] Votive: (adjective): consisting of or expressing a vow, wish, or desire.

Where’s Your Axis Mundi?

It’s a word I liked the first time I heard it: axis mundi.

I encountered it in graduate school reading The Sacred and Profane, a study of world religion and mythology by Mircea Eliade. It means the “axis” around which the earth “turns” — not physically, but spiritually and psychologically. It’s a place where people believe heaven and earth meet.

Jerusalem has long been seen as an axis mundi, a city sacred to Jews, Christians and Muslims. For traditional Japan, it has been Mt. Fuji. For Catholics it’s Rome.

Some indigenous tribes in Australia are always on the move, and they carry a sacred pole with them which they erect each place they stay – a portable axis mundi.

In 2000, I had a 3-month sabbatical project that focused on how digital technology was beginning to affect everyday life. I visited and conducted interviews in two locations.

Silicon Valley was already becoming the axis mundi of the tech age. In my interviews and observations, one could already sense that digital tech was becoming something close to a religion. In the Tech Museum in San Jose, I purchased a computer mouse pad made to look like a Muslim prayer rug. I visited one of the largest Fry’s stores (in the pre-internet retail era, Fry’s was a “Mecca” for electronic parts and gadgets.) Some were designed to look like Mayan temples:

One month later I went to India, which was becoming part of that revolution. After interviewing tech professionals and academics in Bangalore, I spent time in the ancient city of Varanasi on the banks of the Ganges River. In Hindu belief, there is no place on earth where heaven and earth come closer, and therefore no better place to bathe, die, be cremated and have your ashes scattered.

By 2006, I had realized the most sacred religious site in the Western Hemisphere was the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City. Growing up in California, I had seen the Guadalupe image all my life but knew nothing about what it meant. I learned that, in Catholic tradition, the Virgin Mary appeared to an indigenous peasant, Juan Diego, in December,1531. She looked more like a native woman than a European and spoke to him in his own dialect: “Am I not here, I who am your mother?” She gave Juan Diego her robe or tilma. When he took it to a skeptical archbishop and unfurled it, pink roses fell to the floor and her image had become imprinted on the garment. The tilma is preserved in a glass case in the cathedral. I spent a week in the city that summer, making several visits to the Basilica. I watched thousands of faithful pilgrims arrive to worship and celebrate, and was moved by their joy and devotion.

Mt. Shasta is just south of the Oregon border. We’d driven by it many times over the years as we traveled between Washington state and California, but I hadn’t considered it anything more than an impressive volcanic formation. In 2009, we spent a week at a yoga/hiking retreat in the town of McCloud at the base of the mountain. We could see the peak every morning from our window. As we hiked during the week, we saw it from many angles. On the last day of the retreat, our group hiked to Squaw Meadows, an alpine meadow on the side of mountain at an elevation of 7,900 feet. I felt smaller and increasingly insignificant in the presence of the mountain’s mystery and majesty; I began to appreciate why both native people and contemporary spiritual seekers from around the world consider it an axis mundi. We’ve returned to the area every summer for 15 years.

In 1233, St. Francis returned to Italy from the Holy Land where he had visited a cave that was the traditional site of Jesus’ birth. Wanting people to appreciate the setting of the Christmas story, he created the first outdoor nativity scene including live animals. Nativity scenes have become a familiar axis mundi in countless households and sanctuaries ever since. When viewed with reverence, candlelight and song, a nativity scene affirms that divine presence can be sensed not only on mountaintops, but also in the lives of humble people in unexpected places.

Some traditions have steered away from emphasizing any particular physical place where we encounter the divine and instead look within our individual awareness. Quakers affirm that every person has within them an “inward light” or spark of divine energy. By practicing silent introspection, we can access and experience that light and find guidance from it.

I have visited many sacred sites in my life. I always try to understand and appreciate the beliefs and imagination of the faithful who are drawn there.

At the same time, the purpose of visiting such places doesn’t end with the personal encounter. Recent studies have established a powerful connection between experiences of awe and an increased capacity to care for others.[i] Coming into the presence of axis mundi sites can have that effect. The purpose of spiritual life is not to have a specific experience, but to discover within us a deep reverence for life and others and let that form our character. As Huston Smith said, “Spirituality is not about altered states but altered traits.”

[i] https://drjsb.com/2022/09/03/starstruck-the-relationship-between-awe-and-caring/

Pocket Epiphanies #200: A Buffet of Past Posts

On December 17, 2020, I posted my first piece for this “PocketEpiphanies” blog. It’s hard to believe, but this week marks my 200th. I went back and picked out a dozen that may be worth reposting. Think of this as a “blog buffet” — see if any particular one interests you and put it on your plate. And thank you for being part of this project.

