Tag Archives: pocket epiphanies

Dolly and Wendell

In the closing days of August, two great Americans died: Dolly Parton, age 80, and Wendell Berry, age 92. 

In some ways, they had much in common.  They were from the same part of the country — Dolly’s roots were in the “hollers” of Tennessee and Wendell’s in the hills of nearby Kentucky.  They both carried with them an appreciation of rural values and a powerful blend of humility and pride.  And they both expressed personal truths in a way that spoke to us all.

As best as I can determine, they never met.

I never saw Dolly in person, but like so many, grew to appreciate her art, her persona, and what she stood for.  She honored her upbringing and used her fame and fortune to help others.  She welcomed every person she encountered.   She always took the stage with joy and purpose.  As a music critic friend of mine noted this week, “The nation — nay, the universe — has lost one of its great lights and levelers.” [i]

In contrast, I knew Wendell Berry to be a shy man.  I saw him in person on three occasions: in 1986 at the Campbell Farm in Washington where we were volunteers, in 1993 at the dedication of a local community-supported agriculture project, and several years later as part of an “Environmental Poetry” series at UCSB.

There have been many tributes to each of them in recent days.  I have nothing to add to honor Dolly.  But I do want to offer something to honor Wendell.

This week I looked back over my blog posts and discovered I’d written about him eight different times.  I decided to share two selections.

What Young People Need 

When he spoke at UCSB, he read from a novel he was working on, Jayber Crow.  This was followed by a 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 the problems they are facing are not new.” 

What Jayber Crow Understood 

I bought the novel Wendell had read from soon after it came out in 2000. Jayber grows up in the small town of Port William.  Early in life, he felt a possible calling to ministry and attended seminary but became disillusioned and left.  He returns to Port William and becomes the town barber, gravedigger and church custodian.  From these vantage points he witnesses people’s lives unfolding.   In one passage, he’s sitting at the back of the church during a service. The young visiting preacher is a fire-and-brimstone kind of guy, and Jayber reflects on those he’s encountered who see the world from that perspective:

…They learned to have a very high opinion of God and a very low opinion of His works — although they could tell you that this world had been made by God Himself.

What they didn’t see was that it is beautiful, and that some of the greatest beauties are the briefest. They had imagined the church, which is an organization, but not the world which is an order and a mystery. To them the church did not exist in the world where people earn their living and have their being, but rather in the world where they fear death and Hell, which is not much of a world.  To them, the soul was something dark and musty, stuck away for later. In their brief passage through or over it, most of the young preachers knew Port William only as it theoretically was (“lost”) and as it theoretically might be (“saved”) and they wanted us all to do our part to spread this bad news to others who had not heard it — the Catholics, the Hindus, the Muslims, the Buddhists, and others — or else they (and maybe we) would go to Hell. I did not believe it. They made me see how cut off I was. Even when I was sitting in the church, I was a man outside.

In Port William, more than any place I had ever been, this religion that scorned the beauty and goodness of this world was a puzzle to me. To begin with, I don’t think anybody believed it. I still don’t think so. Those world condemning sermons were preached to people who, on Sunday mornings, would be wearing their prettiest clothes. Even the old widows in their dark dresses would be pleasing to look at. By dressing up on the one day when most of them had leisure to do it, they signified their wish to present themselves to one another and to Heaven looking their best. The people who heard those sermons loved good crops, good gardens, good livestock and work animals and dogs; they loved flowers and the shade of trees, and laughter and music; most of them could make you a fair speech on the pleasures of a good drink of water or a patch of wild raspberries. While the wickedness of the flesh was preached from the pulpit, the young husbands and wives and the courting couple sat thigh to thigh, full of yearning and joy, and the old people thought of the beauty of the children. And when church was over they would go home to Heavenly dinners of fried chicken, it might be, and creamed new potatoes and creamed new peas and hot biscuits and butter and cherry pie and sweet milk and buttermilk…

…The people didn’t really want to be saints of self-deprivation and hatred of the world. They knew that sooner or later the world would deprive them of all it had given them, but they still liked it.  What they came together for was to acknowledge, just by coming, their losses and failures and sorrows, their need for comfort, their faith always needing to be greater, their wish (in spite of all words and acts to the contrary) to love one another and to forgive and be forgiven, their need for one another’s help and company and divine gifts, their hope and experience of love surpassing death, and their gratitude. (162-163)[ii]

The first time I read this passage, it brought tears to my eyes. It captures why I have felt privileged to serve all my congregations.  It’s never been about promoting any particular doctrine or instilling fear.  Instead, it’s been about practicing a down-to-earth reverence for all of us “ordinary” people trying to live our “ordinary” lives with grace and care.  Wendell described what I have always felt but did not have the words to express.  I think Dolly would know exactly what he was talking about. I’m grateful to them both.

