spirituality – Page 19 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

Haunted By A Story About An Oar

Have you ever been listening to someone and you hear something that strikes you with a jolt of energy and you’re not sure why? The story goes on but you’re not paying attention. A word, a phrase or an idea has nested in your awareness and settles there. Your attention moves on to other things. Time passes and you almost forget about it, but every so often, you notice it is there reminding you: “When you’re ready, I’ve got a message for you.”

I had an experience like this five years ago. We were on a road trip listening to a book by Mark Nepo. I don’t remember the name of the book or the topic. But at some point, he referred to an incident in Homer’s Odyssey, the great epic about Odysseus’ ten-year journey at sea returning from victory in the Trojan War. A prophet tells Odysseus that there is a task he must do as he reaches the end of his life – a journey he must make with his oar. I had no idea why that fragment of a story attracted my attention. But it did.

Recently I decided to discover why that story had caught my attention. I pulled out my copy of the Odyssey and did a little research. It soon became clear to me why this ancient tale of a heroic wanderer is an important one for me to hear. It’s given me a fruitful way to think about the stage of life I am in now as someone recently retired.

I hope it becomes useful for others who are at a similar point in their journey.

Here’s the story.

After twenty years at war and at sea, Odysseus is home. He reunites with his beloved wife Penelope and restores his authority over his household. As Odysseus and Penelope prepare to turn in for their first night together in a long time, they exchange stories of all that has happened. Towards the end, he tells her about the prophet he had visited in the land of the dead midway through his journey. The prophet gave him a task he needs to complete:

Then you must go off again, carrying a broad-bladed oar,

Until you come to men who know nothing of the sea,

Who eat their food unsalted, and have never seen

Red-prowed ships or oars that wing them along.

And I will tell you a sure sign that you have found them,

One you cannot miss. When you meet another traveler

Who thinks you are carrying a winnowing fan,

Then you must fix your oar in the earth

And offer sacrifice to Lord Poseidon,

A ram, a bull, and a boar in its prime. (Bk. 11, 119-128, Lombardo)

After he recounts the story, his long-suffering and ever-supportive wife says hopes she this will be the last trial they have to face.

It didn’t take long for me to see the significance the story has for me, 2700 years after it was told.

Odysseus is a sailor. The oar represents his identity. His life as a warrior at Troy and as a seafarer have earned him respect and honor. But the prophet is telling him that after he returns home, the heroic stage of his life will be over, and he needs to let it go. If he wants to find peace, he must take his oar and go to a distant place where his reputation is not known. The residents of that land live far from the sea and won’t even know it’s an oar he is carrying – they will mistake it for a winnowing fan used harvesting grain. There – where he no longer has his reputation to define him — he must make an offering to the god Poseidon whom he had unintentionally offended in his journey. Only then can he find peace.

For me this challenge is about identity in retirement.

I’d been planning to retire in 2018 when I would turn 66. I had attended seminars to prepare myself for the transition. I was looking forward to having fewer responsibilities and more time to explore my interests. I’d accomplished two heroic feats – working long enough to qualify for social security and a pension and figuring out how Medicare supplemental insurance works. I had grandchildren to spend time with, trips I’d dreamed of making, and skills I wanted to develop but had never had the time to pursue.

I did retire in 2018. But at times, I have found it hard to let go of my “oar.” I empathize with the athletes and performers who knew it was time to retire but miss the excitement of being in the game or on stage.

I volunteered to raise money for our local clinic and accepted an interim pastoral job, which were opportunities to perform tasks I’ve always enjoyed. I was grateful to not to go to too many meetings. But I also realized I was becoming less important.

At one point, we considered moving to a new place in Northern California. At first, I thought, “But I will lose all the relationships in town that I’ve enjoyed for 30 years. That’s what’s given me meaning.” Going to a place where I had no identity – a place where my oar would not be recognized – would be hard. But at a later point, the story of the oar came to mind, and I was ready to move and see who I would become. (Ironically, the COVID real estate boom nixed our plans.)

How hard it can be for some of us – especially for guys, perhaps? – to go to that “far-off land,” leaving the work and environment that’s defined us for years.

