steve jacobsen – Page 19 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

What Jayber Crow Understood

For the first 25 years of my life, the idea of becoming a pastor was inconceivable to me. I had not been raised in a church and had no interest in organized religion. But life has a way of surprising us, it seems, and here I am, 41 years after my ordination.

It’s hard to explain why I have found it so meaningful; I often feel like I have never really fit in. But one day I picked up Jayber Crow, a novel by Wendell Berry. Jayber is a seeker, a barber, a grave-digger, and a church custodian in the fictional town of Port William, Kentucky. I came across this passage, where he is sitting at the rear of the sanctuary on a Sunday morning:

The sermons mostly were preached on the same theme I had heard over and over… we must lay up treasures in heaven and not be lured and seduced by this world’s pretty and tasty things that do not last but are like the flower that is cut down. The preachers were always young students from the seminary who wore, you might say, the mantle of power but not the mantle of knowledge. They wouldn’t stay long enough to know where they were, for one thing. Some were wise and some were foolish, but none, so far as Port William knew, was ever old. They seemed to have come from some never Never-Never Land where the professionally devout were forever young. They were not going to school to learn where they were, let alone the pleasures and the pains of being there, or what ought to be said there. You couldn’t learn those things in a school. They went to school, apparently, to learn to say over and over again, regardless of where they were, what had already been said too often. They learned to have a very high opinion of God and a very low opinion of His works — although they could tell you that this world had been made by God Himself.

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

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

“I declare Miss Pauline,” said Brother Preston, who was having Sunday dinner with the Gibbses, “those certainly are good biscuits. I can’t remember how many I’ve eaten.”

“Preacher,” said Uncle Stanley, “That’s making eight.” (160-161)

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

I thought of the people and congregations I’ve served. Like Jayber, I never believed those kinds of sermons. I do believe in the “beauty and goodness of this world,” the sanctity of the ordinary people I’ve known, “cherry pie,” “good biscuits,” our “wish…to love one another and to forgive and be forgiven,” the “hope and experience of love surpassing death,” and gratitude.

“…. for behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of you.” (Luke 17:21, RSV)

Wendell Berry, age 88; Credit: *New Yorker* *Magazine*

Notes

For a recent profile of Wendell Berry in the New Yorker, go to https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/02/28/wendell-berrys-advice-for-a-cataclysmic-age
I had the privilege of seeing Wendell Berry in person twice in my life. The first was in the 1980s at the Campbell Farm in Wapato, Washington, where he spoke on land stewardship and rural values. The second was at Campbell Hall at UCSB in the 90s, as part of an “Environmental Poets” series. A very shy man, he was wearing overalls and a John Deere hat that night – clothing one doesn’t often see in Santa Barbara. That night he read from Jayber Crow. In the Q and A, someone asked him if, given his lifelong advocacy for sustainable agriculture, he would endorse requiring a gardening class in high schools. After a long pause, he said, “No, I think young people should be required to read Homer and the Bible, so they will know the problems they are facing are not new.” The “educated” crowd seemed bewildered by his statement.

Hasn’t Life Been Given to Us to Become Rich in Our Hearts?

A friend of Van Gogh’s asked if he thought this piece was “beautiful:”

Jean Alexandre Joseph Falguiere, *Phyrene*

He wrote to his brother:

My dear Theo,

C.M. asked me if I didn’t find the Phryné by Gérôme beautiful, and I said I would much rather see an ugly woman by Israëls or Millet or a little old woman by E. Frère, for what does a beautiful body such as Phryné’s really matter? Animals have that too, perhaps more so than people…hasn’t life been given to us to become rich in our hearts, even if our appearance suffers from it? — Letter from Van Gogh to his brother, Amsterdam, January 9, 1878

Here in Santa Barbara our local museum currently has a very popular exhibit, “Through Vincent’s Eyes: Van Gogh and His Sources.” The focus is not so much on any one work of his, but examples of the art works and writings of others that influenced him. The passage from the letter was displayed on the plaque next to “Phryné, and these words intrigued me: “…hasn’t life been given to us to become rich in our hearts, even if our appearance suffers from it?”

Adjacent to “Phryné” is a piece Van Gogh admired, The Miner by a graphic artist named Matthew Ridley:

The plaque for “The Miner” notes Van Gogh owned this exact print.

Which of these two works expresses “beauty” for you?

Our brains seem wired to quickly assess others by their outward appearance, comparing what we see to whatever standards our culture has created for us. As we know, print and digital media draws on this tendency to capture our attention and motivate us to feel an ongoing need to modify or improve our appearance.

When I see “fashion” magazines, I’m often puzzled why the models’ facial expressions often reflect boredom. When I see the people Van Gogh paints, they seem much more interesting.

“…hasn’t life been given to us to become rich in our hearts…?”

Two stories come to mind.

I had a parishioner, K., who was very conscious and diligent about her fitness and appearance. She and her husband attended a niece’s wedding in Ohio. She hadn’t seen her niece for several years When she first saw her at the wedding, she was taken aback by how much weight her niece had gained. The groom was “big” as well, and K. confessed their appearance made her uneasy. At the reception, the time came for the bride and groom to dance. As they did, K saw how much in love they were and was transfixed by their deep mutual affection. She saw beyond the surface to the reality that was within.