[i] “Goodbye, Dolly,” Joe Woodard, Santa Barbara Independent, September 3, 2026

[ii] What Jayber Crow Understood

The Sirens’ Song

This week I saw Christopher Nolan’s new movie, “The Odyssey.”

As the movie unfolded, I did my best to try to compare Nolan’s version with what I remember from reading the original epic some years ago. One surprise for me was how he portrayed the encounter of Odysseus with the Sirens.

Odysseus has led his men through many challenges as he returns home after the Trojan War. At one point, the ship must pass by an outcropping of rock where the Sirens live. As legend has it, the Sirens are mythic female figures who sing to passing sailors with a “honeysweet sound,” enticing them to abandon their vessel and join them — but anyone who does will drown. Odysseus has his crew plug their ears with wax so they will not be tempted. But Odysseus wants to know what can be so dangerously compelling. He has his crew bind him to the mast and agree not to release him until the ship is safely past, no matter what he might say to them.

A storm is raging as the ship comes near the island and the Sirens begin to sing. Odysseus feels the power of their call, but the ropes restrain him. This is Matt Damon’s expression during his experience:

The ship passes through the storm and beyond the Sirens’ voices to safety.

Over the centuries, many readers have assumed the Sirens’ power comes from musically arousing the most irresistible human desires. But Nolan offers us something else.

After Odysseus is released, one of his men asks him what he heard. In the theater I heard some of what he says, but it went by quickly. I made a mental note to find the exact words when I had a chance.

Two days later, on a website dedicated to the movie I found this excerpt from the script:

“Eurylochus: What was the song of the sirens like?

Odysseus: All the things you want it to be. Then, all the things you wished you never wished for. It was the delicious itch you go to scratch but find it’s under the skin. You can’t reach it. So the delicious itch becomes unbearable. Told you what you most want, is what you most can’t have.
And what you most can’t have, is what you already had, and lost. It was the song of all the promises I failed to keep. And it told me I don’t really want to go home.” *

I found myself rereading these words carefully. It seemed the sentences could be read as pairs, and each pair describes some of our deepest feelings. What did he hear in the song?

“All the things you want it to be. Then, all the things you wished you never wished for.” What would it be like to feel everything you’ve wanted in your life compressed into one moment? And at the same time, feel all the regrets you have accumulated about past desires?

“It was the delicious itch you go to scratch but find it’s under the skin. You can’t reach it. So the delicious itch becomes unbearable.” You reexperience all this and there is no release.

“Told you what you most want, is what you most can’t have. And what you most can’t have, is what you already had, and lost.” I first thought this is just another reminder of remembering a lifetime of unfulfilled desires. But “…what you most can’t have, is what you already had, and lost” is something more. We feel the pain of knowing again all the things we once had but now have lost – people we’ve loved, our youth, opportunities we missed in years gone by, and past decisions we’d make differently.

“It was the song of all the promises I failed to keep. And it told me I don’t really want to go home.” The intense memories continue and now include our personal failures. Perhaps this last sentence suggests that, knowing his shortcomings and pain so vividly, maybe he doesn’t deserve to go home.

No wonder he is in anguish as he experiences the power of all those desires and regrets.

If the story ended there, it would be a depressing drive home.

But the movie doesn’t end here. As his journey continues, Odysseus seems to find a new sense of peace. He’s faced a lifetime of pain and regrets in one intense cathartic experience. He does not abandon hope or give up on himself. He heard the song, felt the feelings, and survived. He can now move toward his life’s completion in peace.

As life goes on, memories of unfulfilled desires and regrets may rise and call to us. If we had to experience them welling up inside us all at once like Odysseus, maybe we’d let out our own primal scream. But we are not on that ship and there are no Sirens calling to us. We can let such feelings and memories arise within us as they may do. Instead of making us desperate, we can meet them with self-compassion, love, and forgiveness. And then let them go.

Lead Image: Red-figure stamnos with Odysseus and the Sirens, 480-470 BCE, British Museum

*https://www.imdb.com/title/tt33764258/quotes/?_ssoLoop=1

Presence of Mind and the Search for Soul

Last week I shared personal thoughts on what it means to have “presence of mind.” I considered examples of how we use the word “mind” and what it means to have the mind “present.” I offered examples: the performance of a master teacher, the act of a gracious theologian I once shared lunch with, and watching Willie Mays play baseball. I ended with this:

It seems “presence of mind” appears when someone can observe multiple thoughts, feelings, or sensations simultaneously and, from a calm place in the middle of it all, decide what is best to do or say. What emerges often feels like fresh insight rather than just a reaction. Truly wise and spiritual people seem to be able to do that well, and it has very little to do with formal education. I have decided to begin contemplating the relationship between “presence of mind” and what some call “soul.”

This past week I set out on that exploration. I reviewed what I had previously written about “soul.” I found three excerpts worth sharing.