I know some will never give up the oar, and proudly say they want to die at their desk. My father kept his business license long after the phone had stopped ringing.

A recently retired college professor was coming to terms with what he had lost, commenting that he used to have roomfuls of students listening to him. “Now I’m just another guy with opinions.” Many of my friends have had to find new ways to contribute, not wanting to disappear gently into that good night.

Of course, there’s always golf! Out on that deep-green grassy sea I find companionship with other retired adventurers who now boldly face the perils of sand traps and misplayed shots. My oar has become a 7-iron, and I’m grateful for the chance to play. Still, it’s hard to imagine Odysseus playing golf.

As they turn in that night, Odysseus tells his wife he intends to go and plant that oar. But we’re not told if he ever does. As one writer notes, it’s easy to imagine Odysseus lying in bed at night hearing the sea, longing for the life he knew so well.

I’m not turning back. I truly enjoy the freedom I have and my new pursuits. But I appreciate Odysseus’ dilemma – and the fact that this ancient story can still open me up to the mystery of what remains.

Image: Conrad Shawcross, *Winnowing Oar*

“A Big Unseen Current”

Dear Reader:

I didn’t prepare a personal blog post this week and figured I’d just take a pass. But this morning I came across a column by long-time New York resident Peggy Noonan and want to share a portion of it with you. She’s reflecting on 9/11 as a “Day of Grief and Human Glory” and towards the end writes:

…There was Welles Crowther. Remember him? A young guy, 24, just starting out, worked as a junior associate at an investment bank on the 104th floor of the south tower. He always carried in his back pocket a red bandanna, and they teased him. WHAT ARE YOU, A FARMER? He’d laugh and show bravado: WITH THIS BANDANA I’M GONNA CHANGE THE WORLD. And that day as the world exploded he did. He led people to safety, carried them down to lower floors. He kept going back for more. To protect from the smoke he put the bandanna over his face. He never came home from the towers that day or the day after, his parents were anguished, hoping against hope. Then one day, three days in, his mother was at her desk at home in Nyack, N.Y. Suddenly she felt a presence behind her. She didn’t look, didn’t move. She knew it was Welles. She knew he was saying goodbye. She said: “Thank you.” She knew now he was dead. Months of mourning, no word on how he’d died. And one day, Memorial Day weekend 2002, the New York Times had a story about the last minutes in the towers, and they mentioned survivors who spoke of a man in a red bandanna who’d saved them. And Welles’s mother thought she knew who that was. She got a picture of her son to the survivors and they said yes, that was the man who saved me. Some time later they found his remains, near the command post the firemen had set up in the South Tower. When his family opened his apartment they found an unfinished application to become a New York City fireman.

Just a few days before 9/11, on Labor Day weekend, Welles, visiting his parents, was unusually subdued. He told his mother he had a feeling he was going to be part of something big, had a role to play in it or a job to do.

Isn’t it funny how the mind works, how it knows things it does not know?

“Courage comes from love,” was my summation in 2016. “There’s a big unseen current of love that hums through the world and some plug into it more than others, more deeply and surely.” It fills them with courage. It makes everything possible.”

I love this:

“Courage comes from love…There’s a big unseen current of love that hums through the world and some plug into it more than others, more deeply and surely.” It fills them with courage. It makes everything possible.

Steve

Source: https://www.wsj.com/articles/grief-glory-september-eleventh-9-11-firefighters-memories-twin-towers-terrorist-attack-11631224282

Photo Credit: New York Times

“Is Life All About How We ‘Finish?’”

On January 20, 2006, at age 78, she made history by being the first popular singer to have a solo concert at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. She was a sensation on Broadway when she was younger, winning many awards including an Emmy for her role in the original The Music Man. She had the voice, looks, and acting skill of a star. But after years of success, her career faded. She withdrew from public performances as she struggled with alcohol, obesity, and depression. In time, a close friend and collaborator convinced her she still had a great gift to share with audiences. She began performing in public again, which led to that night at the Met.

When Barbara Cook walked on stage that night, she got a standing ovation.

The second song she sang was particularly poignant given what she’d been through. It was from a 1973 Broadway musical, “Seesaw:”

It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish.