I heard the second story at a week-long seminar I attended years ago with the Biblical scholar Marcus Borg in Berkeley. Borg was an excellent writer and presenter…well-organized, calm, reasonable, always writing and speaking with humility and conviction. Towards the end of the week one of the students asked him if he had ever had a “spiritual” experience. He seemed reluctant to share. But the student pressed him, and he recounted what he’d experienced once on an airplane flight.

He and his wife were returning from Israel. As they boarded the plane, Marcus remembered settling into his assigned seat and assessing his surroundings. He noticed how sterile the plane’s interior seemed. He looked at the back of the seat in front of him and thought how lifeless the plastic fabric appeared. He watched people stepping into the aisle and noticed one man who had particularly unattractive facial features. All these observations seemed routine and trivial.

The plane took off and passengers settled into their activities.

A little later, something unusual began happening. Light began filling the airplane cabin. In this light, everything was transformed. The back of the seat in front of him now looked beautiful in its sheer existence. The same was true for the entire interior of the plane. Ordinary people were illuminated with a light that made them fascinating to look at. And the man whose appearance had caught his attention earlier happened to stand up: the man was radiating an inner dignity that made his outer appearance irrelevant.

Marcus’s wife noticed something was happening to him and asked if he was Ok. He nodded to assure her but didn’t speak. A few minutes later, the experience began to fade, and everything appeared as it had before. But he never forgot what he saw.

We might say “he came back to reality.” But which “reality”? The one we create based on surface appearances, cultural standards, and personal prejudices? Or something deep, mysterious, and grand that lies all around us, particularly within the faces of people whose appearance may not reflect some sterile “perfection” but that of living souls which have endured great hardship?

There are many kinds of beauty in this life, and we can celebrate all of them. But I want to remember Van Gogh’s question:

“Hasn’t life been given to us to become rich in our hearts?”

Grandpa and the Wooden Bowl

There once was a family that lived in a cabin: a man and his wife, their son and daughter, and the man’s father. They ate dinner together every night.

As grandfather got older, he had difficulty at the table. Some of his food would fall to the floor and he’d occasionally break a dish. The father grew frustrated, and admonished grandpa to be more careful. Grandpa continued to struggle.

One day the boy went into the work shed and noticed his father was carving something out of wood. He asked his father what he was making.

“A bowl and a spoon for grandfather,” he said. “I’m tired of him making a mess at the table. I’m going to have him sit in the corner to eat his dinner, using these.”

That night, the man told grandpa the new arrangement. He showed him the bowl and spoon, put his dinner portion in the bowl, and led him over to the corner of the room where he’d set a small table and chair. The family ate dinner that night in peace.

A few days later, the father noticed his son in the work shed. He walked in and saw the son with the carving knife working on a piece of wood.

“What are you making?” he asked.

“A bowl and spoon for you when you are older,” the son said.

_______

I heard this story decades ago and I’ve never forgotten it.

Clearly, the story illustrates how caring for older people can become a challenge, testing our patience as we focus on our own lives. And if we live long enough, what will it feel like to be a burden and potentially be placed “out of the way?”

For me the story raises complicated issues that I think many of us encounter.

My mother had a severe stroke at age 75. She lingered for ten days. Her sudden death was a shock. But we all knew she would have preferred it to spending months or years being frail and confined.

Dad lived to be 91. He spent 89 of those years in Redlands and San Bernardino. When he was no longer able to live on his own, we were able to get him into an Assisted Living unit in Redlands for several years. At first it worked well, as friends and former associates would stop by to visit. But in time they became infirm themselves, or forgot about him, or died.

I drove down one day to visit him. They told me he was in the dining room finishing his lunch. I went and saw he was the last one there, sitting by himself and using a fork as best he could to eat two fish sticks.

My sisters and I transferred him to a well-respected nursing home in Santa Barbara so we could all be closer. He endeared himself to the staff with his wit, irreverence, and stories from World War 2. He appreciated seeing us more often. But he had always been an independent man, propelling his Oldsmobile 88 around town and favoring restaurants where waitresses greeted him by name as he came through the door. He never wanted to live a restricted life or be a burden to anyone. He had been a “somebody”, and now that identity was gone, and he was dependent on others.

We brought him to our houses for meals and holidays. But it became harder and harder to transfer him in and out of a car.

One Sunday I was leaving after a visit. He looked at me and said, “Get me out of here.” I told him I couldn’t. He followed me down the hall in his wheelchair, and after I closed the glass door behind me, he kicked it several times. I will always remember that sound.

As death approached, we took turns at this bedside. He died knowing we loved him and were proud of him.

We had his memorial service back in San Bernardino, where he’d been a prominent and active citizen. If he’d died ten or fifteen years earlier, there might have been a big crowd. But, outside of family, there were less than a dozen people.

Does this sound like anything you’ve experienced or are facing?

Did I, at some point, hand dad his wooden bowl and spoon? Is that what our society does to our seniors? Is that will happen to us if we live that long?

While longevity is something to be prized, we know it often comes with some serious challenges. So many parishioners I’ve known make it to old age and are publicly celebrated. But in private, they confide they are “done,” and “don’t know why the Lord is keeping me here.”

I’m haunted by the loneliness I’ve seen.

So, what do we do?

I’m guessing we all are inclined to honor and show respect to “older people” wherever we encounter them — in our neighborhoods, in stores, in public gatherings – anywhere our paths cross. They deserve it.

I have the privilege of leading a monthly worship service at a local retirement home. As has always been my experience, the people I meet there have lived amazing lives.

