Tag Archives: spirituality

The “Narcissism of Small Differences:” Toothpaste, Starbucks, and The Human Condition

“Narcissus” was a character in Greek mythology who was strikingly attractive.  He rejected advances from anyone, feeling no one was good enough for him. One day he came by a pool of water.  For the first time in his life, he saw his reflection. He was entranced. Admiring himself was so compelling he could not bear to leave; he died staring into the pool.  He was transformed into a beautiful flower that bears his name.

            Sigmund Freud drew on this myth to describe a curious element of human behavior. He observed that people tend to look for very small differences between things and other people, and then make judgments that lets them feel “special” or superior. To describe this tendency, he coined the phrase “narcissism of small differences.”

            I have found this concept to be very useful.

            Let’s start with toothpaste. 

            I had a friend who lived in Kenya for two years while serving in the Peace Corps.  He said when he would go to the store for toothpaste, there would be one or two choices.  When he returned to the states and went into a drugstore to buy toothpaste, he was overwhelmed by the options. He had to come back the next day to choose.  He said he missed Kenya.

            This week, I went to CVS to pick up a prescription. I stopped by the toothpaste aisle to count the options. I counted at least 30 choices — of Colgate.  Crest? 43 options. Bringing up the rear: Sensodyne, Aquafresh, Arm and Hammer, Tom’s — and the always humble Pepsodent.  That’s more than 80 choices.  How can anyone leave the store without being empowered by their toothpaste selection?

            In the early 90s, a typical supermarket might contain 7,000 items. Now it often ranges between 40,000 and 50,000. We must be royalty to be able to get exactly what we want!

            Time for coffee?

            Restaurants used to serve coffee. Then, there was a second option: decaf. Then Starbucks came along. From the main menu of 40 options, you can specify endless variations. According to an article in the Huffington Post, the possibilities of “getting it your way” run to 80,000.[i] Anybody walking in can announce precisely what they want, then watch the barista obediently prepare it.  Doesn’t it feel good to know you are the master of your destiny?

            We could keep going with these illustrations by considering fashion, cars, wines, craft beers, appliances, and everything else.

            The reason for so many choices? Advertisers and marketers know that if we are presented with many options, choosing the one that we like the best makes us feel empowered. It doesn’t matter if the difference is significant – all that matters is how we perceive it.

            The concept applies not only to products, but also our social relationships.

            Think about what you wore in Junior High.  When I was in 7th grade, at some point it became clear that if you wanted to identify with the cool crowd, you had to wear a pocket t-shirt from Penny’s.  It had to be from Penny’s.  You could easily have bought ones made by Hanes or Fruit of the Loom.  But the other kids would know immediately you were a hopeless klutz. When I finally got one and wore it to school, I felt like I was 10 feet tall (even though I was less than 5 feet high at the time).

            I heard a lecture given by a rabbi at an interfaith conference some years ago. He was talking about our human temptation to feel superior to others based on perceived differences.  He told a joke about a Jewish guy who was stranded on a desert island. When rescuers arrived, they saw two identical structures on the beach.  When asked what they were, he said, “This one is the synagogue I worship in every week.  That other one? I wouldn’t step inside that one if my life depended on it.”

            Christianity is often talked about as one religion.  But recent surveys indicate there are at least 33,280 denominations that call themselves Christian in the U.S.[ii] Each one believes it stands for something unique and important.  I’ve been to lots of churches in my time.  I’ll tell you this: there are some I feel comfortable worshiping in, and some I wouldn’t step into if my life depended on it.

            For our hunting and gathering ancestors, it was an advantage to be able to accurately distinguish between plants that were edible and those that were poisonous, which strangers we can trust and which we cannot, and who has the most status in our group.  We prize attention to detail in many areas of life.  But we can easily fall prey to the “narcissism of small differences.”   We can make choices about things that have little relation to their actual value.  We can make judgments about other people that make us feel superior but blind us from seeing what we have in common.

            Let’s be on the lookout for this tendency, and not fall prey to it.

            And if you’re going by a Starbucks any time soon, could you pick me something?  I’d like a “doppia con panna.”  It’s not on the menu, and you may have to translate the Italian: two shots of espresso with a shot of whipped cream.  They may ask how much whipped cream…I prefer two inches. When you come by to drop it off, just leave it on the doorstep — I don’t want to be disturbed. I’ll probably be out back, sitting contentedly as I gaze into my new, state-of-the-art reflecting pool.

Waterhouse, “Narcissus and Echo”

[i] https://www.huffpost.com/entry/starbucks_n_4890735

[ii] https://nacministers.org/blog/tag/how-many-denominations-of-christianity-in-america/

Top Image: Caravaggio, “Narcissus”

“You Never Know”

If there’s one phrase I’ve come to rely on over the years, it’s “You never know.”  Like a Swiss Army knife, it’s handy in many situations.