It’s not how you go, it’s how you land.

A hundred to one shot, they call him a klutz

Can out-run the favorite, all he needs is the guts.

Your final return will not diminish

And you can be the cream of the crop;

It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish,

And you’re gonna finish on top.

After reading a rave review of the concert album, I bought a copy and have grown to love this song. It has that spunky, sassy, celebratory spirit of so many Broadway songs, and she is amazing. “It’s Not Where You Start” begins playing in my head some days, and the spirit of it makes me smile and swagger.

Barbara Cook died in 2017, beloved by her colleagues and fans not only for her many gifts but also for her comeback. If life’s about “how you finish,” she finished her life “on top.”

But I’ve been reflecting on the theme of the song. I find myself thinking of all the people I’ve known over the years in my personal life, ministry, and hospice work, and ask myself: Is it always true? Is “where you finish” the most important measure of your life?

Bob was a member of the first congregation I served in Santa Paula. He was a big guy and full of life. He was a proud Marine who had been in some of the most intense battles in the Pacific and achieved the rank of captain. He’d then made a career in the fruit packing business and raised six children with his wife Jean. We rented a house just one door away from Bob and Jean, and grew to be close friends, often sharing wine, crackers and cheese on our front porches and vacationing together. He took delight in needling me. Sometimes when I’d call young people to come forward for a children’s sermon, he’d walk up with them and sit on the steps, staring at me with a deadpan gaze. After retirement he became a Hospice volunteer and told me it was the most meaningful thing he’d ever done. I loved the man.

After we left Santa Paula for Washington state in 1985, we stayed close. Moving back to Santa Barbara in 1992 meant we were only an hour away from Santa Paula, which enabled us to spend time together once again.

Bob became ill in 2005. In his last months he was in a nursing home with dementia. The dementia released some of the long-suppressed traumatic memories of the war, and Bob’s anger and confusion was a serious challenge for staff and guests. He died early in 2006.

I think of the life of my dear friend Bob, and ask: Is it always about how we “finish”?

My answer: No. Bob’s life was full of hard work, responsibilities, sacrifice, service, joy, and love. What he went through in the last few months does not define him or take away all he did.

I can think of many people I’ve known who have died in nursing homes and car accidents, from heart attacks and strokes. They did not have a chance to complete their journey as they would have liked. But their end doesn’t define their life.

We long for perfect, inspiring endings in movies, television series, musical pieces, novels, careers, and personal stories. But real life doesn’t always supply them.

I am going to keep on listening to Barbara Cook sing “It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish.” I will always be inspired by her story and legacy. I am also continually inspired by the life of my friend Bob.

I want to live with “guts” and “grit.” Yet I know I cannot be guaranteed an ideal conclusion to my life. What I do know is that I can trust the grace of God, which is far greater than my expectations.

Steve

Barbara Cook singing “It’s Not Where You Start” in Melbourne. The picture quality is grainy, but her spirit shines:

When I Fall

In 1990, I attended a ceremony installing Bishop Francis George as the new bishop of Yakima, Washington. It was a fancy event, but his personal remarks were brief.

“I would like you to know,” he said, “that when I was young, I had polio. As an adult, there are times when I lose my balance and fall. If that happens and you are near me, don’t be alarmed. Simply lend me a hand so I can get up, and we will go on.”

He paused.

“And as your bishop, there will be times when I may make a mistake performing my duties. When that happens, don’t be alarmed. Simply lend me a hand so I can get up, and we will go on. Thank you.”

I’ve thought of this often.

I don’t know what it’s like to have had polio or any other challenges people face. I do know I’ve been absent minded since I was young; I’ve often said most of my life has been an out-of-body experience. I work at it. And I’ve made it a practice to tell co-workers that I may forget things. If they see me deciding on an action and wonder if I’ve failed to take something into account, I’ve asked them to let me know. I want to do things well and I can use the help.

In our current “gotcha” culture, people are quick to make judgments about those who make mistakes. To be sure, many times people need to be held accountable for their harmful actions; various politicians, sports figures, corporate executives, and entertainers quickly come to mind. But if we make an innocent error, what a gift it is to have someone close to us not be alarmed and, instead, smile and offer us a hand. We can recover and correct it. And we can go on together.

