wisdom – Page 11 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

Do You Have a Portable Paradise?

I recently gave a sermon focusing on the famous verse from Psalm 23 in which the writer compares God to a shepherd who “… makes me lie down in green pastures…leads me beside still waters…(and) restores my soul.”

The next day, a parishioner sent me this poet by Trinidadian writer, Roger Robinson:

“A Portable Paradise”

“And if I speak of Paradise, 

then I’m speaking of my grandmother 

who told me to carry it always 

on my person, concealed, so 

no one else would know but me. 

That way they can’t steal it, she’d say. 

And if life puts you under pressure, 

trace its ridges in your pocket, 

smell its piney scent on your handkerchief, 

hum its anthem under your breath. 

And if your stresses are sustained and daily, 

get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel, 

hostel or hovel – find a lamp 

and empty your paradise onto a desk: 

your white sands, green hills and fresh fish. 

Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope 

of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.”

We seem to have inherited a strong imprint of such places from our hunting and gathering ancestors. If we live in a desert climate, “green pastures” and “still waters” give us a sense of safety and hope; if we live on a Caribbean island, it may be “white sands, green hills and fresh fish.” Such places speak to us of life, rest, and restoration.

This past week, I asked friends where they go when they want to have such an experience. Some say it’s a quiet place in their backyard. Others say it’s a specific beach, park, or trail. Many people will name places in Hawaii or the Sierras.

We can carry such places with us in our imaginations. As the poet says, such a place can become our own “portable paradise.” We can go there in times of anxiety and uncertainty, when we are facing an important decision, or when we simply want to remember who we are.

Hospice counselors I know encourage their clients to identify and carry such “safe places” with them so they can imagine being there when feeling worn down by grief. One bilingual counselor told me that some of her Latino clients have never been to places like Hawaii or the Sierras, nor could they identify a safe place from personal experience. She would encourage them to choose a color that might work, and they often chose blue.

For more than a decade, we’ve spent time every summer in the town of McCloud at the foot of Mt. Shasta. There’s an old 9-hole golf course there at the edge of the pine forest. I’ve played it many times by myself in the late afternoon and early evening when it’s just the course, the creek, the mountain, the deer, and me. During COVID, if I was having a hard time sleeping, I’d play a round in my imagination. I would see myself preparing for and executing each shot, then walking patiently to the next one. I didn’t keep score, and often fell asleep before finishing the round.

Calling such places to mind is like tasting delicious food – we can take our time, savoring each aspect of the image as it speaks to us. Our egos may get impatient, nagging us about the urgent things we need to do. But we can tell our busy minds we’ll be right back after a break. When we take time to let our imagination become a servant to our soul, we can find those “paradise places” within that bring us back to life.

Top image: “Picnic in Paradise,” by Steve Barton; Lower image, “Deer Finding Lost Ball,” McCloud Golf Club

The “In-Between Time”

One of the things that is very important for every person to know is that you are not alone in the universe. You come here alone and you leave alone, but the rest of the time, the in-between time, you’re not alone.”

These words were spoken late in life by Bill Russell, the great basketball center of the Boston Celtics. He not only brought 11 championships to the city but was a fearless pioneer in the Civil Rights movement. I recently finished a two-part documentary on his life and career on Netflix and have been reflecting on his statement.

“You come here alone…” I remember well the birth of our first daughter. After months of hiding in a womb, the doctor lifted her into the open air. She fixed her eyes on mine with an expression that seemed to say, “Where am I? Who are you?”

The German philosopher Martin Heidegger wrote that existence can feel like we are “thrown” into this world, often feeling a bit disoriented; sometimes newborns have just such a look.

Do you remember the first time you knew you were alive?

I was four or five years old. I’d taken some eggs from the refrigerator into one of the bedrooms in our house while my mother was busy. I held an egg out in front of me, looked at it carefully, and dropped it on the beige linoleum floor; I can still see the yolk floating in the puddle of clear egg white. My mother passed by the door and was shocked. “What are you doing??” she said.

