spirituality – Page 2 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

Two Lessons I Learned from Jane Goodall

Getting a chance to hear Jane Goodall in person was a compelling reason to go to Salt Lake City for the “Parliament of World’s Religions” in 2015. Like so many people, I had been captivated by the way she had befriended and lived with a tribe of wild chimpanzees. That was a childhood dream of mine. I grew up on the classic Tarzan films and imagined having a companion like “Cheetah.” I identified with “Curious George” who was always getting into mischief. I created my own “Monkey Club” in second grade (although I don’t remember if we did anything monkey-like, such as climbing trees.) Now I was going to see someone who had lived that dream.

It was standing room only in the auditorium on the afternoon she spoke. As we waited, I wondered why we are all so excited to hear her. After all, this was a conference focusing on the world’s religions – Ms. Goodall did not represent or speak for any religious group or spiritual tradition. The root meaning of the word “religion” is re-ligio, with the Latin word ligio being the source of our word “ligament” – something that binds us together as a “tribe” or community. Maybe, despite our different cultures, we share a deep longing to bond with other living creatures — our fellow primates as well as dolphins, dogs, cats, and horses. Here was someone who had been welcomed into a tribe of chimps. We couldn’t wait to discover what she could teach us about developing such a bond.

The moment she entered the room everyone stood and applauded. She shared stories and insights from her life and career, as well as her concern for the effects of climate change. Looking back, I distinctly remember two points she made.

The first was a discovery that surprised her. She told us one of the reasons she had been drawn to live with wild chimpanzees was her disillusionment with humanity, as we are often reckless and destructive. She wanted to dwell with primates who live in harmony and peace. She learned many inspiring things about them. But that’s not all she found:

She was dismayed to discover that these chimps also were capable of warfare, infanticide and cannibalism. “I thought they were like us, but nicer than us,” she said. “Then suddenly we found that chimpanzees could be brutal—that they, like us, had a darker side to their nature.”^[i]

The second point involved a formative experience she had as a young adult. She had experienced humanity’s “darker side” as a child in England when her family endured 71 bombing raids in World War 2. But after the war her mother sent her to live in Germany for a year to “teach me that not all Germans were evil.” She appreciated discovering that to be true.

Seeing the news she died this week at age 91, these stories came back to me. The first story affirms we are not far removed from our primitive inheritance – we have dark passions that can lead to brutal and destructive acts. But her mother sending her to post-war Germany suggests we also have some “better angels” in us. We don’t have to always succumb to the darker passions — we can strive to understand and overcome them. This, perhaps, is what our spiritual traditions teach us. We need to acknowledge our flaws and temptations. And we also need to do our best to transcend them.

Dr. Goodall was a child when her father gave her a stuffed monkey doll that she named Jubilee. (Jane Goodall Institute)

^[i] https://www.wsj.com/science/jane-goodall-who-studied-chimpanzee-behavior-for-decades-in-africa-dies-at-91-4be27d08

I Still Think About a List I Made a Long Time Ago

In the early 1980s we were living in Santa Paula, California where I was an Assistant Pastor. There was a new movement emerging in America – hospice. I was asked to be on the local board of directors that was forming. I had little personal experience with death, dying or grief but was honored to be asked and curious to learn what I could. I said yes.

On a Saturday afternoon a small group of us participated in a training event. At one point we were given a sheet of paper with a numbered list of twenty blank spaces. Without much of an introduction, we were asked to write down 20 things we value in life. I don’t have my copy anymore, but I think it looked something like this:

20 Things I Value in Life

Being with my family.
Being with friends.
My spiritual beliefs and community.
Swimming in the ocean.
Eating good food (doesn’t have to be fancy).
Going to musical concerts.
Going to baseball games.
Watching movies.
Traveling to Europe (or anywhere I haven’t been).
Reading good books about history.
Playing sports like softball and pick-up basketball.
Learning about other cultures.
Meeting new people.
Volunteering in the community.
Advocating for peace and justice.
Taking naps.
Spending a day at the beach.
Fresh, ripe fruit.
Learning new skills.
Hearing people recount how they got through hard times.

When we finished, we turned to another person and shared our list. It felt good to realize so many things brought us joy and meaning.

The facilitator then said, “Now I want you to cross ten items off your list.”

That sounded easy but wasn’t. I thought, “I don’t want to give up any of these.” Then, “I don’t like this exercise.”

When we finished, she said: “Now I want everyone to cross off five more.” This was almost frightening. I tried to imagine what five things I could give up. My life was becoming very limited.

“Now cross out three so you have only two left.”

This was painful. What is life about when you can’t do so many things you have learned to enjoy?

When the last person finished, she led a discussion. She didn’t ask us what our last two items were. She did ask, “What did that feel like?”

We all agreed it was difficult.

She said, “For most people, the two last things they hold on to are family and faith.” Those were my last two.

She then told us this is what having a terminal illness can be like. Your life gets smaller and smaller as you are able to do less and less.

That day I learned two lessons I have carried with me.

The first lesson is to have empathy for people for whom this is not an exercise but reality. I won’t know what it’s like until I get there, but I try to imagine. I want to be supportive of anyone I encounter who is on this journey.

The second lesson is to appreciate the things I value while I can. At this point in my life, I can’t participate in rigorous sports anymore but feel fortunate to still enjoy most of the items on my original list. I’m grateful for whatever time I have left.

What’s on your list?

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

Lifelines

On June 27, I was preparing to be discharged from the hospital after a five-day stay for a strep infection in my cervical spine. Just before noon, a nurse specialist came to my room to insert a PICC line, the conduit for the daily injections I would need the next 6-8 weeks.