“Your Soul Is Like a Wild Animal”

In 2009 I read A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life by the academic-turned-spiritual-mentor Parker Palmer. Early on, he says he will be using the word “soul.” He knows his academic friends will be dismissive of both the word and the concept. But he believes there is something within us best described with this word — a point of connection and wholeness that all spiritual traditions understand. He also offers a useful metaphor: “The soul is like a wild animal — tough, resilient, and shy. When we go crashing through the woods shouting for it to come out so we can help it, the soul will stay in hiding. But if we are willing to sit quietly and wait for a while, the soul may show itself.”

He goes on to say that much of our culture keeps us distracted, and so our soul withdraws. But in moments of quiet and inner attentiveness, our souls cautiously appear. In those moments, we realize who we really are and how miraculous the world is; in those moments, we often find guidance, assurance, and hope.

Palmer says there is another quality of soul that is like a wild animal: “Like a wild animal, the soul is tough, resilient, resourceful, savvy, and self-sufficient: it knows how to survive in hard places. I learned about these qualities during my bouts with depression. In that deadly darkness, the faculties I had always depended on collapsed. My intellect was useless; my emotions were dead; my will was impotent; my ego was shattered. But from time to time, deep in the thickets of my inner wilderness, I could sense the presence of something that knew how to stay alive even when the rest of me wanted to die. That something was my tough and tenacious soul.”[i]

Takeaway: Finding ways to cultivate “presence of mind” sets the stage for getting in touch with our “soul.”

“Mind Proposes, Soul Disposes”

I once attended a week-long retreat at Esalen with the wise scholar of global spirituality, Huston Smith. My notebook was filled with things he said I wanted to remember. One was a phrase: “Mind proposes, soul disposes.”

I take this to describe an experience we are all familiar with. A thought arises within our mental awareness that seems like a suggestion or an impression. It can appear like words on our inner screen, or perhaps our personal voice speaking to us from within. This is the mind proposing. What do we do with this proposal? A different kind of awareness comes into play as we consider the suggestion. We ask ourselves: Is this the way I want to feel? Is this suggestion something I really want to do? Is this a path I want to follow? As we decide, it is the soul disposing — our inner, “higher self” coming into play, indicating a possible direction like a compass. Then it’s up to us to decide whether we go that way.[ii]

Takeaway: When “present,” the mind can consider all the information and feelings coming into our awareness. The soul then chooses the best path to follow.

“The Buddha Touches the Earth”

I cited the ancient story in which demons pester the Buddha, trying to sow doubt about his enlightenment. He responds by touching the earth, and the demons flee. I like to think of our traditions as ways of “touching the earth.”

Spiritual traditions include specific teachings, participation in community life, and the practice of serving others in tangible ways. As our culture becomes more fragmented and people more socially isolated, many studies have shown that being part of a spiritual community leads to increased emotional and physical health. Our traditions ground us in what really matters, giving meaning to all we do.[iii]

Takeaway: Presence of mind creates a space for our soul to show up. Then we ponder our choices. We may choose to rely only on our own perspective. But we don’t have to. Our traditions give us a vision for what a meaningful life looks like. Sometimes that means putting aside our personal priorities. Sometimes it may mean following new paths that lead to unexpected joy and renewed purpose. In moments of decision, we can ask ourselves: Is this a direction that my best spiritual ancestors and community wisdom would recognize as worth pursuing?

What helps you find “presence of mind”? Regular times of unplugged, silent contemplation? Worship experiences? Long walks? Immersing yourself in music, art, activities, or acts of service that inform and inspire you? And when your shy soul appears, what voices do you trust to help you know what direction you might go?

 

[i] [i] https://drjsb.com/?s=soul

[ii] [ii] https://drjsb.com/2023/11/04/mind-proposes-soul-disposes/

[iii] [iii] https://drjsb.com/2025/09/06/touching-the-earth-grounding-our-soul/

Having “Presence of Mind”

Recently I walked by a person having a phone conversation. As I passed, I heard the phrase, “…and she had the presence of mind to….” I didn’t eavesdrop any further to hear what “she” did, but I was struck by that phrase: “presence of mind.” I had never thought about it before.

Over the centuries, much sophisticated thinking in philosophy, science, and spiritual traditions has focused on what the “mind” is and how we might distinguish it from the physical brain. I knew I could turn to the internet and find plenty of information, but I decided to ponder it on my own. I began thinking about the way we use the word “mind.”

For instance, we may say someone is “absent-minded.” We don’t mean their brain isn’t working, but that their attention to the present moment isn’t here.

We hear someone say, “Mind your manners” or “mind what you are saying”; the speaker assumes the person being spoken to already knows what behavior or speech is appropriate but needs a re-mind-er to put it into practice.

If something we’ve been talking about isn’t worth pursuing anymore, we’ll say, “Never mind.”

If we sense someone is holding an idea back and we want to encourage them to share it, we’ll say, “Go ahead, speak your mind.”

And if we get a sense that no one is overseeing a particular situation, we might say, “Who’s minding the store?” And on it goes.