No one wants to become a burden to their family, and there are many steps we can take to insure that doesn’t happen – estate planning, honest discussions with our family about what we want and don’t want and being realistic about our hopes and limitations.

I searched the internet for any other versions of this story and found one. It has a different ending. After the son tells the father what he is carving, the father brings grandpa back to the table, and they live happily ever after. Nicer ending. Too nice, I think. I believe the story I remember stuck with me because the challenge it poses is what I need to hear.

What thoughts and feelings arise for you when you read “Grandpa and the Wooden Bowl?”

Image: “Wooden Bowl and Spoon,” folksy.com

Two prior blog posts are related to today’s theme: , a) for a simple list of meaningful themes to talk about with someone nearing the end of their life — “Six Things that Matter Most,” go to: https://wordpress.com/post/drjsb.com/357; b) for a Buddhist perspective on visiting nursing homes, go to https://drjsb.com/2020/12/17/siddhartha-visits-a-nursing-home/

The Gift Of Walking: Everyday Problems, Electric Toothbrushes, and an Easter Surprise

Have you ever been stuck on a problem and went for a walk – and a solution appears?

I’ve been reading a book that explains why this happens: In Praise of Walking: A New Scientific Exploration by Shane O’Mara, Professor of Brain Research at Trinity College, Dublin. A firm believer in the power of walking in helping us find creative solutions to various issues, he gives a scientific account of why taking walks can be so valuable.

Here are some key points:

“…the brain has two essential work modes: an active, executive mode, and a default mode. The active mode involves focused attention and processing details. The default mode involves mind-wandering, the repeated interrogation of autobiographical memory, and a focus of attention away from the immediate environment.”[i]

The “executive mode” is active when we are focusing on something that has a logical, straight-forward solution. How about doing taxes? My W-2 and 1099 forms have specific numbers that I need to enter into specific boxes on the 1040 – no room for creativity.

The “default” or “mind-wandering mode” is useful when there may be more than one solution to a problem, and we may need to engage a variety of mental and imaginative processes to find what we need.

If we are sitting at a desk, our brain is limited to just one area of processing. But if we go for out for a walk, our circulation increases to other areas of the brain, and they begin to combine their efforts. In technical language, it’s a way to experience “extended hippocampal function” in which we can access personal memory and imagination while navigating our walk. This gives us a chance to “combine ideas in some form of novel association.”[ii]

We need both modes: “Mind-wandering allows the collision of ideas, whilst mind focusing allows you to test whether it’s nonsensical or interesting and new.”[iii]

In 1843, Sir William Rowan Hamilton found himself stuck as he “…grappled with devising a new mathematical theory – ‘quaternions’, which extend the mathematical theory of complex numbers to three-dimensional space.”[iv] He was an avid walker, and on one of those walks the solution appeared to him. He took a penknife and inscribed this message into the Broom Bridge:

I haven’t studied math since Led Zeppelin’s first album was released. I have no clue why this formula is important, but apparently, it’s a big deal: it has “…many contemporary uses in physics as well as in computer gaming, animation, and graphics, and even in the design of electric toothbrushes.”[v] Mathematicians from around the world gather on the bridge every October 16th to celebrate this discovery. And it did not come to Mr. Hamilton until he was immersed in a two-hour walk.

Without knowing any of the science, I found taking walks to be essential to my work. If I had a sermon to create, I would first choose, analyze, and study a passage, gathering as many facts as possible to understand what I was reading. But I wouldn’t know what to focus on, or how to describe it, or what stories could illustrate it. So, I’d get up and walk in the neighborhood for an hour or so. Almost every time, I’d have an “aha” moment and know what direction to take, words to use, or examples to give. I’d go back to my desk with fresh energy.

What is true for walking on our own is also true for walking with a friend — that “extended hippocampal function” is working for both of us.

All this brings to mind the fascinating New Testament story known as “The Road to Emmaus” (Luke 24: 13 – 35). The story begins on Easter afternoon. “Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened.” As they walk, they are deep in conversation. A third person joins them and asks what they are discussing. They tell him it’s about a prophet who has appeared recently, raising their hopes that something new and life-changing is happening in the world. But the prophet has been executed by the Romans, leaving them in despair. Some women reported earlier in the day they had an experience that led them to believe he is alive after all. But these two friends don’t know what to believe. The stranger begins to explain how all this might be true and they begin a long discussion. They arrive at Emmaus and invite the stranger to stay with them for dinner. He accepts. As they sit at table, the stranger takes the bread, blesses, and breaks it, and they suddenly realize the stranger is the risen Jesus. He disappears. Looking back on their conversation, they realize this person was indeed helping them see everything in a new way, leading them from despair to excitement and new hope. They go back to Jerusalem to share their story.

I can affirm it only takes one experience of feeling someone’s unexpected “presence” in the room with us to open our mind to such new possibilities.

Cynthia Bourgeault writes this about the Emmaus story: “…the decisive breakthrough is not what they see but how they see. They have come to understand that their attuned hearts are the instruments of recognition and these same attuned hearts will bind them to their Risen Lord moment by moment forever. They have finally located their inner homing beacon.”