“I wanted to see an egg drop on the floor,” I said.

She rescued the other eggs and came back to clean up the mess. I remember realizing I’d done something that had upset her but also remember the fascination I experienced performing my experiment. This was my first conscious moment when I was aware I was a “me.”

The great Harvard child psychologist Robert Coles wrote a fascinating book, The Spiritual Life of Children, based on interviews with kids from Islamic, Hopi, Jewish, Christian, and secular cultures. He concluded many children have spiritual experiences before the age of ten — private moments of insight and wonder.

We come here alone, all our lives experiencing our own unique thoughts.

“You leave alone…” We all take our first breath when we are born, and at some point, we will each take our last.

Early in my career, I heard stories of how the timing of death can vary in interesting ways. There are situations in which a person close to death may somehow choose when that last breath will occur – hanging on for hours or days until a loved one arrives at the bedside and then only then let go. Other times family members or friends will keep vigil at the bedside for hours so that the person will not die alone. They step out of the room for a short break, only to return and find the person has died. Hospice workers often prepare a family ahead of time by saying this is not an unusual occurrence, and if it happens, they shouldn’t feel like they’ve failed – perhaps the person just wanted to die in solitude and was waiting for that moment.

It’s a moment known only by those who experience it.

So “we come here alone and we leave here alone, “said Bill Russell, “…but the rest of the time, the in-between time, you’re not alone.”

Bill Russell had great individual accomplishments in his life as an athlete. But he also had a significant impact on American society. He was a black man breaking the color barrier both as a player and a coach. Like Jackie Robinson, he often faced hostile crowds, criticism, and threats to his life. But he loved his teammates, his family, and the people who joined him in his struggles. In so many ways, he was not alone but part of a large community.

I’ve presided and attended many memorial services in my lifetime. It’s always amazing to see what impact we have on one another.

Here we are, day by day, living and breathing, going about our daily activities. Children and adults of all ages and all backgrounds are with us and around us in this “in-between time.” Some are family, some are friends, and many may be strangers. But we are all in this together.

As you’ve been reading this, think of how many children may be having that first moment of awareness, and how many people may be taking their last breath. Each experience is unique and personal, but it’s all part of life. Right now, you and I are in the “in-between time.” It’s a blessing to reflect on the mystery of life together.

Lest We Forget

This week our grandson’s Little League practice was at the neighborhood school. Besides 5-year-old boys playing baseball, girls’ basketball and boys’ soccer teams were practicing. Kids, parents, and grandparents were meandering around, chatting, and watching. Toddlers were on the playground equipment. It felt normal.

And then it came to me: not too long ago, this scene would not have been possible.

I remember I’d posted a piece about the playground and checked when I got home. I found this from March 14, 2021:

This past Monday, I was driving past our neighborhood school at lunchtime and saw something I had not seen in a year: children playing. Outdoors. On the school property. Lots of them. On their own. They were chasing balls and chasing each other. Some were sitting in pairs on the grass, some were walking around on their own, and some were involved with games on the blacktop. In the 27 years we have lived in this neighborhood, I’ve gone by the school almost every day, but it’s been a year since I’ve seen children playing at recess…

COVID had shut down schools, playgrounds, and parks all over the world for a year. When I saw that scene last year and realized we were getting back to “normal” I vowed to never take such “normal” scenes for granted again.

COVID is still out there, but almost no one is dying from it. A few places still recommend masks. Much of our life is “back to normal.” I have often forgotten what we went through. But perhaps we should not forget too quickly how different our lives were.

Just now, I opened my wallet and took out my battered vaccination card. In early February, 2021, a friend and I were able to get online appointments for some of the first vaccines being offered. On our scheduled Saturday, we drove two hours to Dodger Stadium. We then spent four hours inching along in a long line of cars into the vast parking lot where the shots were being administered. Finally, we arrived at the place where a masked and gloved nurse approached us. I rolled down my window and offered her my left arm. She gave me the injection and said, “Sir, you have been vaccinated.” I’ll never forget those words or what it felt like. I guess I don’t need to carry the card with me anymore, but I’m going to keep it as a reminder.