Art work: “Hands of Emperor Maximillian I,” Albrecht Durer, 1506

Seeing People Through a Spiritual Lens

There is ample evidence from evolutionary psychology and brain science that we are wired to make quick assumptions about people based on our culture, perceptions, and experience. This can be particularly true in our current political climate.

The spiritual traditions have offered us alternative ways of seeing people, aimed at encouraging us to not judge by outer appearances, but assuming every person has inherent worth.

Quakers have held that every human has an “inner light” worthy of respect. This core belief led them to oppose slavery long before others in Europe and America.

In the eastern traditions, a common practice is to bow to others with hands pressed together near our heart and say “Namaste,” meaning we acknowledge the sacred presence in the other.

Fifteen centuries ago, St. Benedict created a book of precepts to guide the life of the monks. Rule 53:1 reads: “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, for he himself will say: I was a stranger and you welcomed me (Matt 25:35)” This rule is still followed at Benedictine monasteries and has been adopted by many in the Catholic tradition.

With this in mind, I appreciated the following piece by Mike Kerrigan, a lawyer in North Carolina. He has been distraught by the “rancor” that is characterizing our culture and sought out a mentor from his past who might help him approach others in a better way:

I reconnected recently with an old friend and Jesuit priest, Daniel Sweeney, with the intention of asking him.

In the 1980s, Father Sweeney taught world history at Georgetown Prep, the high school in North Bethesda, Md., where I was a student. He’s now an assistant professor of political science at the University of Scranton.

Surely my clerical companion, whether drawing on his priestly or academic vocation, could offer the customary good counsel to which I’d grown accustomed in adolescence. Still teaching by anecdote, Father Sweeney didn’t disappoint.

He recalled a time he’d repaired from the hurly-burly of instructing adolescent males to the tranquility of a faculty lounge. Seated beside him was another Jesuit faculty member, James A.P. Byrne, a priest known for saintly serenity and heroic patience.

Their peace was interrupted by an obscenely loud knock on the door. It was the kind of gratuitous pounding both men instantly knew had been delivered by the sort of student from whom they’d sought respite. Father Byrne got up, exchanged words with the impertinent young man, and returned to his seat.

“Who was at the door?” Father Sweeney asked. “It was just our Lord,” Father Byrne replied serenely, his Irish eyes twinkling, “in one of his most unrecognizable forms.” [1]

I hope to remember that description and use it when needed.

Image: “My Portrait Surrounded by Masks,” James Ensor, 1899

[1] “A Priest Finds Serenity in Humor,” by Mike. Kerrigan, WSJ, August 3, 2021

“The Patience of Ordinary Things”

I don’t read much poetry. But sometimes I find a poem that speaks to me. I recently came across this one in a handout from a writing class I took last winter:

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

I’ve reread it often in the last few days. It helps me pause and find a surprising appreciation for cups, chairs, floors, shoes, clothes, closets, soap, towels, and stairs. And windows.

I’m sitting at my desk looking out the window at our front yard and the street. This window has been here 28 years and I never paid attention to it. But now, if I tell my busy brain to pause for just a moment, I see the window as generous and patient. What a gift!

From where you are at this moment, what patient, ordinary things do you see?

Steve

Painting: Window of Vincens, by Henri Matisse

[i] From Another River: New and Selected Poems by Pat Schneider (Amherst Writers and Artists Press, 2005)

The Art of “Living in the Tragic Gap”

There are two stages of life: the first is when we are aspiring to perfection, the second is when that is no longer viable, and we begin to look within. — David Brooks

Commencement speakers often encourage young people to dream big. I don’t remember who spoke when I graduated from UCSB years ago, but I had big dreams. My plan was to work six months and save enough money to travel in Europe, where I had a connection for a job. After a year I’d come back and begin law school. By age 40 I was going to be a millionaire — then retire and travel more.

I knew it was possible. I’d heard stories about people who had done things like that. If it happens for some people, why not me?

It didn’t work out that way.