The more I thought about “presence of mind,” the more it became clear that we all may have a “mind,” but it’s not always “present” in our thinking.

I then thought of three real-life stories that illustrate people having “presence of mind.”

Years ago, I was enrolled in a graduate seminar on effective teaching. I remember one experiment in which researchers wanted to understand what makes a “master teacher.” They created multiple ways to observe what was happening in real time in a classroom, coding and analyzing the information. The teachers were, of course, presenting a lesson. But what the researchers saw was that the teachers also knew each student’s personality and behavior patterns, as well as the social dynamics of the class. The teacher was never so tied to the curriculum that they were blind to whatever unspoken dynamics were unfolding moment to moment, and they could adapt their focus and performance as needed to keep students engaged. Another way to put it: they had the presence of mind to do what was needed to meet a complex situation.

I remember a lunch I shared at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center with a teacher I greatly admired, the theologian John Cobb. We were engaged in a serious conversation about some topic. At one point, I could see an older man behind John had just come through the buffet line and was holding his tray while trying to decide where he could sit. Without interrupting our conversation, John reached back toward the adjacent table and pulled out a chair so the man could sit down easily. I was stunned. I remember thinking, “I don’t think John even saw that fellow… “ it was as if he sensed his presence. John was gracious in all that he taught and did, and what I saw confirmed that his graciousness went beyond intellectual conversation — he had literally extended himself to help another person. (Thinking back on it later, I thought, “That must be what it’s like to be a Jedi.”) His behavior was an example of having “presence of mind.”

There are athletes who exhibit something beyond mere physical talent. One of the greatest baseball players of all time was Willie Mays, the centerfielder for the San Francisco Giants. Willie was a great hitter and baserunner. He was also a terrific outfielder who, when a batter hit the ball, seemed to instantly know where to run to intercept it. But he had something more than that. One sportscaster said Willie always had “the game in his head.” Even with his back turned to the infield as he ran to catch a ball, he was already calculating where to throw it once he caught it, and it was uncanny how often he surprised everyone with the accuracy of the throw. We see the same trait in basketball players who can be running full speed down the court and still sense exactly where to pass the ball so it meets a teammate who hasn’t gotten there yet and may not see it coming until just the right moment. “Presence of mind” amid intense competitive activity is a beautiful thing to witness.

We could go on exploring all the ways this phrase illuminates human behavior. But maybe we’ll stop here and try to reach a modest conclusion.

It seems “presence of mind” appears when someone can hold multiple thoughts, feelings, or sensations in awareness at once and, from a calm place in the middle of it all, decide what is best to do or say. What emerges often feels like fresh insight rather than mere reaction. Truly wise and spiritual people seem to do this well, and it has very little to do with formal education. I think spiritual practices can help us find that point of awareness where we access not only our own best thoughts but also guidance beyond ourselves. I have decided to begin contemplating the relationship between “presence of mind” and what some call “soul.” I’ll share an update next week.

Will Rogers On Getting Old

We were with the grandkids up at Mammoth Lakes this week so I nobly focused on being with them instead of doing any writing.

But some time ago I saw this list of thoughts about growing old from Will Rogers.  I hesitated to share it for two main reasons: 1) it’s kind of corny; 2) it’s the kind of thing old people share that, when I was younger and I’d see something like this, I thought it was, as we would say then, “lame.”  But I’m getting lame and I’m getting old and I like fresh sweet corn and guess I’m now the old guy who  shares something like this.

About Growing Old From Will Rogers…

First ~ Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it. 

Second ~ The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for. 

Third ~ Some people try to turn back their odometers. Not me; I want people to know why I look this way. I’ve traveled a long way, and some of the roads weren’t paved. 

Fourth ~ When you are dissatisfied and would like to go back to youth, think of Algebra. 

Fifth ~ You know you are getting old when everything either dries up or leaks. 

Sixth ~ I don’t know how I got over the hill without getting to the top. 

Seventh ~ One of the many things no one tells you about aging is that it’s such a nice change from being young. 

Eighth ~ One must wait until evening to see how splendid the day has been. 

Ninth ~ Being young is beautiful, but being old is comfortable and relaxed. 

Tenth ~ Long ago, when men cursed and beat the ground with sticks, it was called witchcraft.  Today it’s called golf. 

And, finally ~ If you don’t learn to laugh at trouble, you won’t have anything to laugh at when you’re old.

Moments When I Knew Why I Love My Country

There are many wonderful countries in the world — one only has to watch the World Cup to see the pride and passion people have for their homeland and culture.  I can think of many reasons why I love my country.  As our 250th anniversary arrives, some specific moments came to me.

August 1975, JFK Airport: After spending six months in Europe, I landed at JFK airport. As I came down the stairs, three baggage handlers were having a heated discussion on the tarmac.  They were from three different ethnic groups, and I wondered what they were so passionate about.  As I got closer, I discovered they were arguing about the Mets.  At that moment, I said to myself, “I’m home.”  (Note: while I loved being back, I had gotten used to German beer, Swiss chocolate, and French cheese; having to settle for Schlitz, Hershey’s and Kraft “American” was a challenge.)