From Jerusalem to Emmaus is seven miles, and it takes about two hours to walk seven miles – the same amount of time it took Mr. Hamilton to find the solution to his perplexing problem. This time the problem is not mathematical, but spiritual. Just sitting in a chair worrying about it was not going to solve it, because the usual ways of rational thinking are too limiting. But on long walks, portals within us can open and expand our understanding of what’s real and what’s possible, allowing new and unexpected light to shine.

Want to go for a walk?

[i] O’Mara, pg. 148

[ii] Ibid., pg. 150

[iii]Ibid., pg. 150

[iv] Ibid., pg. 152

[v] Ibid., pg. 152

Lead image source: pixabay

Balancing Your Freedom and The Needs of the Tribe

Several years ago, I read Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging by Sebastian Junger. Two stories made a lasting impression. The first involves the intersection of Native American and European culture in Colonial America:

“’When an Indian child has been brought up among us, taught our language and habituated to our customs,’ Benjamin Franklin wrote to a friend in 1753, ‘… if he goes to see his relations and makes one Indian ramble with them, there is no persuading him ever to return.’”

On the other hand, Franklin continued, white captives who came back to colonial society after spending time with the Indians were almost impossible to keep home “‘…and take the first good opportunity of escaping again into the woods.’”[i]

Junger tells of one colonial woman who was captured by Native people and lived with them, learning their language and customs, before being returned to her husband on his farm. With the native people, she had spent her day in shared labor and activity with the other women, cooperating for the benefit of the community. Back on their farm, she was alone all day in their cabin as her husband, also alone, worked the land. She sank into depression.

The second involves the experience of Londoners during the bombing “Blitz” in World War 2:

“Before the war, projections for psychiatric breakdown in England ran as high as four million people, but as the Blitz progressed, psychiatric hospitals around the country saw admissions go down. Emergency services in London reported an average of only two cases of ‘bomb neuroses’ a week. Psychiatrists watched in puzzlement as long-standing patients saw their symptoms subside during the period of intense air raids.”[ii] Crime rates decreased dramatically, as did suicide. People in bomb shelters began to form self-regulating and egalitarian societies; class status was largely ignored. Even after being bombed for months, the spirit of the people remained resolute, united, and determined.

Junger had seen this dynamic as a war correspondent, first in Bosnia and later embedded in an Army platoon in Afghanistan (documented in the film, Retrepo). After returning home, he sought to understand why so many vets were having difficulty adapting to civilian life. He concluded that a leading factor was the loss of the intense social bond and shared purpose they had experienced. Back in the U.S., most people were consumed with their own individual lives which seemed shallow by comparison.

What these stories have in common is the power of human community to form bonds of mutual care and respect that become more important than individual accomplishment or status, particularly in times of great challenge. (This is a dynamic we see clearly in the resilience and courage of the Ukrainian people, an inspirational example for us all.)

Last week I wrote about the difference between the words “religion” and “spirituality”, noting the root of the first is ligia, from which the word “ligament” comes from. In our age, the freedom to pursue our own spirituality and the seeming lack of relevance in many religious institutions has led us away from those “ligaments” which once created bonds of shared purpose and belonging. This shift extends to many social institutions.[iii] We are free, but disconnected.

During the two years of the COVID pandemic, our instincts for facing challenges together were activated. We had to be disciplined about when we went shopping. We had to cut down on travel and in-person gatherings. We became reluctant but capable Zoom-sters. Spontaneous networks of mutual care arose in many neighborhoods and people who had lived alone were often cared for. Like most of us, I didn’t like the restrictions but understood why they were necessary; the fact that we were all in this together gave the sacrifices meaning.

In the fall of 1986, I had just become the solo pastor of a small congregation in Wapato, Washington, population 3,000. I was told they put on a turkey dinner for the community every November. The event went back to the Depression years when the church needed a new roof and raised the funds with the help of neighbors. The tradition had continued ever since with the proceeds benefitting local projects. They often served hundreds of people in one night. The church had an ample kitchen but not large enough for the demand, so the members cooked the turkeys and dessert in their own homes.

I remember Jeannie, the woman in charge that year, approaching me saying she’d be giving me the directions for cooking the turkey and making the apple crisp desert.

“Sure, I’ll get back to you and let you know if we can do that,” I said.

“No, Steve,” she said with a smile. “This is not optional. Everyone participates.”

I was a suburban guy, accustomed to my freedom, and stunned to be told what to do. But, like everyone else, we cooked our turkey and the apple crisp — strictly following the provided recipes — and delivered them at the appointed time. Later that evening, I completed my duties doing dishes, the entry-level position for new pastors.

We served 800 people that night. And when we gathered on Sunday there was a palpable sense of joy, pride, and connection. We’d been bound, and it was good.

As we know, many of our former social bonds have disappeared. They’ve been replaced, to some degree, by social media groups. These have the advantage of being able to respond instantly to a crisis or need – but don’t require the same discipline.

Strong social bonds can have a shadow side: stifling individual freedom and nurturing a narrow kind of tribalism that exalts our own group and demonizes others. We need to be thoughtful about our allegiances and their consequences.

But we also need to appreciate the power within us to form bonds of mutual care and respect that become more important than individual accomplishment or status, particularly in times of great challenge. These are the times that can bring out the best in us.

Image: Model of Biological System created by the Integrative Computational Network Biology Project, Barcelona Supercomputing Center

[i] Junger, Sebastian; Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging; pg. 3

[ii] Junger, pg. 47

[iii] The classic study is Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community, by Robert D. Putnam, 2001

Spiritual or Religious? A Guide for the Perplexed

“Are you religious?”

