Tag Archives: pocket epiphanies

Arrivals and Departures

A friend and fellow blogger dropped his daughter off at college in Eastern Washington state, then boarded a plane going home to southern California. He recently described how it felt as the plane rose into the air:

Casting a shadow moving away from there. That’s us down there, pointing back toward where the 18 years happened. Watching the long-planned departure take place. Mulling that our part in her life is getting smaller. This is what we hoped for, right?  That’s us down there, shrinking.[i]

Brad’s imagery lingered with me.  I began imagining how some life experiences are like being on an airplane as we arrive or depart.         

Arrivals

The birth of a baby: I remember the moment when the doctor lifted our first daughter from the womb. She looked my way, our eyes met, and she seemed to be thinking, “Where in the world am I?” 

A child’s first laugh:  My nephew and his wife recently shared an enchanting video of the first time their infant son looked at them and smiled.  That week my wife and I had been watching “Dark Winds,” a detective series set in a Navajo community.  In one episode, an infant laughs for the first time, which, in Navajo culture, signifies the infant has become a person.  The family holds a traditional ceremony to mark that moment.

First personal memory: I was probably 4 years old. I was standing in a bedroom in our house.  I had taken three eggs from the refrigerator, snuck into the room, and was carefully dropping them one by one onto the linoleum floor.  Just as I dropped the second one, my mother came down the hall, saw me, and said, “What in the world are you doing!?!”  I said, “I wanted to see what it looked like when they cracked.” She took the third egg away from me.  I can still see the yellow yolks floating in the puddle of egg white on the floor.  That is the first time I remember being self-aware. I was watching myself; that same observer is me now, thinking about the words I am typing.

First spiritual awareness:  In 1991, the child psychologist Robert Coles published The Spiritual Life of Children, in which he described how children in different cultures wonder about God and the meaning of life.  Many of these experiences happen before a child is eight years old.  Perhaps you have such a memory.

Landing in a far away country:  In 1975, I flew to Europe on Icelandic Airlines.  I remember looking out the window as the plane descended from the clouds; we were crossing the English Channel, then suddenly were over the green French countryside.  It seemed like a dream.

First day on a new job: My most memorable first day of work was the day I began to serve as Executive Director at Hospice of Santa Barbara in September 2008.  I had never imagined being in that role, but there I was.  I sat down at my desk feeling both exhilarated and anxious. For months after, I felt like an impostor, as people expected me to know things I had yet to learn. I was a stranger finding his way in a new land.

Departures

Dropping kids off at Junior High: More than once, I drove away remembering what a hormonal and emotional roller coaster that time in life had been for me — and hoping for the best for our offspring.

Sending kids off to college:  We did it twice by car, once at an airport. Like Brad says, after so many years it’s a curious feeling to realize you’ll no longer be providing daily oversight.  They are on their own, come what may.  “That’s us…shrinking.”

Retirement: My last full-time job was Director at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center. I had planned to retire in the fall of 2018.  But on January 8, the Montecito Debris Flow swept away eight buildings on our property, including my office where I had posted my diplomas and favorite photographs; it all disappeared and was never found. In the months that followed, we worked on the recovery until the decision was made to shut the Center down indefinitely.  I left in June of that year. After saying goodbye to the staff, I drove out the back gate, thinking about how some chapters in our life end so much differently than we had imagined.

Last Call:  I don’t know where I will be for my final “departure” – at home, in a hospital, or in a facility.   Some hospice nurses have told me that, when someone is in their final days, they suggest the family leaves a window partly open so the spirit will be able to ascend freely when it’s time.  I have asked for that.  The lyrics of an American folk hymn come to mind:

When the shadows of this life have gone — I’ll fly away
Like a bird from prison bars has flown — I’ll fly away (I’ll fly away)

I’ll fly away, oh glory — I’ll fly away (In the morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by — I’ll fly away (I’ll fly away)

Life for me hasn’t felt like being a bird behind bars, but more like being a pilgrim in a land of mystery and wonder.  Until that final boarding, may we appreciate all the arrivals and departures we have witnessed and those still to come.

“Shadow of an airplane on a field,” freepik.com

[i]Brad McCarter, “Departing: College Dropoff #3,” Eyes Wide Roaming” blog; https://bradmccarter.substack.com/p/departing

Three Gifts America Has Given the World

“… when they study our civilization two thousand years from now, there will only be three things that Americans will be known for: the Constitution, baseball and jazz music.  They’re the three most beautiful things Americans have ever created.” – writer and essayist Gerald Early, interviewed in Ken Burns’ documentary, Baseball

                  Having just endured an incredible World Series amid our current cultural and political climate, I will comment first on baseball.