July 4, 1991, Yakima, Washington:  During our seven years living in rural Washington, we were blessed to have our lives intertwined with three generations of Filipino families.  On this 4th of July, we were guests at their family barbecue.  Several family members took turns standing and saying what it meant to be able to immigrate to America – what challenges they faced, and how grateful they were to become American citizens.

May 1999, Ellis Island, New York City: We were back East for the college graduation of our eldest daughter. I took our two youngest girls to sightsee in New York City.  We took the ferry to Ellis Island.  I remembered my grandmother, who died before I was born, and was 21 years old when she arrived from Sweden in 1912.  In the room where new arrivals were processed, there was a bench with a sign noting it had been in use at that time.  We sat on that bench looking out at the Statue of Liberty.  My grandmother did not have an easy life.  But I thought what a rich life she had made possible for her descendants.

November 4, 2008, Santa Barbara: I was driving home after work listening to NPR. It was announced that Barack Obama was going to win the Presidential election. I had grown up in an era when racism and bigotry were pervasive in my neighborhood, town and country.  To think that a Black man was going to serve as president seemed like a miracle.

December 17, 2013, Goleta City Council Chambers:  After 9/11, I became involved with the Jewish and Muslim congregations in my community.  We got to know each other as friends and neighbors. The Muslim congregation had been working for many years to build a small mosque.  A vote for final approval was scheduled on this date.  There was tension prior to the meeting as we wondered what people opposed to the project might say.  But everyone who spoke supported it.  A common theme was an affirmation that the freedom to practice religion is a fundamental principle of the American vision.  The Council approved the permit unanimously and we rejoiced.

September 2024, Dutch Resistance Museum, Amsterdam:   My sister and I had spent two weeks in Europe focusing on the cities of Berlin, Vienna, and Amsterdam.  Along the way we visited many sites associated with the Nazi period. In Amsterdam we visited the Dutch Resistance Museum.  We were moved by stories and exhibits highlighting the courage and resourcefulness of the Dutch during the Nazi occupation.  The last room focused on the experience of liberation, with tributes to the role the American armed forces had played.  Our father and his 30th Infantry Division had been part of that effort.  I felt great pride in remembering the role America played in the liberation of Europe.

At our best we are a land of opportunity representing the noblest aspirations of the human family. We have refined that vision over two and a half centuries to affirm that all people are created equal, and they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, including life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  In these trying times I am grateful for those moments when I was reminded of the power and beauty of that vision, and resolve to remember, defend, and advance it.

Remembering Father Vincent

In 1982, I was beginning to explore contemplative practices: spending time in silence, journaling, paying attention to dreams, and reading classic works on prayer and meditation.  I decided to make a private retreat at a monastery.  I was living in Santa Paula at the time and heard about St. Andrew’s Priory, a Benedictine center in the desert north of Los Angeles. As I was making my reservation, I was told they were receiving a new monk into their community that evening and I was welcome to attend.

As I drove through the desert, I wondered what to expect.  Do monks chant in low voices all the time? Are the guest room mattresses hard?  What do they eat – gruel with weak tea?

I arrived as the service was ending in the chapel. Approximately 60 people began heading toward the dining room, a blend of monks in brown robes and lay people.

When I entered the dining room, I saw prime rib and roast turkeys being carved and a long buffet with colorful side dishes. At each dining table were bottles of wine, six-packs of Dos Equis, and jars with cigars. 

I said to one of the monks, “This is not what I was expecting.”

“We don’t always eat like this,” he said. “One of the brothers used to be an executive chef for the Hyatt.  When we have special occasions, he takes over.”

I filled my plate and walked to place at a table across from a monk who was already eating.

He motioned me to join him and said, “Welcome. I’m Father Vincent.”  As we ate, I asked him how long he’d been at the Abbey.  He told me he first came in the 1950s. I asked him where he had been before that. He said he’d been in China from the 1930s until 1948.

“You were in China in the 1930s?” I asked. “Did you ever meet Teilhard de Chardin?” (Chardin was a famous theologian and archaeologist I admired who had been on digs in China and whose writings integrated evolution and spirituality).

“I met with Teilhard Tuesday afternoons when I was in China,” Father Vincent said.  “He was a brilliant man, but did not know the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob.”*  I was fascinated and we continued our conversation.

That evening marked the beginning of a personal friendship I developed with Father Vincent. I returned several times during the next three years to spend time with him.  I would bring spiritual questions to explore. We would sit on a bench or take long walks.  He was always patient and gracious, speaking quietly and thoughtfully with his French accent.

Gradually I learned more about his life.