I remember reading David Brooks’ comment in the New York Times as COVID was ending in New York. He pledged he would never again let himself be impatient at a crowded bar while waiting to order a drink. He is scheduled to speak in Santa Barbara this spring, and if I get a chance, I want to ask him if he’s been able to honor that commitment.

I remember a column from the conservative commentator Peggy Noonan in the Wall Street Journal during the most desperate days of COVID. At that point, we were all dependent on the “front-line workers” in fields, stores, delivery trucks, and hospitals who were keeping us alive at serious risk to themselves. She said when the pandemic was over, any undocumented worker who had been on those front lines should be given a guaranteed path to citizenship. I have not seen her or anyone mention that issue since. If I ever bump into her – maybe at a crowded bar in New York? — I will ask her if she still favors that position.

In many ways, life is back to normal. But I don’t want to forget what we went through. I don’t want to forget how grateful we can be for where we are now. I don’t want to forget those who risked their lives to keep us safe, nor ever lose our gratitude for those who developed the vaccine.

It’s a beautiful thing to see kids playing baseball outdoors.

Simplicity and Complexity

During a time when a major conflict was occurring in the Middle East, I invited my friend Rabbi Arthur to speak to my congregation on “The Israeli Perspective.” The week before we’d heard a Palestinian advocate and wanted to hear the other side.

Arthur stood in front of the 35 or so people in the meeting room. Before he answered any of our questions, he introduced us to five Israelis he knew personally. He went to the right side of the room, stood in one spot, and “introduced” us to his first friend. He told us where this person had been born, some formative experiences that had shaped them, when they had come to settle in Israel, and some details of their daily life. He then took several steps sideways and, planting himself in a second spot, introduced us to another friend in the same way. He then moved to the middle of the room and told of a third friend. He did it a fourth time, and then a fifth. He stepped forward and said he was ready for the first question. Someone raised their hand and asked.

“Well,” he said as he walked over to the second spot he’d stood in, “This friend of mine would say…” and proceed to answer the question as that friend would.

“But my other friend…” he said as he walked to the fourth position, “Would say this…” and offered that friend’s perspective. Then he stepped into the fifth spot and said, “And my good friend here sees it a bit differently from the other two. She would tell you this …”

The questions and answers continued for the rest of the hour. He continued answering every question by moving to two or three of the different places in the room where his friends “stood” as he shared each one’s opinion.

When he finished the hour-long presentation, two things were clear: 1) there was no one “Israeli’ position on a particular political issue, but at least five; 2) the position each of his friends took grew out of their personal experiences.

When we go to vote and there are only two candidates, we must pick one. Or if we are voting on a proposition with only “Yes” or “No” options, we must make a choice. That either/or thinking is common in our current culture, and we may be tempted to listen to someone and quickly judge them as “right” or “wrong.” But when we take the time to get to know people and discover why they feel the way they do, we might find out there are more nuances of complexity than we imagine. We are also reminded that peoples’ positions and opinions come out of their specific life experiences.

I knew an education professor who was an articulate advocate for women’s rights. She was often asked to be on a panel where she’d be paired with someone who held a different position. But after several such occasions, she would decline the invitation to speak if the panel was only going to have two perspectives — she insisted at least three be represented.

When I was in Seattle, I took an excellent organizational leadership class. The teacher encouraged us to always be ready to broaden our perspective on possible solutions to a problem. Our habit, he said, was to say, “Let’s get a group together and find a solution.” But he encouraged us to frame it differently: “Let’s get a group together and come up with at least three possible solutions, and then choose one.”