                  Baseball may have roots in the English games of cricket and rounders, but by 1900 it had become 100% an American creation.  125 years later, it may not be a universal sport like soccer or basketball.  But it has a passionate following in certain parts of Asia – particularly Japan and Korea – and in the Latin American countries that surround the Gulf of Mexico.  At a time in our history in which “immigrants” are seen as “other,” the recent series included three superstars from Japan (Ohtani, Yamamoto, and Sasaki), a terrific first baseman from Tijuana (Alejandro Kirk), a Canadian playing for Los Angeles (Freddie Freeman), a star from the Dominican Republic (Vladimir Guerrero), a Puerto Rican (Kike Hernandez), a refugee from Cuba (Andy Pages), a Venezuelan (Miguel Rojas), and an African-American from Nashville (Mookie Betts), among others. The Dodger manager Dave Roberts was born in Okinawa to a Japanese mother and an active-duty African American Marine.

                  This American game has become a showcase for talented players from many backgrounds and cultures.  It’s a game of opportunity, celebrating players no matter where they come from.  It’s a game that can focus moment to moment on a particular individual player, but it’s a great team that wins and inspires.  It’s a beautiful thing.

                  And then there’s jazz.  One person who has helped me understand the deeper meaning of jazz is Wynton Marsalis.  Ken Burns turned to Marsalis often in his Jazz documentary series, and everything he said struck me as revelatory.  I saw him in concert several years ago and was again grateful for the insights he shared with the audience.  Here is one of his observations:

As long as there is democracy, there will be people wanting to play jazz because nothing else will ever so perfectly capture the democratic process in sound. Jazz means working things out musically with other people. You have to listen to other musicians and play with them even if you don’t agree with what they’re playing. It teaches you the very opposite of racism and anti-Semitism. It teaches you that the world is big enough to accommodate us all.

Seeing and hearing gifted musicians express their individual gifts and voices while being a part of a larger group and delighting in the give and take with one another creates an experience in which the whole becomes greater than the parts. That’s jazz.  When we experience it, it’s a beautiful thing.

                  And so is the Constitution.

                  Years ago, I was having lunch with a young Muslim grad student from Egypt as part of my community interfaith project.  He told me he first learned about American culture while watching “Mighty Mouse” cartoons as a child.  He shared favorite stories about growing up in Egypt, including how, during Ramadan, he and his childhood friends would wait for the signal that the time of daily fasting was over, then race from home to home enjoying the food set out by neighbors.  He had come to appreciate all that America offers — particularly the constitution.  “Do Americans realize how amazing it is that your country is ruled by a constitution instead of a dictator?” he once asked me.

                  The constitution was created by people who did not want to live in a political system like they had known in Europe – one in which some people would dominate others based on family ancestry, social position or a state-sponsored religion. The founders wanted to create a society in which people would experience a new level of freedom and opportunity. They worked long and hard to create the legal framework.  It assumes people will let their deep passions be balanced by mutual respect and personal restraint.  Like baseball, it assumes people will understand that to participate, everyone must follow established rules and customs until they are changed by due process.  Like jazz, it teaches you this country is big enough to accommodate us all.  When it is disrespected, it’s an offense to our ancestors who have given so much to honor and preserve it.  When it is honored, it’s a beautiful thing.

                  America may leave the world more treasures – after all, there’s Broadway, rap, country music and Hollywood.  But I will always celebrate baseball, jazz and the Constitution for what they offer and what they mean.

Wynton Marsalis

Lead image: “The raising of the American flag as the composer-conductor John Philip Sousa leads the Seventh (“Silk-Stocking”) Regiment Band in playing The Star-Spangled Banner during Opening Day of Yankee Stadium  with the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees on April 18, 1923 at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, New York.“

Are You an “Everyday Mystic?”

For centuries, a “mystic” was someone who had a rare and unique spiritual experience, different from what most of us would ever know.

This is reflected in the word itself: The term mystic is derived from the Greek noun “mystes,” which originally designated an initiate of a secret cult or mystery religion.   In Classical Greece and during the Hellenistic Age, the rites of the mystery religions were largely or wholly secret. The term” mystes” is itself derived from the verb “myein” (“to close,” especially the eyes or mouth) and signified a person who kept a secret.[i]

But in recent years, the term “everyday mystic” has come into use. Here’s one description:

An “everyday mystic” is someone who seeks or experiences spiritual depth and transcendence within ordinary daily life, rather than through withdrawal from the world or extreme ascetic practices.

The concept suggests that mystical experience—that sense of connection to something greater, moments of profound awareness, or spiritual insight—doesn’t require monasteries, retreats, or renouncing worldly responsibilities. Instead, everyday mystics find the sacred in mundane activities: washing dishes, walking to work, caring for children, or sitting in traffic.[ii]

I have known quite a few “everyday mystics.” They don’t try to be different or better than anyone else — they are simply doing something they feel called to do and, in the process, find a deep connection beyond and within themselves.  They don’t do it for money, or to prove their worth, or to puff up their ego. 