He was Belgian by birth and grew up speaking French.  After entering the Benedictine order, he was sent in 1936 to China to establish a mission. He became fluent in Chinese.  When the Japanese invaded, he joined the Chinese army to serve as a chaplain. He was captured, spent time in a Japanese POW camp and narrowly escaped being executed.

After the end of the war in 1945, he resumed his work in China until foreigners were expelled in 1948.  He came to the US to attend Harvard, where he earned a PhD in sociology.

He once told me, “You know, I think in French, speak in English, and dream in Chinese.”

After Harvard, his order sent him to Los Angeles with $50,000 to find a location for a monastery.  He told me he read the LA Times real estate section every Sunday.  One day he saw an ad for a 720-acre turkey ranch near Pearblossom.  He represented his order in the purchase and oversaw the construction.  

After St. Andrew’s got established, he spent 10 years in Jerusalem studying Judaism and Hebrew.  After he returned to California, he would often attend Jewish services in Los Angeles, putting on a prayer shawl and yarmulke and reciting the prayers in Hebrew. He was the first Catholic Chaplain at Cedars-Sinai hospital. Year after year he worked to strengthen the bond between Judaism and Christianity. 

Father Vincent died in 1999 at age 87. I regret I did not spend more time with him. 

I will always treasure the time I was in his presence. He was a brilliant man who sought to understand and appreciate the rich variety of human experience and for whom spirituality was an endless exploration.

After retiring in 2018, I felt a desire to go back to St. Andrew’s to reflect on my transition.  I booked a three-night stay.

When I arrived, the grounds and buildings were familiar, but I felt Father Vincent’s absence.

On my last morning, I decided to visit his grave on the hillside overlooking the Abbey. I walked up the dirt road to the cemetery. I was alone.  When I found his tombstone, I saw several bouquets of flowers scattered around it – clearly, after two decades, I was not the only one who wanted to honor him. I kneeled, closed my eyes, and began to offer a silent prayer of gratitude.  I did not get very far into my prayer before I stopped. An awareness had arisen within me — or was given to me.  I sensed I didn’t need to venerate him.  Instead, I felt an abiding kinship.  It was as if I was being told, “You, too, have lived a meaningful life.”

The Cemetery at the Abbey

*In regards to Father Vincent’s comment about Teilhard, I have wondered about it ever since. I think he meant was Teilhard was seeking to create a rational comprehensive system of understanding God in light of modern science. But Vincent and others have often pointed out that the God who appears from Genesis often defies human comprehension.

Lead Image: St. Andrew’s Priory, Valyermo, CA

The Gift of Longing

Last June I took my two grandsons to Glendale for a Mookie Betts baseball camp.  We drove down the night before and spent the night at a motel.  The next morning, we joined 200 young people and their families at a sports complex for a half-day of skill-building.

As the morning went on, some of the younger siblings got restless.

I was sitting in the stands when I heard some loud lamentations.  I saw a little girl – I’m guessing she was three — two rows in front of me.  Her mother was holding a Smartphone in front of her while conversing with another adult, but the little girl desperately wanted full control of it. “No, No, I have to hold it!!!” the little girl kept pleading with tears coming down her cheeks.  Finally, the mother relented, let go and allowed her daughter to take control of the phone. The little girl’s breathing steadied and the tears stopped; a gentle smile came to her face. 

What the little girl was expressing so effectively was a basic human desire – we see something we want and we strive to possess it.  No doubt that’s a key to our survival as a species.  It is a great feeling to obtain what we want; I can remember how excited I was as a teenager to get a new stereo system or later as an adult reaching some professional goal.  Our current culture thrives on our desires, offering us many visions of what we need. 

But if life is only about getting what we want, why do we find beauty in experiences of loss and longing?

This is the question behind a book I’m currently reading: Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make us Whole.  I bought it recently after hearing the author, Susan Cain, speak at a leadership conference.[i] Bittersweet explores the experience of being drawn to such things as old photographs, songs that speak of loss, rainy days, seeking quiet beauty in art, and being willing to listen to others talk about past or current troubles. She notes there is great pressure in our society to be happy all the time — to be “melancholy” means there is something wrong with us.  But she disagrees.  She sets out to demonstrate that “bittersweet” experiences are vital to being human.

Cain has a life-long appreciation for the songs of Leonard Cohen, and she cites him often.  As I was reading, I became vividly aware of my own attraction to music that creates poignant feelings – slow adagio movements in classical music and songs of lament in opera.  Thinking of popular music, I could hear Paul McCartney singing…

Yesterday

All my troubles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay
Oh, I believe in yesterday

Suddenly
I’m not half the man I used to be
There’s a shadow hanging over me
Oh, yesterday came suddenly

Why she had to go I don’t know
She wouldn’t say
I said, something wrong
Now I long for yesterday

Yesterday
Love was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away
Oh, I believe in yesterday

“My troubles are here to stay…there’s a shadow hanging over me…I long for yesterday…I need a place to hide away…”  Who wants to hear someone sing about what’s making them sad?  Turns out millions of us do.