It took me a year to earn the money I needed. My time in Europe was cut short when I was denied a work permit. I completed one year of law school and then withdrew, got married and became a father.

I thought marriage and parenting would be easy.

It didn’t work out that way.

Marriage, it turns out, is a lot of work. Parenting as well. “Perfection” turned out to be elusive.

By my late 30s I was depressed. My net worth was zero and my professional path seemed empty. I had friends who seemed to be thriving, which made it worse. I’d been living with unrealistic expectations and was now painfully coming to terms with the harsh facts of life.

This polarity is something the writer Parker Palmer knows well. Having gone through his own journey, he learned how to live with the tension between high hopes and hard realities. It’s a life skill he calls, “Living in the Tragic Gap.” Here’s how it works.

Many of us start out with lofty hopes and naïve expectations, but eventually encounter disappointments and dead ends.

When this happens, we can be faced with two temptations.

One temptation is to keep chasing those hopes at all costs.

“Look at that guy making a lot of money – he seems happy. I am going to keep pushing to succeed, no matter the cost.”

“I deserve to be happy and satisfied every day. If I’m not, it’s clearly somebody else’s fault, not mine.”

“As a parent, I’m going to read all the books and do the right things. If I do that, my kids – and I – will live a worry-free life.”

“Aging will never happen to me. I’ll find a program, a surgery, a diet or a guru that will keep me looking and feeling young.”

We can become completely absorbed by unrealistic ideals of how life “should” be. Parker Palmer calls this, “irrelevant idealism.”

The second temptation goes to the other extreme.

When the realities of work, marriage, and family life fall short of what we thought we deserved, we can become bitter. We lash out at other people, society, God or ourselves. Or we feel broken and ashamed and withdraw into depression and resentment. This is the temptation Palmer calls “corrosive cynicism.”

But there is a third path, one that avoids the two temptations: “Living in the Tragic Gap.” The “gap” can feel “tragic,” as we must accept the fact our ideals may be impossible to fully realize. But accepting the gap and negotiating life within it is the beginning of wisdom. We don’t give up hopes and ideals but begin to balance them in the context of life’s realities. As David Brooks said, once we are done “aspiring for perfection,” we “begin to look within.”

Little is really known of Jesus’ life before he was 30. But it was probably after a long period of looking within that he emerged with his compelling vision of the kingdom of God. He encountered ordinary people struggling with life. Through him they experienced a new, grace-based way of seeing themselves and the world. This was not an escape from the realities of life but instead gave clarity and meaning to life as it is.

The classic story of Buddha’s life is similar. He was rich and healthy. He was carefully protected from suffering, living the first part of his life in the equivalent of a privileged, gated community. But he sensed something was missing. He went out to see the real world and found the harsh realities of sickness, aging, and death. But he kept pressing for a realistic way to make sense of it all. In time, he experienced enlightenment and passed his insights on to countless others; “problems” will never stop arising in life, but we can develop an awareness that keeps us from being absorbed by them and instead find a boundless source of compassion within.

In my work, I’ve met many people who became aware that perfection was no longer an option and were hungry for an alternative. I met them in my role as a pastor over the years. I met many when I was Director at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center. People were looking for something more, some way to stand between high hopes and hard realities. And when they’d find their footing, it was as if real life began. They became humble, but also caring. They took responsibility for their life choices and learned from their losses. They found a certain kind of quiet courage to go on.

Hospice of Santa Barbara has a long history of supporting people of all ages in the grief process. When I was serving there, I was particularly struck by the work with children and teenagers who’d lost a parent. One group support session ended with a time for the participants to create a work of art that expressed how they felt and what they’d learned. A 15-year-old boy painted a picture of a heart broken open with blotches of red coming out of the broken space, growing larger as they emerged. He wrote: “Death is like a broken heart. It hurts and is sad, but you get through it. Your heart is twice as strong.”

Images of Our Lives: Resumes, Eulogies, Compost

PBS and New York Times commentator David Brooks has experienced a major spiritual transformation in recent years. One of his epiphanies is that many of us live with two sets of virtues in play. As he wrote in a column entitled “The Moral Bucket List”:

It occurred to me that there were two sets of virtues, the résumé virtues and the eulogy virtues. The résumé virtues are the skills you bring to the marketplace. The eulogy virtues are the ones that are talked about at your funeral — whether you were kind, brave, honest or faithful. Were you capable of deep love?