Some examples came to my mind:

  1. A physical therapist who told me there were times working with patients when his mind would become quiet and he would feel as if light was passing through him to the person he was treating.
  2. Farmers, gardeners and hikers who sense a silent and limitless bond with the earth and the mysterious processes which underly all life.
  3. Musicians who feel as if the music is playing through them.
  4. Grandparents when they behold their grandchildren.  They had loved their own children from the moment each child was born, but so much of parenting is about being a manager, behavior coach and the one person responsible for everything to do with the child. But then a grandchild appears and seeing them evokes a sense of pure wonder.
  5. Artists who get immersed in their process and end up creating something far beyond what they could have imagined when they started and don’t know how it happened.
  6. Mechanics who have an innate sense of what is wrong with a car and how to fix it with the least cost and effort, working in harmony with all the moving parts instead of simply using their will to fix something that is wrong.
  7. A young man who told me he was pitching for his college team and for a few innings the ball seemed to go exactly where he intended every time.  The experience passed and he never had it again.  He could not explain how it happened but has never forgotten what it felt like.
  8. Golfers who watch a ball rise and fall through the air with a grace and purpose that feels as if something more is present than a little ball being struck.
  9. Ocean swimmers who love the mystery of being on the surface of the limitless sea, and who feel deeply at home in salt water—perhaps sensing an unbroken thread of experience going back to our pre-human ancestors as well as our personal life as it began in the womb.
  10. People who know they are dying and “descend into the heart,” losing their fear and becoming open and observant towards everything around them.

Richard Rohr said, “For me, “mysticism” simply means experiential knowledge of spiritual things, as opposed to book knowledge, secondhand knowledge, or even church knowledge.”[iii]

Huston Smith said, “Most mystics do not want to read religious wisdom; they want to be it. A postcard of a beautiful lake is not a beautiful lake, and Sufis may be defined as those who dance in the lake.”[iv]

We can always be grateful when such moments come to us.

“Hands Cradling a Child’s Head,” Kathe Kollwitz, 1920

[i] https://www.britannica.com/topic/mysticism

[ii] https://claude.ai/chat/468625b2-74aa-4984-ba6e-8eb7f17a257a

[iii] https://cac.org/daily-meditations/sidewalk-spirituality/

[iv] Huston Smith, Jeffery Paine (2012). “The Huston Smith Reader,” p.93, Univ of California Press

Lead Image: “Ocean Swimmer In Thick Fog Near Reykjaice,” storyblocks.com

Waking Up With Rip Van Winkle

I knew the story of Rip van Winkel as a child, but it returned to my awareness several years ago. 

My wife and I had moved my mother-in-law into a local retirement community. We attended a meeting for the adult offspring of new residents to help us appreciate some of the challenges faced by our “elders.”  The speaker noted how quickly our culture was changing and how disorienting it can be.  “They can feel like Rip Van Winkel,” the presenter said.  “One day they wake up and everyone has these devices in their hands which seems to claim all their attention.  They wonder: Where did these come from?  Where was I when all this happened?”

Not long after, my mother-in-law asked us why all the “young people” were focused on their phones when they were visiting her.

Here’s a summary of the story, first published in 1819:

Rip Van Winkle, a Dutch American man with a habit of avoiding useful work, lives in a village at the foot of the Catskill Mountains in the years before the American Revolution. One day, he goes squirrel hunting in the mountains with his dog, Wolf, to escape his wife’s irritation. As evening falls, he hears a voice calling his name and finds a man dressed in old-fashioned Dutch clothing and carrying a keg. Rip helps the man carry his burden to a cleft in the rocks from which thunderous noises are emanating; the source proves to be a group of bearded men wearing similar outfits and playing ninepins. Not asking who these men are or how they know his name, Rip joins them in drinking from the keg he has helped carry and soon becomes so drunk that he falls asleep.

Rip awakens on a sunny morning, at the spot where he first saw the keg-carrier, and finds that many drastic changes have occurred; his beard is a foot long and has turned grey, his musket is badly deteriorated, and Wolf is nowhere to be found. Returning to his village, he discovers it to be larger than he remembers and filled with people in unfamiliar clothing, none of whom recognize him. When asked how he voted in the election that has just been held, he declares himself a loyal subject of George III, unaware that the American Revolutionary War has taken place in his absence. He learns that many of his old friends either were killed in the war or have left the village, and is disturbed to find a young man who shares his name, mannerisms, and younger appearance. A young woman states that her father is Rip Van Winkle, who has been missing for 20 years, and an old woman recognizes him as Rip. The young woman and the young Rip are his children, and the former has named her infant son after him as well. (i)

Fast forward to our time.

In 2004, an awkward college student named Mark Zuckerberg created an online platform he called “The Facebook.”  21 years later – about the same amount of time as Rip’s nap – it is now used by 3 billion people worldwide every month; Zuckerberg’s company tracks, analyzes and exploits every interaction.

In 2017, TikTok was launched as a way to share videos.  It currently has more than 1.6 billion users and is considered a potentially serious security threat to the U.S.

In January 2021, a mob of thousands, encouraged by the U.S. President, stormed the nation’s capital, threatening to hang the Vice-President and interrupt the lawful process of certifying the recent election.  Four people died, and among the injured were 174 police officers.  This was the first insurrection of its kind since the nation’s founding.  That same president was reelected in 2024 and pardoned those who had been convicted in the riot; everyday he is disregarding customs and processes that have held our country together for generations.