Cain searches for reasons why we can be drawn to experiences of bittersweetness and melancholy.  Along the way she integrates current psychological research with insights from the world’s philosophical and spiritual traditions. She discovers that such experiences help us acknowledge the ways in which life doesn’t always give us what we want.  At the same time, we can sense within us a deep longing for some ideal state in which we can imagine all our wishes coming true.  As we dwell in that gap, our hearts open.  We feel the mystery and poignancy of life more deeply.  That in turn awakens empathy and compassion in us, allowing us to feel a kinship with others. Sometimes this includes an awareness of the transience of life — that all we are experiencing will pass away:

“In fact, you could say what orients a person to the bittersweet is the heightened awareness of finality.  Children splashing joyfully in puddles brings tears to grandparents’ eyes because they know that one day the children will grow up and grow old (and they won’t be there to see it).  But those aren’t tears of sorrow, exactly; at heart, they are tears of love.” [ii]

Bittersweet experiences encourage creativity as we find new ways to express what we feel.  They also grant us humility.  If we think we are superior to everyone, we won’t really care about others.  When our hearts open, we start caring.

I think of that little girl desperately wanting to hold the Smartphone and recognize something deep within me and all of us.  I hear Paul McCartney singing “Yesterday” and I want to bow in appreciation, remembering my own regrets and losses.  Desire is built deep within us and gives us purpose.  Bittersweet experiences open us to the richness of life and bond us to each another.  We benefit from both.

Lead Image: Van Gogh, “Portrait of Dr Paul Gachet”

[i] Her prior book was the best-seller: Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. 

[ii] Bittersweet, xxxiii

What Tom Taught Me

              My goal after college in March 1974 was to make enough money to go backpacking in Europe.

I began working for a title insurance company in Santa Ana that spring. A fellow employee was Tom, an “older” Englishman (probably in his sixties).  Tom wore short-sleeved white shirts and a dark tie every day; his hair and mustache were gray, and he was always calm and helpful with everyone.  I discovered he had been a research assistant for Will and Ariel Durant, authors of the 10-volume series The Story of Civilization, which my family had proudly owned.  I sought Tom out at coffee and lunch breaks to listen to his stories and discuss my dream of traveling.

              After a few months, I realized I wasn’t making enough money.  I moved back home to San Bernardino and made better money painting houses.  By the next spring, I had saved $1,500.  I was beginning to question whether I should spend that on travel or buy a VW Squareback.  But I felt I needed to ask Tom for advice.   I called to arrange a visit in Santa Ana.

              When we met, I told him I was thinking of delaying my trip to buy the car. He smiled and shook his head.  “You need to go now when you are free from responsibilities,” he said.  “You never know at what age you might get married and have kids and never have this opportunity again.”

              I told him I was planning to travel through Western Europe from late April into early summer, ending with time in Greece.  Then I was going to meet a friend in Germany who said she could help me get a job. 

              He gave me three suggestions.

              “If you are in Spain, you need to cross over to Morocco.”

              “But I have no interest in Morocco.”

              “Trust me,” he said.

              “Be sure to go to Venice.  It’s sinking and may be gone in the future.”

              Then he told me that there may come a time when I would be stuck someplace and not know what to do.  “When that happens, just find a place to sit down.  Someone will appear.”

              While I was in Spain, I debated going to Morocco.  But based on Tom’s advice, I made the ferry crossing and took a bus to the ancient city of Fez.

              When I arrived in Fez I felt like I was stepping back in time into the Arabian Nights.  I got a hotel with a balcony open to the city.  At first, I was put off by the Arabic calls to prayer that were broadcast across the city five times a day. But as I listened more carefully, I sensed a great spiritual yearning in what was being sung.  The city itself turned out to be fascinating.

              I crossed back to Spain, made my way to Italy and spent two days in Venice.

Then I went to Rome, and after a few days took a ferry to Greece.

In Athens, I contacted a girl whom I had befriended when she was an exchange student at my high school.  She invited me to share a memorable meal with her family at a local restaurant.  I told her I wanted to visit a Greek island, and she recommended Ios –  Homer’s birthplace and a quieter place than the more popular tourist destinations.

              My money was beginning to run low, so I sent a telegram home asking my father to forward my next allotted funds to the post office in Ios. 

              I got to the island and discovered I could sleep on the beach for free and eat cheaply.  For three days, I showed up at the post office after the ferry delivered the daily mail, but the money did not come. Finally, I realized I was broke. 

I wasn’t sure what to do.  Then I remembered Tom’s advice.  I went to the village square and sat on a bench near a fountain.  I waited to see what would happen.

              Two German girls passed by with their backpacks. They stopped and greeted me, asking for advice on where to stay.  I told them I was sleeping for free on a local beach and that they were welcome to try it.  They asked what I was doing. I told them I had just run out of money.  They said they’d be glad to lend me some until my funds came. 