“No, I’m spiritual.”

Over recent decades, fewer and fewer Americans describe themselves as “religious.” Many say they are “spiritual.” What does this mean?

I’ve been reflecting on those two words for 35 years. I’m going to offer one way to understand the difference between them.

“Religion” is a word that combines “re“ with “ligio.” “Ligio” is the root for the word “ligament,” which means a binding. So re-ligio means “bound again.” A religion binds someone to a set of beliefs, traditions, and practices. When I was a kid, every Friday the cafeteria served fish sticks. Why? Because Catholics weren’t allowed to eat meat on Friday. If I’m an Orthodox Jew, I’ll only eat kosher food. If I’m a practicing Muslim, you can expect me to be praying five times a day and fasting during the month of Ramadan.

“Spiritual” is very different. Let’s go back in time to appreciate its origins.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, the common word for “spirit” is “ruah.” Here’s a famous passage:

In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth,the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God^[b] swept over the face of the waters.[i] Did you notice the footnote, (b)? The footnote says: “Orwhile the spirit of God orwhile a mighty wind.” Spirit is synonymous with wind and breath.

The New Testament was written in Greek. Just like Hebrew, the original word pneuma (as in pneumatic tire, pneumonia, etc.) can mean spirit, wind, breath. Here’s an example:

The wind^[f] blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.[ii] The footnote for “wind” reads: “The same Greek word means both wind and spirit.”

So “religion” implies a binding, a strong and secure connection. “Spiritual” implies something more elusive and mysterious, but real. You can’t attach a ligament to the wind; a breeze can be felt but doesn’t bind you.

For centuries many people were bound to religious traditions. But in the 60s, people started questioning authority. Many began leaving such traditions altogether or picking and choosing which beliefs and practices they’d embrace and which they’d ignore. A steady decline in membership and influence of religious communities began and continues – the ligaments became weak or were never developed.

Being cut loose from such restrictive bonds can be exhilarating. We can begin finding for ourselves what is true and authentic.

As we’re searching, we may have moments when we sense there is something important beyond everyday reality. Maybe we come upon something in nature that fills us with wonder. Maybe we are awe-struck as we look into the eyes of a newborn child. Maybe we sense something transcendent in a piece of music. Maybe we go through a personal crisis and feel we’re being led by something beyond ourselves. Maybe we’re in recovery and find the value of a higher power. Or, maybe we experiment with ancient Eastern techniques of inner exploration, such as meditation, mindfulness, yoga, or Tai-chi and find an inner peace, strength, and serenity that we never experienced in one of those liga-mented institutions.

We certainly don’t believe there is an old bearded white guy in the sky in charge of everything. But what about “… an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together,” as Obi-Wan Kenobi explains to Luke Skywalker.[iii] This “Force” gives us courage, helps us do what is right, connects us to others and calls us to fight against forces of repression.

If any of these experiences resonate, we might say we are “spiritual.” We sense something, believe something, feel something that is of great personal importance. And no external authority will control how we experience it or what it means.

So much of this speaks to me personally. I don’t believe in something just because someone tells me to. I am curious about every kind of journey people are on and learn new things whenever I can. I’m fascinated by all things “spiritual.”

And yet there’s something lost when we have no ligaments.

Last spring, I was feeling discomfort in my right upper arm while doing yoga. One day, I was playing golf and noticed it was swelling dramatically and my arm was turning purple. I went to Urgent Care. They diagnosed it as a torn ligament, which leads to a swelling known as a “Popeye arm” along with contusions. Apparently, we have two ligaments connecting shoulders to elbows, and one of mine had become disconnected. They told me they couldn’t repair it and referred me to physical therapy to begin strengthening the surrounding muscles to compensate.

A year later, I’m still doing the exercises and feeling fine. But I’ve learned what it’s like to be “de-ligamented.”

I’ve been around congregations for many years. Communities that worship and serve together week after week are like bodies that are consistently forming strong ligaments of connection. In a tragedy – a death, a disaster, an urgent social need — those bodies are ready to act decisively. And they do.

We can see this principle at work in the war in Ukraine. After World War 2, NATO was formed, creating voluntary bonds of commitment between participating nations to defend each other against aggression. Some recent politicians wanted our country to be free from our NATO commitment. But we now see those ligaments in action as thirty nations quickly united to oppose Russian aggression.

I rejoice in the freedom spirituality provides to find what is authentic. I can also sing the old hymn “Blest Be The Tie That Binds” when I see social bonds being used to inspire, strengthen and protect the human family.

[i] Genesis 1: 1-2, New Revised Standard Version

[ii] John 3:8, New Revised Standard Version

[iii] Star Wars, Episode IV: A New Hope

Image: Fall Colors at Kebler Pass, Colorado USA.JPG; aspen groves are now understood to not be individual trees, but one unified biological entity.

Blessing of the Feet

“I want you to join me in a ritual for one of my patients,” M. said.

M. was a smart, insightful, and creative social worker at Hospice of Santa Barbara. My job there was largely administrative, and only rarely was I asked to participate in patient care. But I trusted M.’s professional skill, her instincts, and her chutzpah, and told her I would do whatever she needed.

One of our guiding principles was, “The family is the unit of care.” Was it a cohesive and caring family unit? Or would long-standing tensions come to the fore as they were about to lose a loved one? The family dynamics would play a large role in the experience of the patient in the dying process and how that family would evolve after the death has occurred.