I think of the great spiritual teachers. They offer abiding truths that can apply to everyone. But then there are times when an individual approaches them with a specific question or concern. The teacher pauses and gets a sense of who this individual is and what they’ve faced in their life, and then says something very specific You can see this in the Gospel stories – Jesus will offer one person direct physical healing, another assurance of forgiveness, another a challenge to examine their priorities more carefully, and another a parable that leaves them pondering issues far beyond what they had expected.

Life is full of complexity, and we often don’t have the time, energy, or patience to consider multiple viewpoints. But in situations where we do take the trouble to do so, we may not only get a better understanding of the situation but also gain an appreciation for other people and respect for how they came to see the world they do.

Oliver Wendell Holmes famously said, “For the simplicity that lies this side of complexity, I would not give a fig, but for the simplicity that lies on the other side of complexity, I would give my life.”

Rabbi Arthur was not simply a passive observer without his own opinions. On the contrary, in his life he has never ceased being an advocate and activist for what he believes. So, on the day he spoke to us when people would ask him, “Well — what is your opinion?” he wouldn’t hesitate. He would position himself somewhere along the spectrum and tell us. But we got the point: one can have strong and clear opinions and, at the same time, show genuine respect for those who might see things differently.

Photo: “Five Paths” (Cinco Caminos) by Richard Long, 2004, Es Baluard Museu d’Art Contemporani de Palma, depósito colección Serveis Ferroviaris de Mallorca

“The Six Things that Matter Most”

(Dear Reader: I’ve been involved in a situation recently that reminded me of this post I published two years ago. I’ve revised it a bit and am sharing it with you now in the hope you find it useful.)

There often comes a time when a family is told their loved one has just a few hours or days left before dying. It can be an agonizing time of not knowing what to do other than wait. The loved one may still be able to communicate or, more often, is sleeping much of time. What do you do when “there’s nothing more to be done”? Ira Byock, a leading physician in contemporary hospice and palliative medicine, came up with a helpful resource for such times. He would take his prescription notepad and write four phrases: “Please forgive me. I forgive you. I love you. Thank you.” He would give that to a family member and invite them to consider if any of those statements would be appropriate to say to their loved one. He wrote an influential book on the transformative and healing experiences he witnessed arising from people using these simple statements. As the book became popular, two more were added: “Goodbye” and “I am proud of you.” The values represented in these statements — forgiveness, love, gratitude, and acknowledging the cycles of life — are universally present in the great spiritual traditions. When I was at Hospice of Santa Barbara, we took those six statements and had them printed on business cards. Our staff and volunteers could then give them to families when appropriate. I began to carry some in my wallet, a practice I’ve continued for more than a decade.

I was grateful to have the card when my father was dying. He was in his last days at a nursing home. My two sisters and I used the list as a prompt for talking to him. He was no longer responsive, but it felt like the right thing to do. Maybe he heard us or maybe not. Maybe he could sense what we meant through tone or feeling. Or maybe it was just for us. “Dad, please forgive me for the sleepless nights I gave you as a teenager.” “There were times when I was growing up when I was afraid of your anger. I knew you were under a lot of pressure and loved us, but it was still scary. I forgive you.” “Thank you for providing for us, encouraging us and believing in us.” “For the way you worked so hard to honor mom and provide for us, for the integrity and honesty with which you lived your life, and for your service to our country during the war – we are proud of you.” Dad wasn’t from a generation when many men would say “I love you.” But we knew he loved us. It was easy for each of us to say, “I love you, Dad.” The “Goodbye” statement can be tricky. It can be tempting to say it to have some closure, but it may be too early. (I remember one family had asked a harpist to play in the room; the patient woke up and said, “Get that music out of here…I’m not ready for the angels yet!”) But if, say, a family member is leaving town or death is clearly imminent, then “Goodbye” can be fitting. As I did presentations on hospice in the community, I would pass these cards out. People would later tell me how helpful they were. But I also knew what everyone who works in hospice knows…the work is not just about the dying, but also about the living. Whether dad was fully aware of what we were saying, it gave us closure. The list can also be helpful after a death when we didn’t have an opportunity to speak the words in person. We can write a letter to the person using the list as possible prompts. We can then save the letter just for ourselves. Or we can take it to a place we associate with the person, including a gravesite, and read it. When it’s served its purpose, we can keep it or create a simple ritual and burn it. “Six Things” can also be valuable when death is not on the horizon. Roughly half of Americans die with some form of hospice care, which means there may be time for meaningful bedside moments. It also means the other half of us will die without such an opportunity – heart attacks, strokes, accidents, etc. If these are the six things that matter most, why wait for a moment that we may never have? Why not use them when we are alive and well? As time went on, I’ve found the “Six Things” a good way to take inventory from time to time in my own life on occasions like anniversaries and birthdays. Is there someone I want to say these words to now since there’s no guarantee I’ll have a chance in the future? Or maybe take one each day, and say it to someone during the day if the time feels right? It doesn’t have to be a dramatic act, just a sincere one. What do we have to lose? Once we do it, we often experience a sense of freedom.