Where was I when all these events were coming into being?  Sleeping somewhere in the Catskills? 

It is a timeless human experience — life changes more quickly than we expect.  People we love are gone. We look in the mirror and aren’t sure who is looking back at us. Changes happen in our culture that we had no idea were coming.

Some change, both technological and social, is good and we call it “progress.” But not all change is.  There are often unintended consequences that are hard to mitigate – like the detrimental effect on young people of smartphone addiction or the threats to personal privacy and democracy created by social media.  Change is accelerating in the digital age, and AI will only intensify it.

The culture is changing, but I believe the same basic spiritual values remain.  Tell the truth in important moments.  Forgive as best you can.  Try to love your neighbor.  Look out for the people who have no voice or little status.  If you are in a position of power, don’t take bribes or exploit the trust that has been placed in you. Spend time in nature to recover a sense of wonder and humility. Take a day of rest so you don’t burn out.  Enjoy life — and know the joy that comes from serving others.

Rip van Winkel woke up after a deep sleep and found some unexpected blessings when he returned to his village. I hope that’s the case for us, but I’m not so sure. I want to stand up for the values I’ve come to trust in my life and join with others who are determined to do the same. I don’t want to fall asleep quite yet.

[i] Images and excerpt: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rip_Van_Winkle

Three Strikes and You’re Back in the Car

                  Our annual trek to the Mt. Shasta area was a month later this year, so we arrived as summer was ending and fall arriving.  The forecast was for a chance of rain and thunderstorms on and off during the week. 

                  We spent the first few days exploring favorite lakes and rivers. Our fourth day was going to be our last, and we decided to see how far we could venture up Mount Shasta itself.

                  We drove to a spot known as Panther Meadows.  Half a dozen cars were parked at the trailhead.  The sky was overcast.  We got out and began to follow the trail. Within a few minutes, the sky got dark and an intense hailstorm began.  We joined several other hikers laughing and scurrying back to our cars. Strike One.

                  We drove down the road and within a few minutes had left the hailstorm behind.  We parked at “Bunny Flat” (6,950 feet) a popular staging area.  More than a dozen times we’ve hiked an hour up the trail to Horse Camp and a stone cabin built by the Sierra Club.  We decided to see how far we might go.  We were walking two or three minutes when an intense lightning flash lit up the area around us, and, in the same instant, the loudest and sharpest thunderclap I’ve ever heard roared over and through us. We hurried back to the car, as did the other nearby hikers. Strike Two.

                  We drove down the mountain and thirty minutes later were regrouping at our hotel in the town of McCloud (elevation 3,271 feet, population 945).  After lunch, we decided to try a nearby trail known as Cabin Creek.  We drove several miles down the road that leads south out of town, then turned onto the unpaved road that leads to the trailhead.  Ten minutes later we arrived; one other vehicle was there.  Just as we were parking there was a flash and thunder close to us like what we had experienced on the mountain.  Strike Three. 

  “We are getting a message. Let’s accept it.”  We drove back to our hotel.

                  We talked about how our ancestors could interpret these moments as divine messages.

                  I thought about the story of Moses confronting Pharoah in the book of Exodus, using frightening events to convince Pharoah to let the people go.  As the story has come down to us, Moses “struck” the Nile and turned it into blood; his brother Aaron “struck” the earth with his staff and gnats overwhelmed the land, hail “struck down” plants, trees and animals, and on it goes. After the tenth plague, Pharoah released the people.

                  I once read a biography of the great Puritan theologian Cotton Mather. For Mather and his community, every dramatic natural act was a message meant to be decoded by faithful people. Once he was in a meeting upstairs in his home with one of his church elders when lightning struck close to the room they were in. They both fell to the floor, praying for forgiveness as they tried to determine what terrible act or thought of theirs must have warranted this divine display of displeasure.

                  In our own time, we are experiencing increasingly intense natural disasters that shock and humble us. In my own community, we’ve been “struck” by increasingly intense wildland fires, unusual weather patterns, and the 2018 debris flow.  I don’t see these as divine messages. But isn’t it reasonable to interpret these as nature’s warnings and wake-up calls, summoning us to turn back from the many practices that have contributed to climate change?

                  As life goes on, many people experience unexpected medical challenges.  I hear some say, “I took that as a wakeup call to change my behavior.”  Many find the determination to make changes and, looking back, are grateful for the event that woke them up.

                  Later in the afternoon of “The Day of the Three Strikes,” the threat of thunderstorms had diminished. From our hotel, I went for a walk in the town of McCloud.  Being from Southern California, I was amazed at how green the trees and lawns are. I went to Hoo-Hoo Park, where we’ve often gone for the annual “Lumberjack Fiesta” in late July.  The park and softball fields were empty of people; everywhere the grass was plentiful, thick and rich. The town, surrounded by forest, seemed particularly quiet.  The logging industry has faded over the years, taking with it economic opportunity and prosperity. But the people love and honor the land they live on and respect the mountain that rises above them.   They watch out for each other and do the best they can.