She began by creating a sterile environment around me. Then, in a 40-minute procedure, she inserted a tiny tube into a vein on the inside of my arm just above my right elbow; using an ultrasound scope to navigate, she threaded it up my arm, across my chest, and to the point above my heart where the medicine would enter my blood stream. She covered the area around the entry point with a special dressing that a visiting nurse would change every week. The exposed end of the line consisted of two purple, white and blue plastic insertion receptacles (“lumens”) where the syringes would be attached each morning; these dangled from my forearm when not covered.

The PICC line remained in my body throughout the summer. Every morning it transported saline solution, heparin, and the medicine.

On August 22 (57 days later) I met with the infectious disease specialist. She told me that the strep infection that had tried to make my cervical spine its summer home had fled the premises; the treatment had succeeded and it was time to remove the PICC line. I thanked the doctor for her care.

The nurse came in for the removal. I asked my wife to video the process. With minimal preparation, the nurse began pulling the line out. I expected it to be a bit messy – won’t there be some blood or fluid? But it came out clean and dry. I expected to feel some sensation, but didn’t feel a thing. The procedure took about 20 seconds. Just as a fisherman records the size of a trout, the nurse measured it: 43 centimeters (17 inches). I asked her if I could keep it. She wrapped it in a sterile glove and gave it to me. I took it home with me like a party favor. Here it is:

For medical professionals, inserting and removing a PICC line is a routine procedure, as are many other life-giving practices like placing stints, shunts, pacemakers and artificial joints. But to those of us who benefit from these devices, the experience can seem like a miracle.

In the last week I have been contemplating my PICC line as I would a work of art. It continues to fascinate me: “This little stretch of tubing helped save my life.”

In a sense, it is a work of art. Somebody had a vision, then probably experimented with different materials, shapes, textures and colors. They narrowed it down to what could be manufactured, marketed and used. Somebody (perhaps a government agency or university) funded the process. And now it’s out there in the world, saving lives with simplicity and elegance.

For me the PICC line was literally a lifeline. And it’s led me to think about other “lifelines.”

Years ago I participated in a drum circle. At one point the leader had us place our two fingers on the right side of our neck so we could feel our carotid artery pulsing. He began echoing the steady beat with his drum and invited us to do the same. He reminded us that this artery formed while we were in the womb, picking up the rhythm of our mother’s heartbeat to give us life. He encouraged us to realize this is an uninterrupted pulse going back in time, passing from one generation to the next, reaching to our most distant biological past. It is a lifeline that connects us with all that breathes.

I see the people who helped me heal as part of my lifeline: the doctors, nurses and technicians who used their knowledge and skill to serve me. And my wife was my lifeline. Morning after morning throughout the summer she carefully followed the 25 minute procedure to give me the injections.

We rely on many lifelines to live out our days. I am thankful for them all.

Diagram of the human circulatory system: animalia-life.club

When Scales Fall From Our Eyes

“The phrase “the scales fall from your eyes” means to suddenly understand the truth about something that was previously unclear or hidden. It often refers to a moment of realization or enlightenment.”[i]

A friend once confided to me about an experience she had at a niece’s wedding. She had not seen the young woman for some time and was excited to travel across country for the celebration. When she first saw the bride and groom, she was struck by how “generously built” both were and couldn’t get that thought out of her mind. The time came for the bridal dance. As the couple stepped toward each other, they looked into each other’s eyes, and my friend said their faces were full of love and happiness. She said she was ashamed she had initially noticed only their outward appearance while being blind to their inner beauty.

Some years ago, I attended a five-day seminar in Berkeley with Marcus Borg, a prominent New Testament scholar. Borg was a calm, gifted and insightful teacher who prized good thinking and careful reflection. On the last day, one of the students asked him if he’d had any mystical experiences. He acknowledged he had but was reluctant to share. The students pressed him, however, and he told us his story.

After spending time in Israel, he and his wife had boarded a plane home. He had settled in his seat and was quietly observing the other passengers as they boarded. One man caught his interest – Borg couldn’t help but note he was particularly awkward looking. He also remembered looking at the back of the seat in front of him and thinking the vinyl upholstery seemed noticeably dull. He settled in and the plane soon took off.

A little while later, Borg felt the presence of light growing in the cabin. It seemed to illuminate everything around him with an unusual radiance; he was transfixed. He could tell no one else was seeing what he was seeing. The other passengers were immersed in this light, and each person seemed to be a wonder to behold; the gentleman who had looked awkward now seemed to bear a palpable dignity. Even the back of the seat in front of him now seemed fascinating. Borg’s wife could tell something unusual was occurring to him and asked him if he was OK; he nodded to assure her he was, not wanting to break the spell.

The mysterious light slowly began to dissipate, and soon everything in the cabin looked normal again. But he could not forget how, in those moments, it seemed he was seeing “reality” as it “really is” – permeated with light.

(In the stories shared by hospice workers and volunteers, this is not an unusual experience as people come to the boundary of this life.)

The phrase “the scales fall from your eyes” means to suddenly understand the truth about something that was previously unclear or hidden. It often refers to a moment of realization or enlightenment.

We go along in life, living with routine assumptions about the people we see and believing we know what “reality” is like. Then we have moments when “the scales fall from our eyes.” Like my friend at the wedding, we may suddenly discover how easily we misjudge other people when we look only at their outward appearance and instead begin to appreciate them in new ways. Like Professor Borg on the airplane, a sense of awe and wonder can come over us unexpectedly, suggesting there is a radiant presence within the everyday objects and people we encounter.

It can be a shock to realize scales are falling from our eyes. It can be liberating to discover what new truths are now revealed.

[i] Online version of the Cambridge Dictionary

Lead image: “Airplane window view with wing at sunrise;” Freepik.com

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 11^th, 12^th, 13^th, 16^th, and 17^th 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 20^th 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