Photo: UCSB lagoon

The Mysteries of Prayer

Last year I visited the Getty Villa in Malibu. This is Mr. Getty’s effort to recreate his own lavish Roman residence on the California coast. I spent two hours there. I read about the effort and expense used to create the buildings, gardens, and galleries. But it left me feeling empty. I’ve lost interest in seeing monuments emperors and billionaires build to celebrate themselves and their accomplishments.

But in one of the gardens, I came across this statue, “Woman Praying”:

I took note of the posture, then looked closely at the face:

I was fascinated. And puzzled. Why would this interest me? There’s nothing remarkable in her expression – it seems almost blank. But after standing there a while, I realized I wasn’t drawn to the sculpture itself. Instead, I found it raised questions for me: What would this anonymous Roman woman’s inner experience have been like? What was she thinking? What was she feeling? Was she using a formula she had been taught or was she improvising? Was her prayer about some critical decision, or just an ordinary part of her day?

I could Google around and probably get specific answers to my questions. But I didn’t want to answer the questions as much as tend them – letting them draw me into my own reflections on the experience of prayer.

Some might think I should be an expert. For over 40 years I have been studying, reading, reciting, hearing, and composing prayers drawn from 3,000 years of Western traditions. I’ve been at Buddhist retreats focusing on meditation and “Metta” prayers. I’ve attended Native American ceremonies, where ancestors and the Creator are honored. I had no clue as to what might have been in this woman’s mind and heart. Yet somehow, I felt a kinship.

This statue came back to me recently after reading, “When I Prayed to Buddha, God was Listening,” an article by a woman named Sida Lei. Ms. Lei was raised as a Buddhist in Cambodia. At age 10, the Khmer Rouge came into her city and expelled the residents. She writes, “When the Khmer Rouge split my family apart, sending me away to a child labor camp, my mother knelt over me and whispered, “If ever you are in trouble, Sida, pray to God. He will help you.” Of course, the god I pictured was the great stone statue of Buddha. There were no other gods I knew.” Her mother died of starvation and her father was taken away, never to be seen again. She became responsible for her four siblings, and they were incarcerated in the countryside.

Eventually, she and her siblings decided to attempt an escape. They fled into the jungle and came across an abandoned temple with a broken statue of Buddha. Drawn to the statue, she prayed for guidance. She felt prompted to flee to Vietnam with her siblings. So began a perilous journey. Eventually, they arrived at a refugee camp in Thailand and she was filled with gratitude.

That first night she heard a song in the distance, “Amazing Grace.” The next day she went into town to discover where the music had come from. She was directed to a church. She asked some women there if they had been the ones singing and they said they were. They told her they sang praises to God daily. She began attending. Eventually, she and her siblings were able to come to the U.S., sponsored by a Catholic church in upstate New York. She is now a clinical microbiologist in Virginia.

Sida Lei prayed for guidance to Buddha, who was the divine image her culture and mother had given her. Time and again she felt she received guidance. The focus of her prayer changed when she found herself in another culture, [i]but she did not feel she had to disown one to embrace the other. She had been in a time of desperate need, reached out as best as she could, and eventually experienced deliverance.