We ended up sharing the beach spot and becoming friends.  Two days later, the money came. I paid them back. They gave me their address in Stuttgart and encouraged me to visit.

              I left Greece and made my way to Germany, where I met my friend.  I was offered a job at a local cheese factory, but my application for a work permit was denied a week later. Before going home, I made a brief stop in Stuttgart to visit my friends from Ios.

              I flew home in August and resumed my American life.

  A year later I fell in love, and a year after that got married; soon we had our first child.

              I lost contact with Tom long ago.  But over the years, I’ve often thought about his advice to me that day.

              He was right about making the trip while I had no responsibilities.  My trip will always be one of the great adventures of my life – more valuable than any car.

              He was right about Morocco.  Going there gave me my first appreciation for Arabic culture, which has grown over time.

              Venice?  It’s still there, but I’m glad I saw it.

              And being stuck and not knowing what to do? Sometimes just sitting down and waiting invites surprising things to happen.  I’m still not sure how that works.

I will always appreciate the wisdom and encouragement Tom gave me.

Let us be grateful for the relationships and conversations we’ve had with some of those “older” people that turned out to be lasting gifts on our journeys.

Lead Image: Fez, Morocco

Shaped By Life

Last week we took the Amtrak Coast Starlight for a 32-hour journey to Washington State.  Our goal was to visit friends we’d made when we lived in the farming community of Wapato in central Washington from 1985-1992. 

Once we got settled on the train, I downloaded Pope Leo’s new encyclical on AI to my iPad. While some of it was dry, other parts were compelling.  One section impressed me. I pasted this paragraph to my Notepad:

… we must avoid the misconception of equating this type of “intelligence” with that of human beings. These systems merely imitate certain functions of human intelligence. In doing so, they often surpass human intelligence in speed and computational capacity, offering tangible benefits across many fields. Yet this power remains entirely tied to data processing. So-called artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean. Nor do they have a moral conscience, since they do not judge good and evil, grasp the ultimate meaning of situations, or bear responsibility for consequences. They may imitate language, behavior and analytical skills, or even simulate empathy and understanding, but they do not understand what they produce, for they lack the affective, relational and spiritual perspective through which human beings grow in wisdom. Even when these tools are described as capable of “learning,” their way of doing so is different from that of a human person. It is not the experience of those who allow themselves to be shaped by life and grow over time through choices, mistakes, forgiveness and fidelity. Rather, it is a form of statistical adaptation based on data and feedback, which can be very effective, but does not imply inner growth…[i]

We arrived in Seattle at 10 PM.  The next day we visited a friend who lives north of the city, then drove our rental car over Snoqualmie Pass to the Yakima Valley.

The first night a group of friends gathered at a winery to celebrate our memories and relationships. 

The next morning, we drove eight miles south to Wapato, which has 3,000 residents and an 85% poverty rate. 

We began with a visit to the apple farm and retreat center where we lived the first year.  We took photos, including one of the 10 x 50-foot trailer we lived in that is now abandoned.  We drove into town and saw the church I served for six years; the congregation I knew dispersed years ago, and the building is now owned by a Spanish-speaking Pentecostal congregation. 

We drove two blocks past the Dairy Queen to the church-owned house we lived in for six years.  Later we visited a Filipino couple who are dear friends and godparents to our younger daughters.  We spent two more days in the area before driving west over the mountains.  We spent one last night in a downtown hotel in Seattle and boarded the train back home. 

On the way south, I began to sort out my feelings and thoughts. 

I value all my life experiences. Living in a small town few people have heard of amid the poverty was not easy.  But we did it.  We endured because we were embraced by the people in my congregation and those we met through the schools, community, and the local swim team.  We grew to love our new life, the people, the land, and what we were learning. 

Becoming aware of that on the way home, I took my iPad out and looked again at the excerpt from the encyclical.  I was drawn to two sentences:

So-called artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean.

…and…

It is not the experience of those who allow themselves to be shaped by life and grow over time through choices, mistakes, forgiveness and fidelity.

I enjoy using Claude, my AI tool.  I appreciate Anthropic, the company that created Claude, which has from the beginning established strong ethical guidelines and whose co-founder was invited to speak at the encyclical’s presentation.

Speed, clarity, ease, amazement:  AI gives us these experiences. 

But life can’t always go quickly. Sometimes it takes a long time to find clarity.  Sometimes the easy way is not the best way.  And sometimes the most lasting sense of appreciation comes not from a device, but from personally experiencing and living through joy and pain and discovering from within the value of “love, work, friendship, and responsibility.”

Living seven years in the Wapato community taught us in a lasting way what love, work, friendship and responsibility mean.  Our life there shaped us for the good.  We will always be grateful for what we learned and the people whose lives became intertwined with our own.  And I am grateful to Pope Leo for reminding us what really matters as we live into the future.

[i] Magnifica Humanitas, paragraph 99

Lead Image: Farm in the hills near Wapato, Washington