We all know that the eulogy virtues are more important than the résumé ones. But our culture and our educational systems spend more time teaching the skills and strategies you need for career success than the qualities you need to radiate that sort of inner light. Many of us are clearer on how to build an external career than on how to build inner character.[i]

From the first time I read this column, I appreciated this distinction and its implications. In this post, I’m going to comment on my own experience with resumes and eulogies, then add an additional thought.

Resumes: Much of my career was spent building my resume, and it was always interesting to read the resumes of others. Earning degrees, seeking accomplishments that I could quantify, publishing articles and serving on boards were all facts to add to the resume. This is what it takes to create a meaningful work life in a competitive society. It’s part of life in the modern world. But a resume does not a life make.

Eulogies: One of the activities I treasured as a pastor was participating in memorial services. I was always keen to hear what would be said about the person being remembered, and how the stories would cause each of us to pause and reflect on our own lives.

If I was organizing the service, I would work with the family to create a simple outline of the person’s life: where they were born, what they did, and what they accomplished – something like their resume. But that just set the stage for the stories people would share about the person: how they treated other people, and what moments friends and family look back on with appreciation. As David Brooks noted, in eulogies we often hear examples of the virtues of kindness, bravery, honesty or faithfulness – many ways in which people manifest “deep love.”

So far, so good. I like identifying these two important aspects of our lives.

But as I’ve been thinking of this distinction, I kept feeling like there was something missing, and only recently felt like I knew what it is.

Resumes exist in print and are plain for all to see. The “eulogy virtues” may be affirmed as part of a memorial service or obituary. But what if the person lives a very long life, and dies when there is no one left to hear the eulogy?

I think of my own father. He lived to be 91, and almost all of those years were lived in Redlands and San Bernardino. He was active in many civic organizations and a well-known man in his day. In his last few years, my sister and I brought him to a retirement home in Santa Barbara so we could see him more often. When he died, we arranged for a service back in San Bernardino. We published an obituary in his hometown paper and spread the word as well as we could. But on the day of the service, only 3 or 4 people showed up besides family. It was understandable – he had outlived most of the people he knew – but it was also disappointing.

I’ve done services for people who die in relative obscurity. There’s no one there to describe and affirm the virtues and integrity they saw in the person. It doesn’t seem right.

A similar thought arises when I’m with my young grandsons. We share meaningful and fun times. I find myself hoping they’ll remember our time together when they are older. But what if I die before the memories take root? Will the time we share “count?”

It reminds me of the familiar riddle, “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” We could rephrase it: “If someone dies and no one is there to give a eulogy, is the life a waste?”

Ruminating on this question has led me to think of compost.

Compost Many years ago in seminary a preaching and communications professor challenged us to think about how we envision the preaching task.

“You might tend to think of your sermons as roses,” he said. “A masterpiece that you cultivate it until it’s a thing of beauty. Then you carefully cut it, and bring it to display before the congregation on a Sunday morning . As people leave the service, you hope people will tell you what a beautiful rose you created. Well, I invite you to not think of preaching that way. Think of your sermons as compost. Compost you work into the soil of peoples’ lives you are serving. The beauty comes from what flowers in their life.”

The purpose of compost is to disappear into the soil, freely giving itself to produce new life. It doesn’t need to be named to be real and everlasting. So it is with our lives. The good we do for others may not be quantified on a resume or be lauded in a eulogy, but that doesn’t mean it’s of no value. It’s a gift we can give, and then let it go.

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2015/04/12/opinion/sunday/david-brooks-the-moral-bucket-list.html

Time to Go Vertical?

Today’s piece begins with a quiz. This photograph is:

My grandson reaching out of our trailer’s skylight to see what it feels like.
A visual metaphor for prayer.
All the above.

If you answered “c” you are correct.