                  As I walked, I had a new appreciation for how vulnerable we are. But the point of life is not to hide in fear. The point is to find wisdom and flourish. I felt I could take three life lessons with me: Be Alert.  Be Careful. And, when the time is right, Be Grateful.

Hoo Hoo Park

Lead Image: Hikemtshasta.org

Touching the Earth, Grounding Our Soul

                  Some years ago, a friend brought this back from India as a gift, and it’s been sitting on my bookshelf ever since:

                 

The hand gesture is based on a famous story in the life of the Buddha:

In one of Buddhism’s iconic images, Gautama Buddha sits in meditation with his left palm upright on his lap, while his right hand touches the earth. Demonic forces have tried to unseat him, because their king, Mara, claims that place under the bodhi tree. As they proclaim their leader’s powers, Mara demands that Gautama produce a witness to confirm his spiritual awakening. The Buddha simply touches the earth with his right hand, and the Earth itself immediately responds: “I am your witness.” Mara and his minions vanish. The morning star appears in the sky. This moment of supreme enlightenment is the central experience from which the whole of the Buddhist tradition unfolds.[i]

                  He is not just thinking about the earth and what it means, he’s physically connecting himself to the earth.  The action symbolizes that the spiritual teachings are not lofty ideas, but literally “grounded” in real life. 

                  This past week, one of Richard Rohr’s daily meditations noted the legacy of Brother Lawrence. Here’s an excerpt:

In the mid-17th century, a man named Nicolas Herman joined the Carmelite monastery in Paris, France. Wounded from fighting in the European Thirty Years’ war, and suffering a sustained leg injury, he took the monastic name “Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection.” He worked in the monastery kitchen and eventually became the head cook. Amid the chaos of food preparation and the clanging of pots and pans, Brother Lawrence began to practice a simple method of prayer that helped him return to an awareness of Divine presence. He called it the practice of the presence of God and described it as “the most sacred, the most robust, the easiest, and the most effective form of prayer.”  Brother Lawrence’s method of prayer is so simple that it might seem misleading. It is to cultivate and hand over one’s awareness to God in every moment, in whatever we are doing. Brother Lawrence recommends that newcomers to the prayer use a phrase to recollect their intention toward the Divine presence, such as “‘My God, I am all yours,’ or ‘God of love, I love you with all my heart,’ or ‘Love, create in me a new heart,’ or any other phrases love produces on the spot.”” [ii]

Brother Lawerence summarized what he learned in the little book, The Practice of the Presence of God.  I first read it early in my spiritual journey, and have — in my best moments — often remembered it when doing the dishes.  Instead of thinking, “This is such a bother – I’m going to finish this job as quickly as possible,” I try to take a Brother Lawerence attitude: “I’m going to slow down and be aware of the tangible experience of this chore: feel each dish in my hand as I pick it up, notice the warmth of the water, appreciate stacking the dishes in the rack one by one, be grateful in these moments of being alive…”  I tend to be easily distracted and lost in thought, but doing household chores in the spirit of Brother Lawerence can be a satisfying practice.

                  Recognizing the way in which daily tasks can “ground us” is a fundamental teaching in the Benedictine monastic tradition, summarized in the phrase “ora et labora.”  Every day, a monk spends time in prayer (“ora”) but also manual labor (“labora”); labora can mean cooking and cleaning, working in the garden or, in some pious communities, carefully brewing beer.[iii]

                  When I was working at La Casa de Maria retreat center, one of our most popular offerings was led by Cynthia Bourgeult, an Episcopal priest and writer.  Each person who came to the 5-day retreat could expect regular lectures by Cynthia, times of chanting and worship, and a daily period of physical labor performed in silence.  One of our staff responsibilities before the retreat was to come up with a list of manual tasks that retreatants could do, such as raking leaves, weeding gardens or caring for our citrus trees.  Sometimes we’d get a call from a person who wanted to register but said they did not see the point of doing any manual labor; Cynthia instructed us to tell the person this was not an option – if they weren’t willing to do it, they should not come at all.  She told us that some people who had initially not wanted to do the labor ended the week saying it became one of their most valuable experiences.

                  I think of the training I received during my hospice time that was based on Zen practices focused on “cultivating presence.” If we are with someone who is in physical or emotional pain, our thoughts and feelings can get tangled up in our concern for the person and we can lose our focus. We were taught to slow down our breathing and become aware of our rear ends in the chair and our feet on the ground, and to imagine the pain passsing through us into the earth. This can free our mind to be remain calm and open as we interact with the person — to be “present” and not distracted or anxious. I have found it to be a worthwhile technique.

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 demonstrated that being part of spiritual communities leads to increased emotional and physical health.  The traditions ground us in what really matters, giving meaning to all we do.