A deep tenet in Western traditions is a conviction that there is one God, and no other images or concepts should be worshipped. One should be very careful to pray for appropriate things in an appropriate way. I understand the context of this belief. But if a human being of any culture is reaching out to an unseen presence with all their heart — might that be enough?

My spiritual awakening began in my early 20s in a time of crisis. At that age, I didn’t believe in anything beyond what I could see and understand rationally. But I was desperate. I decided to pray. What did I pray? I don’t remember. Maybe I made it up or maybe I tried to recite something I’d heard as a child. Three days later I became aware that I wasn’t as desperately afraid as I had been that night, and something like a calm point of light had entered my darkness. No claims were made on me to take a specific action or adopt a particular belief – what I’d been given was a pure gift. Several years later I began attending a church and learning all the different words, images, forms, and experiences one can use in praying. I am aware of the countless questions raised over the centuries, like “Why are some prayers answered and some not?” And I understand why many people are skeptical about prayer. But I don’t let my lack of understanding stop me from praying.

I don’t know what this Roman woman experienced, what forces were at play in Sida Lei’s escape, or what exactly happened to me many years ago. It’s a mystery. But I have a feeling that it’s more about sincerity and an open heart than having the right form. And I know the outcome can be amazing.

(Prior posts on prayer include Turning Toward the Serene Light and ACTS: A Simple Form for Personal Prayer)

NOTE: This piece was written without assistance from any Chatbots or A.I. programs. The author has been tempted by emails encouraging him to let a computer “write your blog for you,’ but so far, he has refused to accept such help. He’d rather do the work himself and create something flawed than have a “superior product” created by a sophisticated device.

[i] When I Prayed to Buddha, God was Listening

Ways to Greet the Morning

On a recent morning walk, I came upon a neighbor who was patiently waiting for his small dog to finish a thorough sniffing-inventory of a strip of ground cover along a popular sidewalk.

“There must be so much vital information there,” I said.

“They say it’s the equivalent of reading a morning newspaper,” he said.

Dogs know it’s wise to start your day by focusing on what’s important.

I’ve heard that generations ago, the Bible was the only book many people had in their house, which they would read every morning. In time, that was replaced by newspapers. Then television. Then email. Now, for many of us, it’s social media.

As we’ve become more attached to our devices as our first focus of attention, some thoughtful people have encouraged us to consider alternatives. “Sky before screens” is one suggested mantra…go outside and gaze at the stars before picking up a phone or tablet.

Sometimes, before we arise, we can just say, “Thank you” for the miracle of being alive.

One colleague said if he wakes up while it is still dark, he listens for the first bird song outside his window. Once some brave soul breaks the silence, others join in. He likes paying respects to the one who had the courage to start the concert.

I have a Jewish friend who begins each day doing yoga while reciting ancient morning prayers.

The first Muslim city I ever visited was Fez, Morocco. I wasn’t used to hearing Arabic, so when the local muezzin called the faithful to morning prayers from the tower as the sun rose, it sounded a bit jarring. But I became fond of it. There’s a melancholy beauty in the recitation, a soulful invitation to begin our day with gratitude and focus.

I’ve attended numerous retreats at St. Andrew’s Abbey, a Benedictine monastery south of Lancaster. The chapel bell rings at 6 AM to call everyone to the first service, known as Vigils (Type-A early risers like the Trappists begin at 3:15 AM). Sometimes I’ve heard the bell and gone back to sleep. But other times I’ve gotten dressed and made my way out the door. Walking in silence to a chapel in the desert as evening gives way to daylight while being summoned by chanted praise is always worth the effort.

I knew a mother of young children so desperate to start her day with prayer that she would lock herself in the bathroom at 5 AM, leaving her husband to manage the chaos for just enough time so she could center herself.