         Rachel Naomi Reimen is Professor of Family and Community Medicine at UCSF and creator of a widely used medical school course, “The Healer’s Art.”  I’ve appreciated her books, seen her speak several times, and had a chance to meet her personally. Her grandfather was an Orthodox rabbi and master storyteller. In her medical practice, she learned the importance of listening to patients’ stories and being open to mystery, spirituality and the unknown, while still employing the best medical care. A patient would come to her and report that an oncologist had given them six months to live.  She sensed the patient assumed the doctor was all-knowing. She knew better.  She would offer a different, more open perspective.   “Let’s put it another way.  This diagnosis means you’ve started a new chapter in your life. But no one knows yet how the story will unfold.” This didn’t change the medical facts, but it more accurately describes what happens in life: you never know where things will lead.

         I remember a parishioner named Doug.  When I first came to serve the Goleta congregation, I was told he was facing terminal cancer and I should visit him soon.  I remember meeting Doug and his wife Marge in their mobile home park and thinking, “What a nice older couple.” As they were telling me about their background, they mentioned that when Doug retired, they did something they always wanted to do.  I thought, “They probably went on an Alaskan cruise.” But when I asked, they said they’d gone to Europe, bought a Volkswagen bus and traveled there for two years living each day as it came.  I had totally misjudged them. 

         You never know who a person is or what they’ve experienced until you listen to their stories.

         I asked Doug about his cancer. He told me he’d been through a series of chemo treatments and found them quite debilitating.  Doctors said he would need another round, or his time would be very short.  But he had decided it wasn’t worth it.  He decided to stop treatment so he could spend his remaining time enjoying life as best he could, even if it was just a matter of weeks.  

         Doug did not do any more treatments. He lived two more years.  You never know.

         And then there are the people that are heathy and fit and doing all the right things. They have a heart attack and then they’re gone.  You never know.       

         This certainly applies to politics.  In the 2008 Iowa caucuses, Joe Biden finished fifth with 4% of the vote.  In 2020 he was fourth. Now he is president. You never know.

         I’m a Dodger fan.  The most important game of the year was game 5 in the do-or-die playoff series against the Giants. With the score tied in the 9th inning and a runner at third base, the batter who came to the plate, Cody Bellinger, had the worst batting average on the team.  My fan-heart sank.  But he poked a single into right field and the Dodgers won.  You never know.

         By the 1850s, the philosopher Soren Kierkegaard had become well known in his native Denmark. People approached him asking to write his biography. He refused to cooperate. He believed biographies don’t tell the true story of someone’s life. Everyone knows how the story ends, so everything that happens will be seen in that light. But when we are living day by day, we have no idea how our life will turn out.  “Life can only be understood backward, but it has to be lived forward.”[i] 

         Think of decisions you regret.  Weren’t you making your best judgement at the time?

         Or think of blessings in your life you did not anticipate.  Who could have predicted they’d appear?

         If we draw on a particular spiritual tradition, it certainly helps to reflect on core principles and spend time in prayer and contemplation.  But even then, at some point, we must set a course and hope we made a good choice.[ii]

         In real life, we often must make decisions using the available facts and truest feelings we have at the time.  How will it turn out?  You never know. We just do our best and see what happens.

[i] There is, of course, a long tradition in Western philosophy focusing on the question of what we can really know.  I took three quarters of philosophy in college, working from Plato to Aristotle to Descartes to Hume to Kant and into the modern age.  In the end, I think you never know. Life is too complicated.

[ii] In Buddhism, a core emphasis is becoming aware of how susceptible we are to becoming attached to ideas and expectations about life that are more illusory than certain.  Jesus promises the Spirit can be always present with us, and Paul believes that nothing can separate us from the love of God. These are wonderful reminders, which I live by.  But it still leaves us with the inescapable burden of making decisions about our life with limited knowledge.

Art Work: “Two Dancers,” Matisse, 1937

Three Insights from David Brooks

         This past week I came across notes I had taken while attending two leadership conferences featuring New York Times columnist David Brooks. I’ve always respected David’s insights into culture and politics. But at these two events, David reflected on his personal journey. He said he had achieved everything he ever wanted in his professional life but felt his life had become increasingly empty.  He began searching for clues as to what he was missing and shared with us some of his reflections.   Here are three I want to share with you today

         “Our culture treats us like brains on a stick.” As we spend more time in a digital world, enticed and tracked by Big Tech, we become disconnected and disembodied from nature and neighbors.

         But, he noted, two of his friends had experiences that remind us there is another dimension of life.