[i] https://www.huffpost.com/entry/buddhism-and-climate-change_b_925651

[ii] https://cac.org/daily-meditations/brother-lawrence-of-the-resurrection/

[iii] Many monastic communities saw beer brewing as a particularly meaningful form of labor, and at one time there were a thousand monastic breweries in Europe.  For a current listing, see A List of the World’s Monastic Beers

Romantic Fiction, Baseball Passions, and Spiritual Masterpieces

A high school friend once told me her mother had gotten a phone call from a neighbor:

“He died!” the neighbor said in tears, “He’s gone!  He’s really gone!”

My friend’s mother was shaken. “Who?? Who died?”

In between sobs, the friend named a character from her favorite television soap opera.  And continued to cry.

Why do we get invested in imaginary situations?

An anthropology professor I know once invited me to a day-long conference at UCSB focusing on the emerging field of evolutionary psychology.  Scholars were exploring how much human behavior could be explained by tracing it back to the adaptive needs of our ancestors.  While some of the presentations were over my head, one stuck with me. Many people spend a great deal of time reading “romance novels” and “pulp fiction”.  The presenter wondered: why would we be wired to spend our time this way?  It seems like such a waste. If life is all about survival, reading about fictional characters in melodramatic stories seems pointless – it doesn’t put any food on the table or make us physically stronger.  After exploring several alternatives, he concluded that this activity must be a way for us to exercise our capacity to understand and navigate our social relationships without any actual personal risk or vulnerability.  We human beings are social animals who live in groups and tribes: fiction allows us to explore how to do this in a way that doesn’t expose us to any real danger.

Puppies may romp, wrestle and bite each other but never actually hurt one another. Such play is a rehearsal and training for a time when, as adult dogs, they may encounter actual adversaries.   They’re safely rehearsing skills they may need in real life.

Which leads to a critical question someone asked me this week: “Why do you get so wrapped up following your baseball team?  It’s just a game, but you talk about it like its real life.”  I have been pondering this question. Why do I care so much about a made-up game?  When the season is over, nothing has changed in my life or the fate of the world.  I think being a sports fan is like reading compelling works of fiction: It’s a way to see how human beings behave under pressure over a long period of time.  In the process, we become emotionally and mentally invested in the drama and look for lessons to live by. Some examples…If you learn how to function well under high expectations and pressure, you will live a better life.  If you let one disappointing experience stay with you, your performance will suffer.  If you learn how to be a good teammate, you’ll go farther.

Baseball is like a novel with 162 chapters – plus up to 22 bonus episodes if you make the playoffs.  All the while, human drama is unfolding.

When I was a kid, I was short. So was Maury Wills, the Dodger shortstop. He didn’t hit many home runs. But he figured out how to get on first and steal bases. He showed how you could adapt and thrive even if you weren’t the biggest and strongest guy out there.

Or take Sandy Koufax. The greatest pitcher of his time, he declined to pitch the opening game of the 1965 World Series because it fell on Yom Kippur, the sacred Jewish holiday.  He showed everyone what personal integrity looks like.  (As an example of divine favor, he pitched and won the final game that clinched the Series.)

We human beings are story tellers and game players. From these activities we learn crucial lessons.

Our spiritual traditions are full of invaluable stories.

Buddhism has an abundance of tales, parables, and koans that elegantly convey great insight.

Judaism has a remarkable abundance of brilliant stories, passed down over the centuries to help us reflect on our assumptions and values.

An expert once asked Jesus what he needed to do to inherit eternal life.  Jesus affirmed the two most important commandments: love God and love your neighbor. The expert asked him, “Who is my neighbor?”  And Jesus told the story of the Good Samaritan.[i]

When he wanted to teach about the loving and merciful nature of God, he didn’t give a lecture on ethics, but said, “A man once had two sons…” and told the story of the Prodigal Son.[ii]

Many of us have heard these two stories countless times. But they never lose their power.

Both stories are total fictions. They never really happened. Jesus made them up. But they tell us profound truths about who we are and who we can be in simple and unforgettable ways.

Years ago I taught a class in religious studies at Heritage College in rural Washington. One of the required books was Black Elk Speaks, an account of teachings attributed to Black Elk, an Oglala Sioux Medicine Man.  I always have appreciated this statement attributed to him:

“This they tell, and whether it happened so or not I do not know; but if you think about it, you can see that it is true.”[iii]

[i] Luke 10: 25-37

[ii] Luke 15: 11-32

[iii] “The Offering of the Pipe,” Black Elk Speaks, John G. Niehardt, 1932

Lead Image: Sitting Around The Campfire; ar.inspiredpencil.com

“Welcome to Freedom?”

                  As I’ve been watching Dodger baseball games recently, I have seen the same ad over and over.  The camera is behind a well-dressed woman in an elevator. We see her press the button for the “Casino” floor. The elevator doors open. She steps out into a vineyard. In the middle of the vineyard is a slot machine.  As she walks purposefully toward it, these words appear: “Welcome to Freedom. Chumash Casino Resort.”

                  The ad does not entice me to visit the casino.  It does make me wonder what “freedom” means in our current culture.