Maybe the instinct to start the day with a meaningful focus lies deep within us.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Gelada Baboons in Africa. They wake up before dawn and find a place to greet the sun in silence. As described by photographer Simone Sbaraglia, they do it “just to wallow in the sun’s golden light.”

Photos: Simone Sbaraglia, Caters News Agency, https://www.slrlounge.com/golden-hour-worshipped-photographers-gelada-baboons-alike/

Do Your Best and Let It Go

Let’s talk about pressure and responsibility.

Last year I was listening to a baseball broadcast on the radio. The announcer told a story about perhaps the greatest “closer” of all time, Mariano Rivera of the Yankees. In baseball, the job of a “closer” is to come in to pitch toward the end of the game when his team is ahead by a narrow margin and not let the other team score, “saving” the game. Between 1995 and 2013, Rivera was asked to do that 1,115 times. He succeeded 734 times and failed only 80.[i] He was selected for the All-Star team 13 times and elected to the Hall of Fame in an unanimous vote. Rivera was once asked how he could live with the intense pressure of being a closer day after day, year after year. He said he did everything he could to throw each pitch to the best of his ability, but once it left his hand, he assumed he’d done his part – what happened next was beyond his control.

I find this perspective to be valuable when thinking about how we live our lives.

Take parenting. You want the best for your children. You provide for them, guide them, lose sleep over them, and do all you can to prepare them for life. You will always love them and be concerned for them. But once they go out the door, they face a world beyond your control. Free will, chance happenings, and unexpected events will shape them.

Or how about work? Every time I’ve left a job I cared about, I hoped the organization and people would do well. Sometimes that happened and sometimes it did not. I felt sadness when things did not go well, but, taking Rivera’s advice, I remind myself I gave it my best when I was there and what happened after that is beyond my control.

The same can be true for many decisions we make, including deciding to move to someplace new or what we do with our money. As Kierkegaard said, we tend to evaluate our lives by looking backward at the decisions we have made – after we know how it all turned out. But we did not know then what we know now. We have to live life forward, without knowing all the facts.

In spiritual traditions, we can find similar stories.

Moses takes his people from bondage to within sight of the promised land, yet dies before they cross over. But he had done all he was asked to do.

One of Jesus’ last recorded words was, “It is finished.” How could that be, a retreat leader once asked — if he came to feed the hungry, give sight to the blind, and liberate the oppressed, so much suffering was still present in the world when he died; how can he say, “It is finished?” The leader concluded: because the specific task God had given him to do was finished. It would be up to his followers to take the work forward.

One of the stories about the death of Buddha describes how, in his 80s, he fell ill after eating spoiled pork. The man who cooked the food was overcome with sorrow. But Buddha told him not to feel that way. What had happened was a gift, because Buddha was ready to die and move into the next realm. He left behind a vast treasury of teaching, and that was enough.

Let’s do our best with the responsibilities we’ve been given. But let’s also recognize there is only so much we can do. Once the ball leaves our hand, we can be at peace.

[i] For folks who care about baseball statistics, Rivera had 652 saves and 82 wins for a total of 734. He had 80 “blown saves” and the rest were no decisions.

Are Natural Disasters Sending Us a Message?

Earlier this week an intense storm moved through California. My community experienced historic levels of intense rainfall, much as it had five years ago; roads were closed, creeks overflowed, and thousands of people had to evacuate. As I followed the news reports, I couldn’t help but notice a pattern in the language used to describe it. Here are some examples (italics added):

“Southern California faces another day of punishing rains…” (LA Times)[i]
“…the latest in a series of atmospheric rivers to pound the state…” (LA Times)[ii]
“The string of storms pummeling California has proved catastrophic…” (NYTimes)[iii]
“In Los Angeles, four people escaped after a sinkhole swallowed two cars on Monday night…” (NPR)[iv]
“We need to be nicer with Mother Nature, because Mother Nature is not happy with us…” (Ellen de Generes’ tweet cited in NPR Online.)[v]

What does this language suggest? Does rain “punish” people like an angry parent? Does a storm “pound” an entire state as if it’s in a rage? A boxer “pummels” an opponent to subdue, demoralize and defeat him – was that why this atmospheric river came our way? Whales “swallow” people in the Pinocchio and Jonah stories — but does asphalt do that? And does “Mother Nature” send an intense torrent of muddy water down a hillside to show us that she is “not happy”?