Narcissim of Small Differences We prize attention to detail in many areas of life. But we can easily fall prey to the “narcissism of small differences.” We can make choices about things that have little relation to their actual value.

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Silver Keys, Mean Moms and Compassion in the Workplace The right thing to do was not to simply feel compassion for everyone involved, but to find a solution to the problem. That took “art and skill.”

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Starstruck: The Relationship Between Awe and Caring Gazing at the heavens may help us make a better world on earth.”

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Two Questions, Two Art Works, One Life to Live Maybe the best way to find ourselves is to give ourselves away.

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Seeing People Like Trees And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.

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I Hope I’m Wrong Dear friends, I hope I’m wrong about all this. I know there may be some very positive uses for AI, especially in medicine. But I’m worried.

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The Intrinsic Power of Veriditas What I saw was a glimpse of the viriditas that permeates and surrounds us, an inner force we share.

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My Plan for Dementia Care …one of my constant themes is my sense of awe at the miracle of life, and gratitude for all the opportunities and experiences I’ve had. But I don’t want to live “beyond my time,” and I don’t want my family to be emotionally or financially burdened caring for me when I don’t have a life I can appreciate.

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“Mind Proposes, Soul Disposes” “This may be important. I need to be attentive.”

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GRACE: A Focusing Practice We are embodied human beings who have been gifted with this amazing multisensory life-form and a miraculous mind which, when they are working together, can open us to a rich awareness of where we are and what is possible.

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Private Thoughts I can’t believe a light that burned so brightly in my life has disappeared from my sight.

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Letting Your Soul Catch Up With You “Making good time” means you haven’t left your soul behind in the pursuit of speed and efficiency. Your soul has a chance to be present with you as you travel.

A Torch in the Darkness

Years ago I created a simple structure for my personal prayer practice. I begin with the inner circle of our extended family members and expand the focus to includes others. Recently one person came to mind who I know is trying to “find their way” in life. A visual image appeared to me: The person was walking alone through an underground cave or tunnel but was not in the dark; they were holding something like a small torch in front of them as they moved.

I liked this image and wondered where it came from. I realized it had, for me, two sources: a personal experience I had backpacking in Wales and an art work I’d seen long ago.

Backpacking in Wales: A year after college, I had saved enough to spend six months backpacking in Europe. I began with two weeks in England. I was staying in youth hostels and hitchhiking to save money. After a time in London, I explored the towns of Oxford and Bath and decided to go on to Wales. As is often the case, spending a night at a hostel means you meet other travelers who may be going in the same direction. At the hostel in Bath I met an Australian guy named Pete who was also headed to Wales and we decided to team up. The next morning we got a ride to the seaside town of Carnaerfon. After spending the day exploring the medieval town and its castle, we realized it was too late to make it to the next hostel; we decided to camp in the nearby woods. As we made our way into the forest, Pete said, “I wish we had a torch.” Taking him literally, I smiled. Soon we found a good spot, spent the night, and moved on the next day. Weeks later I heard an English person refer to a flashlight as a “torch.” I realized Pete hadn’t made a joke but was wishing one of us had brought a flashlight.

The Art: It took me a while to identify what art work I’d seen that showed people finding their way through darkness, but Googling around I found it:

It’s a fresco called “Christ in Limbo,” painted by Fra Angelico on the cell wall of a convent in Florence in 1444. An ancient belief held that after his death Jesus visited the souls of the departed who had been held captive in “Limbo,” a spiritual dimension like an underground cave. He breaks down the barrier that imprisoned them, dismisses the demon captors (the crouching figures at the bottom left) and leads them into light. One doesn’t have to believe in ideas like a literal “limbo” to appreciate the artist’s purpose. In modern terms, we can see it symbolically: the power of divine light can reach beyond boundaries to lead people out of darkness. The figures aren’t holding any “torches” here; their path is illuminated by the saving light coming through the now-opened passageway and carried in the golden halos each has been given as their personal source of illumination.

In the mysterious realm of consciousness, soul and spirit, literalism can be set aside. Our imginations, both personal and shared, can communicate truths beyond ordinary understanding. 700 years after Fra Anglico conceived this scene and created it, I still find it inspiring.

Now when I pray for people who are finding their way through uncharted territory, I see them walking through a dark passageway holding a small “torch.” The torch is a gift supplied by the silent divine force that seeks to lead all of us through darkness into light.

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Notes:

For me, this image also reflects the universal spiritual theme of light defying darkness present in such celebrations such as Hanukkah and Christimas. In the Advent season, it’s reflected in many carols, such as “Bring a Torch Jeanette, Isabella.”

One dictionary gives several definitions of the word “limbo,” including “Any real or imaginary place of restraint or confinement; a prison.”

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