                  I recently attended a fascinating class at the local synagogue taught by my dear friend and colleague, Rabbi Steve Cohen.  The topic was the kosher laws.  We began by reading some of dietary restrictions recorded in the book of Leviticus, going back at least 2,500 years. These instructions clearly describe the animals a faithful person should not eat, including camels, rabbits, and pigs.   For the next hour, Rabbi Steve led the class through a survey of how scholars have interpreted these laws over time (including the 11th, 12th, 13th, 16th, and 17th centuries). Why these animals and not others?  Was it all about healthy eating, or something else?  It seemed to me each commentator had an interesting point of view.  I also learned that, in the last 150 years, leaders in the modern, Reformed tradition had decided the faithful did not need to continue strictly observe these guidelines as in earlier times. 

                  But I was intrigued by the comments of a 20th century British scholar, Dr. Isadore Grunfeld:

To the superficial observer it may seem that men who do not obey the law are freer than law-abiding men, because they can follow their own inclinations. In reality, however, such men are subject to the most cruel bondage: they are slaves of their own instincts, impulses, and desires. The first step towards emancipation from the tyranny of animal inclinations in man is, therefore, a voluntary submission to the moral law. The constraint of law is the beginning of human freedom…

The three strongest natural drives in man are for food, sex, and acquisition. Judaism does not aim at the destruction of these impulses, but at their control and sanctification. It is the law which ennobles these instincts and transfigures them into the legitimate joys of life. The first of the three impulses mentioned is the craving for food; it can easily lead to gluttony, and what is worse, to the fundamentally wrong conception that man “liveth by bread alone.” This natural, but dangerous food- instinct, is transformed by the dietary laws into self-discipline. It is no accident that the first law given to man – not to eat of the Tree of Knowledge of good and evil – was a dietary law.  … Self-control and self-conquest must start with the most primitive and most powerful of human instincts – the craving for food. Thus the Dietary Laws stand at the beginning of man’s long and arduous road to self-discipline and moral freedom.[i]

                  I had never thought of it this way.

                  From an evolutionary perspective, these impulses are part of our drive to survive.  But as we became more aware of our instincts, we can develop an ability to manage them instead of blindly following them.

                  In my late teens, I adopted a common cultural practice of the time: smoking cigarettes. I ended up using a pack a day for 5 years.  I finally decided to quit. It was not easy.  I began to realize that, up to that time, every time I reached for a cigarette, I thought I was making a “free choice.”  But the nicotine in my system was demanding the next one, cleverly disguising itself and instead convincing me I was making a free choice.  I am grateful I was able to break the habit.  I also developed empathy for anyone who becomes dependent on such substances and habits. 

                  I have good memories of playing poker with friends.  Many people go to casinos and have a good time.  But I also know that not everyone who walks into a casino is as “free” as they think they are. (That is why gambling ads, like cigarettes, include a message like “Always game responsibly. Call 1-800-GAMBLE.”)  What is true for gambling is true for other aspects of human behavior.  What looks like freedom can, in fact, be bondage.

                  For centuries, some religious traditions have told people they are inherently sinful because they experience such desires.  But what I like about Grunfeld’s perspective is the assumption that having such desires is not bad in itself, but simply part of our biological inheritance.  Spiritual practices, traditions and communities can help us manage them.  And in that mastery, we discover a freedom we did not realize we were missing.  As Huston Smith said, “We are free when we are not the slave of our impulses, but rather their master. Taking inward distance, we thus become the authors of our own dramas rather than characters in the them.” In the process, we can savor even more the simple pleasures of our lives.  It’s not about a slot machine or a ham sandwich – it’s about becoming wise in the ways of living.

[i] “The Dietary Laws: A Threefold Explanation,” https://traditiononline.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/The-Dietary-Laws.pdf

Who Let the Dogs In? The Genius of Rembrandt’s Spiritual Imagination

Over the years, I’ve done a variety of presentations exploring the way Rembrandt portrays Biblical scenes.  Time and again, I’ve been fascinated by the surprising ways he imagines and creates visual details.  One example is his apparent fondness for dogs.

We can start with “The Hundred Guilder Print.”   This work captures in one scene the various encounters Jesus has with a crowd of people as described in Matthew 19.  Here’s the print:

If we read the text carefully and study the scene, we see how he includes all the important characters: people who are hoping to be healed, scholars who like to debate fine points of law, mothers bringing children to receive his blessing, etc.  Near the bottom left, we find something not mentioned in the text:

When I’ve seen dogs positioned like this, it is usually because they have determined they are near a spot where food scraps are likely to fall.  This is certainly not mentioned in the story – it’s something Rembrandt decided to add.

Here is his portrayal of “The Good Samaritan:”

In the story, a Samaritan sees a stranger who has been beaten and robbed, and no one is stopping to help.  But the Samaritan binds his wounds, puts him on his horse, takes him to an inn, and arranges for the man’s lodging and care. All that is in the story.  But in the lower right corner, we see an unexpected sight:

Suffice it to say, when we see dogs in this posture, we can guess what they are doing.  This is not a detail noted in any translations I am familiar with.