Last week’s entry on enlightenment included an homage to Huston Smith. No writer or thinker has inspired me more. He consistently drew on a lifetime of scholarship and personal experience to make memorable, useful and simple statements. The statement for today is: “When you find yourself in a difficult place, go vertical.”

Huston believed that spiritual traditions are based on higher truths. We live much of our lives “horizontally” – going through the day with routines, assumptions and interactions that serve us well. But sometimes we run into situations – tragedies, difficult decisions, illnesses, crises — when ordinary ways of thinking don’t help. In those moments we can turn to spiritual truths, passed on to us from people who have transcended ordinary reality to see the bigger picture. That’s going “vertical.”

I’m going to share some experiences of “going vertical,” but first I will address concerns thoughtful people may have about “going vertical.”

“’Isn’t this an outmoded way of thinking with the divine being “up there” and us “down here?’” It’s a reasonable question. Many ancient people did believe the divine was too pure or holy to be down in the muck with us. God must be up at the top of that mountain, far away and safely removed. Most of us would agree that’s not the way we think anymore.

If someone asks me, “Where is God?” I would say “everywhere.” Within each cell of every living creature, as well as all creation, as well as far beyond what we can see or know. As Psalm 139 puts it:

Where can I go from your spirit?
    Or where can I flee from your presence?
⁸If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
    if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
⁹If I take the wings of the morning
    and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
¹⁰even there your hand shall lead me,
    and your right hand shall hold me fast.
¹¹If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
    and the light around me become night,”
¹²even the darkness is not dark to you;
    the night is as bright as the day,
    for darkness is as light to you. (New Revised Standard Version)

Jesus taught that the kingdom of God is not far away, but within us and amongst us. People experienced his stunning presence right where they lived – they did not have to ascend a mountain. Buddha was asked where the authority for his teaching came from; he touched the ground and said, “Let the earth be my witness.” Muhammed taught that Allah is closer to us than our own jugular vein.

So, we don’t have to go up a mountain to find the divine.

But I believe it’s still useful to use metaphors that suggest we “go up” for spiritual truth.

When your airplane lifts off and you see your town from a higher altitude, you can see where you live with greater perspective.

“Inspiration Point “is a favorite hiking destination in Santa Barbara. When you get to the top you have a stunning vista over the town and coastline. It’s in-spir-ing, as in “in-Spirit-ing.”

So, it’s useful to consider spiritual truths as “Higher” because when we grasp them, many other things come into perspective.

The trajectory of my life was changed in my early 20s when I was in a personal crisis. I’d been self-absorbed, skeptical of any truth beyond my own reasoning. But at a moment when I felt my life was going to pieces, I reached out into the unknown and “went vertical:” I prayed for the first time. I’m not even sure what I said. But metaphorically my hand was reaching out into the unknown hoping something “up there” or “out there” might help me. Three days later, I realized something had changed – at my very center, instead of darkness and fear, there seemed to be a tangible point of light. I was stunned. I was grateful. It took me a long time to integrate the experience, but my life was literally saved when I “went vertical.” It was my first experience of grace.

Ministry is all about helping people “go vertical.”

For example, people would make an appointment with me and say, “I think my wife is having an affair with someone at work and I’m worried our marriage may be in danger.”

I would ask for more background. If appropriate, I would say:

“One of the most important things you can do is to deepen your spiritual life. This will make you stronger for whatever happens. If reconciliation is possible, you will have a better sense of who you are and how to repair the relationship. And if your partner does leave, faith will be a lifeline to take with you into the unknown.”

In January of 2020, I flew to Vienna on my own for two weeks. For the first several nights, jet lag kept me awake for hours. I “went vertical,” spending much of the time reciting the 23^rd Psalm in a careful, contemplative way. I not only got through the night but sensed a kinship with all the people I know who live alone.

When COVID came, prayer and meditation became even more important. The divine presence is not threatened by a virus. I am grateful for the daily renewal I felt in those early months, “going vertical” instead of being shut in by fear.

There are many issues to explore regarding how we pray and what to expect. But I never regret a moment when I find myself afraid or uncertain and “go vertical,” reaching out for what I cannot see.

Have you had such experiences?

“The winds of grace are always blowing, but it is you who must raise the sails.” (Tagore)

“How Do You Know If Someone Is Enlightened?”