M. gave me the background. The patient was a woman in her 80s whose husband had died some years before. Two adult daughters were caring for her. There had been some issues between them, and M. wanted to do something that might bring them together. The mother was not responsive at this point, but “still here.” M. felt she could create a simple ritual to bless the mother as she came close to dying. She introduced the idea to the daughters. They would dress mom up in nice clothes, fix her hair, put make-up on, and give her a pedicure and a manicure, talking to her as they worked. At the appointed time, M. and I would come to the house. M. would stand at the head of mom’s bed and lead us with a daughter on each side, and me at the feet.

M. and I met at the house at 7 PM. M. introduced me, noting I was a pastor as well as Hospice Director. Mom’s bed was in the living room, and had been elevated enough that we could each standby it. M. praised the daughters for how classy mom looked. Lights in the room were dimmed and candles lit. She told us each to take our position and explained what would unfold.

After a moment of silence, M. began with words of affirmation to the mother, reminding her of all she had accomplished in her life, telling her who was present in the room and what we would be doing. Each daughter then took a turn, holding one of mom’s hands and telling her how much she had meant to them.

I remember thinking, “I have no idea what I’m going to say. They didn’t teach how to do this in seminary.”

When the second daughter finished, I looked at the woman’s bare feet visible past the bottom edge of the blanket. The nail polish was bright red.

I placed my hands under her feet and raised them a few inches.

My mind began imagining what these feet had experienced.

“These feet were part of you when you were a toddler learning how to walk. They were with you in childhood, running out the door at your command to play in the neighborhood and rush to school. They grew with you as you became a teenager, then a young woman. They enabled you to have your first dance, to walk next to the man you fell in love with, to process down the aisle at your wedding. After you gave birth to your daughters, it was these feet that carried you as you carried them, pacing back and forth at night comforting them. In all the years that followed, these feet did as you wished, faithfully supporting you through your challenges and joys. They have been loyal and faithful servants. We give gratitude to God for them, for you, for your family, for your many years, and for all the love that is in this room with you now.”

I lowered the feet back on the bed.

M. spoke to mom, summarizing what each of us had said and closed with a final blessing for her and her daughters.

I felt Presence in the room.

Mom’s eyes remained closed, her breathing steady.

We began to bring our awareness back to “ordinary time.” I thanked the daughters and the mother for the gift of being with them and said good night. M. remained, explaining what would be occurring as their mother approached her last hours.

The next day, M. called to tell me the mother had died later that night in the living room. She felt what we had done was already helping the daughters heal past hurts and come together.

Two days later I realized this had happened on a day known in the Christian tradition as “Maundy Thursday,” when many communities re-enact Jesus washing his disciples’ feet the night before he died.

The experience left a profound impact on me. This was partly due to the privilege I felt participating in such a sacred moment with this family. But, for the first time, I realized how extraordinary it is for us to have what we call “feet” that are truly with us throughout all our days, enabling us to do so many things through every stage of life. Maybe we notice them when we accidently drop something on them, or any time they are a source of discomfort. But most of the time we take them for granted. Hour by hour, day by day, year by year, they are our silent servants.

Feet are the point of contact between our living presence and the solid earth.

Thich Nhat Hanh, who died two months ago at age 95, famously taught, “People say walking on water is a miracle, but to me walking peacefully on earth is the real miracle. The earth is a miracle, each step is a miracle.”

May we all be aware of the blessing our humble feet are for us, now, when we have breath to do so.

Art work: Feet, Vincent Van Gogh, 1885, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

Postscript: Preparing a body for burial is a common practice in many traditions (e.g., chesed shel emet in Judaism) and has been reemerging in contemporary times, including in secular health care settings. One study at our local hospital found it not only gave families a significant sense of closure, but also helped with morale and burn-out among nursing staffs. Blessing the body when the person is close to death, as described in this story, can also be a powerful and positive experience. There are many ways of doing it that can be customized to fit a family’s values.

Icarus and Us

Imagine visiting a gallery and coming upon this painting for the first time without knowing its title. What do you see?

I see the farmer with the red shirt guiding the blade of his plow.

I see the ship sailing in the nearby channel. Having just taken some sailing classes, I’m curious about the design of the ship. The sails on the bow and stern are capturing a strong wind; those on the central mast are not extended. If they were unfurled, would the wind blow too strongly and make navigation difficult?

I notice the shepherd looking at the sky with his dog by his side and the sheep grazing. Is he looking at a specific object, or just daydreaming?

My attention moves to the background where I see the harbor and a few buildings.

I’ve seen enough. A visual “slice of life” from the mid-16^th century. Interesting. Sort of.

But then I happen to see the brass plate next to the frame: “Landscape With the Fall of Icarus.”

What? Where’s Icarus?

Taking a second look, I discover Icarus in the lower right-hand corner –a pair of legs entering the sea with feathers fluttering in his wake.

How did I miss him?

In the Greek myth, Daedalus learned how to make wings using feathers and beeswax. His son Icarus is young and wants to fly. His father warns him he must not go too close to the sun, or the wings will melt, and he’ll fall to earth. But Icarus is young and confident. He ascends. The wings melt. He falls to his death in the sea.

Looking at the rest of the scene a second time, I realize no character seems to notice him. Reading about the painting, I discover that’s the point.