He doesn’t limit canines to outdoor scenes. In “The Presentation in the Temple,” Joseph and Mary bring their 8-day old infant to be dedicated.  Two elders, Simeon and Anna, express joy upon seeing the child.  Divine light streams down from the upper left highlighting the sacred moment:

And there, in the bottom left corner, we see one of our four-legged friends:

This dog is scratching his left ear with his back foot.

I have not found any articles explaining why Rembrandt inserts oridnary dogs into scenes that portray profound spiritual experiences.  But my guess is he understood great spiritual moments in life don’t occur in situations where everything is perfectly staged, as if designed by Martha Stewart.  They happen in nitty-gritty, down-to-earth settings where ordinary human beings experience something profound.  And what is more down-to-earth than the presence of a dog in the midst of a human gathering doing what dogs do?

I have had memorable spiritual experiences in stunning cathedrals and in sanctuaries filled with glorious music.  But I have also had them in hospital rooms next to bedpans and beeping monitors, dusty home building sites in the barrios of Tijuana, and while changing irrigation lines in an alfalfa field. And, like many people, I have had experiences with a dog when I feel a deep bond of knowing and caring for each other in a way that’s hard to explain.  It’s all part of life, and there’s no limit to the ways and settings in which the Spirit can appear. Rembrandt shows us what that looks like.

Lead Image: “Sleeping Puppy,” Rembrandt, 1640; Victoria and Albert Museum

Remembering A Mentor: Gail Rink

Sometimes we start thinking about someone and not know why. This week, Gail Rink, my mentor at Hospice of Santa Barbara began hovering in my awareness.  I became curious and searched my files. I discovered she died July 27, 2010 – fifteen years ago this weekend. I decided to use this space to honor her.

Gail was born in 1944 in Niagara Falls, New York.  As a young woman, she attended a Presbyterian church and felt a call to pursue ministry.  She spoke to her pastor about it. He told her that was not an option for a woman.  She chose social work instead.

She found her way to Santa Barbara and began a 30-year, ground-breaking career.

When the AIDS epidemic emerged, many people were reluctant to care for AIDS patients. Gail trained volunteers and clinicians how to do it; she showed the way, and many followed.  

She became a legendary educator at our local hospital, teaching young medical residents how to sensitively talk with patients and their families about death and dying.  And how to listen.  Dr. Fred Kass, a local oncologist who worked closely with Gail, said this: “She taught me to better understand where patients were coming from and appreciate things from their perspective — not only to say what I needed to say as a doctor, but hear what I had to say as they heard it,” Kass said. “If we could really empathize with them we could be better at helping them.”*

She was down-to-earth and practical, helping people find what they needed to be supported on their journey. She also had a “sixth sense” about people and situations.  “Gail knew when the spirit left the body, and I didn’t realize that you could know that or she had that intuition” one person who worked with her said. “She had access to a whole other world of knowing, a spirit level of knowing that she was privileged to know. She walked in the room and everyone knew it was all OK.” * More than once, I thought that in traditional cultures she would have been recognized as a born shaman.

I was a Hospice Board member when she announced she was going to retire.  I began to wonder if I might apply for her position.  My practical inner voice said, “No way I could follow Gail. I don’t have anywhere near the qualifications, background or experience.”  I put it out of my mind. 

A few weeks later, she called me and told me to meet her for coffee at the local Starbucks.  After we sat down with our drinks, she asked if I had considered applying for her position.  I told her I had decided I was not qualified.  She told me she had recently been sitting in her living room and noticed “dust bunnies” being gently blown by a breeze along the hardwood floor.  She said, “As I watched them it became clear you need to follow me.”  I repeated my concerns.  She said, “Look, Hospice of Santa Barbara is essentially a spiritual organization.  Even if you don’t realize it, you know what that means.  Many people don’t.  Other people will be doing the client work. You need to lead with what you know.”  This did not feel like a suggestion, but a summons.  I applied and was selected.  That was a great crossroads in my life, and I owe it all to Gail (and those dust bunnies).

She loved to cook, entertain and laugh.  She liked having a Manhattan with friends at Harry’s.  She was direct and irreverent in her conversations. She was a dedicated Willie Nelson fan.  She was unpredictable and delightful. She was one of a kind.

One day we were sitting by her pool and I decided it was my turn to speak truth.  I acknowledged her Presbyterian minister may have told her years ago that she should not think of ever becoming a pastor.  But, I said, look what an amazing “ministry” she had: loving and supporting people in their most difficult moments, educating doctors and the community on how to be present and compassionate with patients and families, instructing and inspiring countless volunteers and clinicians how to care.  I told her the world had plenty of Presbyterian ministers, but there was only one Gail Rink. 

The fruits of her labor continue to flourish in the lives of many people, including mine. I am grateful to have known her.

*https://www.noozhawk.com/080210_gail_rink