         One such moment happened in his friend’s kitchen. The friend had come downstairs and glanced out the kitchen window. Outside was a falcon on a branch.  They looked into each other’s eyes – and kept looking –and it felt as if they were seeing into each other’s depths.  Finally, the falcon flew away.  The encounter changed his friend’s life.

         Another friend told David a thought that surprised her. As she was holding her newborn daughter these words came to her: “I love this child more than evolution can explain.” Science and evolution explain so much about the world we live in. But there are moments, mystical moments, when we realize there is something more, something wonderful, something holy, and we are in the midst of it every day.

         We are not meant to live “like brains on a stick.” Looking into the eyes of our fellow creatures and each other, we can wake up to the great mystery of life, which is tangible, unfathomable, and glorious.

         Thank you, David, for sharing thoughts from your journey.

Who Are the Saints in Your Life?

            November 1 is “All Saints Day” — for centuries, a day to honor the saints and martyrs of the Catholic Church. The stories and legends of the official saints are fascinating to hear and remember.  But there are two categories of saints that I want to explore with you: “Superstar Saints” and “Everyday Saints.”  

            The town I live in is named after Saint Barbara – a perfect example of a “Superstar Saint.”

            The original story concerned a young woman named Barbara, born in the third century. Her rich pagan father kept her locked up in a tower to protect her. But she secretly became a Christian, and rejected a marriage offer he had arranged.  He went on a journey, and when he returned, she told him about her new faith. He drew his sword to kill her, but her powerful prayers transported her to a mountainside where two shepherds kept their flocks.  One of the shepherds kept her presence a secret but the other betrayed her.  She was taken before the local prefect and tortured daily, but the wounds healed miraculously by the next morning.  Finally, her father beheaded her.  On his way home, he was struck by lightning and consumed by flames.

            Over time, her association with lightning and fire led to her becoming the patron saint of artillerymen, gunsmiths, and anyone working with explosives, including miners and geologists.

            Quite a story! Quite a legacy! The fact that Saint Barbara’s story contains details that are a bit hard to believe led her to be demoted in 1969 from the “General Roman Calendar.” But she remains a memorable example of the “Superstar Saints” of the Western tradition.

            There is another kind of “saint” that goes back to the early Christian communities.  In Romans 12, Saint Paul identifies specific character traits of “Everyday Saints.” Here’s a sample, translated into contemporary language by Eugene Peterson:  

  • “Let’s just go ahead and be what we were made to be, without enviously or pridefully comparing ourselves with each other, or trying to be something we aren’t.”
  • “If you’re put in charge, don’t manipulate.”
  • “If you work with the disadvantaged, don’t let yourself get irritated with them or depressed by them. Keep a smile on your face.” 
  • “Love from the center of who you are; don’t fake it.”
  • “Don’t quit in hard times; pray all the harder.”
  • “Laugh with your happy friends when they’re happy; share tears when they’re down.”
  • “Make friends with nobodies; don’t be the great somebody.” 

In essence, “Everyday Saints” are people who live their life with sincerity, humility, integrity, and a constant focus on serving others. 

            I have not personally known any “Superstar Saints.”  But I’ve known quite a few “Everyday Saints”:

  • Dorothy, from my Santa Paula congregation.  She dressed like the 1940s and may not have always sang in tune.  But each year she would raise close to $10,000 for the annual walk to end world hunger – more, by far, than anyone else in town.
  • George, a retired handyman in Wapato, Washington.  He spent his days driving around town in his old pickup with his dog Taffy, doing household repairs for people who could not afford to hire professionals.
  • Thelma, in my Goleta Congregation.  She never wanted to be on committees or speak in public, but over the years she knit hundreds of afghans for young unmarried mothers and families in need.
  • Joe, a long-time volunteer at Hospice of Santa Barbara. Joe was a Navy Vet and retired Maytag repairman.  He lost his wife to illness and his son to suicide. For more than 30 years, he volunteered his time to be with people facing death and grief. We called him “St. Joseph.”
  • The housekeepers at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center where I served as Director.  They believed their job was not just making beds and washing towels but caring for people who came seeking healing and hope.  Their energy blessed each room in which they worked.
  • An older Iranian woman from the local Islamic Society I met during a year-long interfaith project.  She was grateful to have a chance to prove Muslims are decent people and showed up at every event asking what she could do to help.
  • And I think of the countless people I’ve seen in my 40-year career who work as aides, CNAs, LVNs and caretakers in nursing homes, hospitals, dementia care facilities and private homes. English may not be their first language, but they provide love, respect, and dignity to each person they encounter.

            This “All Saints Day” I encourage us all to look around our neighborhood, workplace and community and take time to be grateful for the Everyday Saints in our midst.  They may not create fireworks as they go about their lives, but they bless us all in ways that are lasting and true.

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)