People are in trouble around us every day. A young man’s life ends and what are we doing? Farming? Sailing? Staring at the sky? Fishing?

The story of Icarus evokes something personal for me.

In my early 20s, I’d had what Jung called an inflated ego. I had become isolated and was taking risks with my life. Like Icarus, I believed I was immune from any serious consequences. But then I had a personal crisis which put me in peril. I could have easily fallen into the sea, unnoticed by people around me until it was too late. If not for the grace of God, I don’t know how I would have survived.

Hidden tragedies and pain are no doubt being carried by people we pass every day –at Trader Joe’s, at Costco, at work, or walking in our neighborhood. Do we notice them?

I was at the local movie theater recently to see “West Side Story.” After the film ended, the small crowd was exiting while the theater was still dark. Just in front of me, an elderly gentleman with a cane fell to the floor. His wife had charged ahead and didn’t see it. I knelt and asked if he was alright, and carefully helped him stand up. He regained his balance but seemed dazed. His wife came back and, a bit impatiently, told him to follow her.

Don’t most of us want to notice others in need and help when we can?

But can we spend our entire day on the lookout for strangers in trouble?

Looking again at the painting, I notice new details.

Take the farmer. He’s not working a flat prairie field in Kansas where he could let his attention go elsewhere. He’s plowing a steep hill which requires extra focus. He needs to do this well if he’s to care for his land and raise food for his family and village.

How about the sailing ship? The ship is passing through a narrow channel. The captain and crew need to be on alert for any changes in the strong wind, ready to respond in a skillful and timely manner if they are not going to run aground or collide with another ship. They must bring their full attention to their work to be safe while make a living.

And the shepherd. If that was my job and all seemed well in the moment, I might get lost in thought – I don’t think I’d be constantly scanning the horizon looking for someone in danger.

This time I notice the fisherman in the red hat. He is the closest. I don’t know why he doesn’t notice Icarus splashing in into the sea.

A part of me identifies with those other characters, not just Icarus. When we have responsibilities, we need to attend to them.

I say that to myself, but something tells me that may be a way to let myself off the hook from being alert to the suffering of others.

The great spiritual traditions implore us to care for the stranger, to be our “brother’s keeper,” to be Good Samaritans in a world of self-absorption. I believe most of us do so when we can. But can we do that all the time?

This isn’t a pleasant pastoral scene. This is a soul-scan revealing the tension between our personal responsibilities and the call to care for others.

Life is complicated.

What a great work of art.

Landscape With the Fall of Icarus, Brueghel, c 1560

Dear Reader: On March 6, there was a stunning interactive piece in the New York Times exploring this painting and how it inspired a famous poem by W H Auden: https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2022/03/06/books/auden-musee-des-beaux-arts.html.

I had been meaning to write this modest reflection of my own before reading that article, and, after reading it, almost shelved my piece as it seems a bit simplistic. But I believe all great art invites many interpretations, even the humble ones.

Your Soul Is Like A Wild Animal

When I reflect on the idea of having a “soul,” my mind first goes back to cartoons I watched as a kid. Some character would get bonked on the head and fall over, and then a wispy image of that character would start floating up from the body with little wings and ascend into the sky.

In college, I began to get the idea that a modern, scientific person should be skeptical of believing in anything that could not be measured, observed, and analyzed; the idea of human beings having souls was a superstition best left behind.

Then I had my spiritually transforming experience when I was 22. I suddenly sensed that there is something in us connected to a living reality beyond what we can see. In the years that followed, I began to explore the many ways we can conceive of having this spiritual essence that we sometimes call “soul.”

In 2009 I read A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life by the academic-turned-spiritual-mentor Parker Palmer. Early on, he says he will be using the word “soul.” He knows his academic friends will be dismissive about both the word and the concept. But, he believes there is something within us that is best described with this word — a point of connection and wholeness that all spiritual traditions understand. And, he says, he found a useful metaphor for it:

“The soul is like a wild animal – tough, resilient, and shy. When we go crashing through the woods shouting for it to come out so we can help it, the soul will stay in hiding. But if we are willing to sit quietly and wait for a while, the soul may show itself.”[i] He goes on to say that much of our culture keeps us distracted and so our soul withdraws. But in moments of quiet and inner attentiveness, our souls cautiously appear. In those moments, we realize who we really are and how miraculous the world is; in those moments, we often find guidance, assurance, and hope.

I loved this idea. If we are thrashing through the woods, wildlife flees from us and hides. But if we come to a cabin in the woods, sit on the porch and become still, the wildlife emerges, and we can observe it with reverence and wonder.

Palmer says there is another quality of soul that is like a wild animal:

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

The soul is like a wild animal. It is shy. But it also can endure great hardship.

This certainly described what I have witnessed many times in my life.

When I worked at Hospice of Santa Barbara, many people came to deal with a personal loss – maybe it had occurred just a few weeks before, maybe years ago. The loss had fractured their sense of meaning and trust. Their soul had gone into hiding. But they hoped they could somehow make sense of life. They would be given an appointment with one of our counselors. The philosophy of our staff was based on a simple assumption: “We can’t fix you, but we can come alongside and journey with you as you find your way.” The client would begin to experience this caring, skilled, and non-invasive companionship. It could take weeks or months, but, in time, it was as if the person’s soul could finally come out of hiding and begin to find a way to accept what had happened while forming a new understanding of life. As they found their way, you could see it in their eyes: there was light where there had been shadows. The soul had reemerged and brought with it a quiet wisdom about hard truths and an awareness of simple blessings.