Huston Smith has been a guiding light in my life.

I first encountered him in the 80s. I was teaching comparative religion in a small college and used his book, The Religions of the World, which students from diverse backgrounds always found engaging. In 1996, PBS broadcast a series of interviews of Huston with Bill Moyers, The Wisdom of Faith. I saw him speak in Santa Barbara several times at the Lobero Theater and always left with a clear mind and full heart.

If you lined up to have him sign a book, he’d ask you to write down your name on a piece of paper because he was wanted to spell it correctly. He would carefully inscribe a greeting and hand you the book. Then he’d look into your eyes and smile. A bright, warm light illuminated his face.

In 2010, I spent four days with him and a group of 30 retreatants at Esalen Institute in Big Sur (where this photo was taken.) He’d been teaching there for 50 years, and this turned out to be his last retreat.

He was 90. He entered the small seminar room slowly on the arm of his daughter, who helped him to his seat. His clothes were well-worn, and his yellow windbreaker was stained around the cuffs; it must have been a favorite.

After he was seated, his daughter welcomed us. She noted her father was now very hard of hearing, so we should direct questions to her and she would relay them through his good ear.

She nodded to him that we were ready.

When he began to speak, the wide smile emerged, and that light came to the surface. His told us his plan for the week was to tell stories about the people he had met over his life: Aldous Huxley, the Dalai Lama (before he was known in the West), Martin Luther King, Jr., Timothy Leary, Ram Dass, Bishop Tutu, Suzuki Roshi, Native American elders, Joseph Campbell and a long list of writers, thinkers and spiritual leaders. He encouraged us to ask questions at any time.

In my blog I’ll be sharing memorable statements Huston Smith made. The first one has to do with enlightenment.

“How do you know if someone is enlightened?” a woman asked, and his daughter conveyed the question to him.

He paused for a moment.

“If they tell you they are enlightened, they are not,” he said with a grin. “Truly enlightened people don’t think about it; they don’t care.” He illustrated the point with a story of his first meeting with the Dalai Lama.

Over my career people have asked me who my favorite theologians are. I’ve often named Wendell Berry, Bach and Rembrandt. But I also point to the older people I’ve known in my congregations. They have lived through many hardships but are at peace with who they are and always looking for quiet ways to serve others.

I remember one such man, Walt Eby. Walt was a retired engineer from the Midwest who had come to Santa Barbara as part of a job transfer from Wisconsin. Walt was soft-spoken. He never served on a committee or spoke at an event. But at coffee hour, he would stand on the patio and scan for any new people who might benefit from a word of welcome. He would walk towards them holding his Styrofoam cup of coffee and introduce himself. Soon you’d see the visitor smiling, relaxing and conversing. If appropriate, Walt might introduce them to someone else on the patio with a similar interest or background. He did this every Sunday. His ability of sensing who might need such care was uncanny.

Walt had a particular gift for connecting with teenagers. One young man appeared with his mom at our service. Walt went over and introduced himself and began a conversation. When they came back the next Sunday, Walt was there again with his friendly, low-key presence. In time he discovered the family was going through a divorce and took a special interest in the young man. Walt would call and invite the young man to hit some golf balls or perform some simple job around the church, like mowing the lawn. He took him to serve the homeless at a soup kitchen. Later, the young man joined our youth group and helped build houses for the poor. Walt showed him how to serve others and had a profound influence on the young man’s life as he did on many of us.

The young man’s mother later told me how much Walt’s care and concern meant to both her and her son…it was a steady, loving connection in a difficult time.

This was his way of being.

If I had said, “Walt I think you are enlightened,” he would not know what I was talking about. Such words were irrelevant to him. It was just the way he was.

When I was Director at La Casa de Maria, we annually hosted 200 groups from every spiritual path imaginable, as well as many nonprofits. I was asked to review the application of a group that had come before. They were a growing group from LA focused on a charismatic leader. I asked the staff for any comments concerning their previous visit. I was told the leader had once become frustrated, and publicly berated a staff member. I gave instructions to deny the request.

“If they tell you they are enlightened, they are not.”