In my time at the La Casa de Maria Retreat Center, I would often use this metaphor when giving tours. There were no televisions or newspapers, and, fortunately, very limited Wi-Fi. As we’d walk the 26 acres of oak groves and gardens, I would point out various places for contemplation they might want to visit during their stay. As a guest, they would be free to wander the property, enjoy the delicious food, and rest as much as they needed. “Our souls are like wild animals,” I would say. “They are shy, like deer in the forest. But when we are quiet, the deer come out. Your soul will begin to sense this is a safe place to be. Give it time, and your soul will come to you.”

When people arrived, they would often be stressed, tired, and distracted. At first, many would keep reaching for their cell phones, trying to find a spot with adequate reception, like a dowser looking for water. They were desperate to stay in touch with the busy world that had ensnared them. But in time, that compulsion would fade. They’d rest, and wander, and explore, and discover whatever it was they needed. As they were leaving a few days later, you could see the change in their eyes. They’d found their inner light, and with it came peace, clarity, and a renewed sense of purpose.

Your soul is like a wild animal – shy, but capable of enduring times of great stress. It is always choosing life instead of darkness. Honor it, care for it, listen to it.

[i] A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life, pg 58

[ii] Ibid, pg. 58

Photo Credit: Department of the Interior

Invitation to a Wake

This week I did something I’ve wanted to do all my life: take sailing lessons. I signed up at the local harbor for “Beginning Sailing 101.” It’s a three-day class and I’ve completed two days so far. My exam is next week.

The course includes learning nautical terms – some of which are familiar, some not. I soon noticed how much sailing jargon is part of our everyday language.

At one point the instructor was presenting ways to know if you are moving in the water if you seem to be standing still. “You look at the boat’s wake,” he said. “If there are bubbles and ripples behind the boat, it means you are moving.”

I looked over the stern (the back end!) of the boat for the wake. Sure enough, there were the bubbles and ripples. I started thinking about the term “wake.”

The first thing that came to mind was the Irish tradition of gathering after someone has died to remember and honor them. We often associate that experience with heavy drinking of certain distilled liquids. But it was not immediately clear why we would use the word “wake” for such an event.

Then it came to me — the person has left a “wake” in our lives – an influence or impact – and we instinctively want to gather to reflect on what that means.

As I pondered this further, it occurred to me that the wake behind a moving boat may seem to dissipate as the boat continues sailing. But it has made a real impact on the ocean itself, even if it seems small compared to the vastness of the sea. I began thinking about people whose “currents” of influence are still swirling in our lives.

My father came to mind. He died almost ten years ago, but every day some word or phrase of his comes to mind. Most of them are not appropriate to publish in a dignified space such as this, but others can be shared. For example, he employed a general handyman named Orville. Orville could often find solutions to practical problems when the proper part was not available. My dad delighted in his innovative ability, and, when faced with a puzzling problem, he’d say “Let’s see if we can ‘Put the Orville to it.’” Sometimes when I face a similar problem, I’ll think, “Maybe I can ‘Put the Orville to it’,” and it always makes me smile. But it’s more than just remembering the phrase – something about it causes me to reexperience a tangible sense of my dad’s spirit. It’s one of the ripples of his wake.

If I hear a jazz artist singing Gershwin’s “Summertime,” I’m taken back to times as a child when my mother would be singing it to herself at the piano as I was walked through the living room. She’s been gone 29 years, but when I hear “Summertime,” it’s different from a pleasant memory – it’s a moment when I feel she’s present again; it’s part of her “wake.”

It can also be true with organizations.

A few years ago, I was greeting a new neighbor. She asked where I’d worked. I mentioned Hospice of Santa Barbara. Her eyes widened. “You worked there? Your counselors saved my life after my husband died suddenly. I wouldn’t be standing here today without them.” What she expressed was not a simple fact – it was bringing to the surface a healing experience that was very much alive in her.

Last fall I went to Los Angeles for one of the first post-COVID concerts. An older woman sat next to me, and we began to talk. She told me she was from West Los Angeles. I told her I was from Santa Barbara. “What did you do there?” she asked. “I was Director at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center.” She almost came up out of her seat. “That’s one of the most important places in my life!” she said. “My 12-step group went there every year, and we loved it. It’s an amazing place.” I could see La Casa’s impact on her had not dissipated but was buoying her spirit even as we spoke.

These moments aren’t just the retrieval of weightless, neutral thoughts from our past. They are times when we are truly feeling them again in body and soul. Just as a boat’s wake continues to be present in the ocean long after it is visible, these are strong, visceral experiences that continue to eddy and swirl within us, rising into our awareness in unexpected moments.

Are there times when such memories come to mind for you, drawing with them your body and soul as if you are still in their “wake?”

Finally, I thought about how all of us are “sailing” through our life every day and – know it or not – leaving a “wake” in the lives of those around us. What kind of wake is it? Are we paying attention to the currents we are setting in motion with our words and actions? Are we navigating skillfully so that those currents will benefit others, strangers in addition to loved ones?

Shipmates, I’ll confess reflecting on the word “wake” caused me to lose track of what the instructor was saying – good thing I wasn’t at the “helm.” But I’m grateful to be out on the sea, and to cherish all the people whose wakes are still with me.