Of course, the rational answer to these questions is “no.” The language expresses in dramatic terms what severe weather can feel like when we experience it – it’s our human imagination at work. Weather events are not personal acts of cosmic vengeance but are explainable by the laws of physics.

And yet I understand why such language feels appropriate.

I vividly remember in January of 2018 when, for the first time, three of us were allowed to pass through police barricades and evacuated neighborhoods to view the impact of the debris flow on our 26-acre retreat center in Montecito just days before. The mud was deep, viscous, and dangerous — it would pull your rubber knee boots off your leg if you stepped in the wrong spot. Boulders, mud, crunched lumber and twisted oak trees were everywhere. Some of our large buildings had completely disappeared. It was stunning, hard to fathom, and an unforgettable reminder of how fragile life is. Somewhere deep in my primal instincts, it felt personal – like a mighty, conscious force was displaying its power to make a point.

After returning home, I began thinking about stories our ancestors told to make sense of such destruction. Noah’s ark came to mind. I reread it.

Now the earth was corrupt in God’s sight, and the earth was filled with violence. And God saw that the earth was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted its ways upon the earth. And God said to Noah, “I have determined to make an end of all flesh, for the earth is filled with violence because of them; now I am going to destroy them along with the earth.[vi]

Sounds like the reason the flood happened is that the divine force felt a need to “punish,” “pound,” and “pummel” the corrupt and violent human race, letting the seas “swallow” them all up –because the Holy One was not exactly “happy with us.”

I thought about that. I understood it made sense generations long ago in a prescientific world, but it doesn’t seem plausible to me today. Indeed, the more we learned about debris flows, it became clear that these are routine geological occurrences that have been going on for thousands of years, long before people were living here. Besides, I don’t believe in a punishing God. The storm was not a moral or spiritual event but a phenomenon explainable through the natural sciences.

But I kept pondering the issue. I wondered: “Was human behavior a contributing cause to the severity of this event due to our complicity in global warming?” We can’t blame a Creator or Mother Nature or physics for climate change – that’s on us, on our ignorance, willfulness, stubbornness, and greed. The dramatic intensity of the storm was not an expression of divine judgment but, to some degree, a natural consequence of our past actions. So, if there is a moral lesson carried in the increasing intensity of severe weather events and fires, it’s not about divine intent or a weather system with emotional issues – it’s our selfish behavior coming back to haunt us. We need to be humbled. And we need to take responsibility for our mistakes.

Several weeks later, I was able to return to the property and walk it again. Bulldozers, backhoes, trucks, and work crews were clearing the wreckage of the buildings and trees. The magnitude of what had happened was still astounding. But in many places, green shoots were coming up from the ground. Life was regenerating. Let’s hope the lessons being offered us are not forgotten.

Art work: Noah and the Dove, 13^th century, Monreale Cathedral, Sicily

[i] https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2023-01-10/storm-southern-california-los-angeles

[ii] https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2023-01-10/storm-southern-california-los-angeles

[iii] NY Times. Online, Jan 10, 2023

[iv] NPR Online, January 10, 2023

[v] Degeneres Tweet, NPR Online, January 10, 2023

[vi] Genesis 6: 11-13

Out With The Old, In With The New?

I once was asked by my employer to attend a program on “Organizational Change.” There were six of us present, each responsible for a particular program. Standing next to an easel holding a blank sheet of newsprint with Magic Marker in hand, the presenter posed a question: “Why might we resist change?”

A few years ago, I would have been excited by this question. As a young leader I wanted to be a “change agent” and a constant innovator. But maybe I’d been in too many of these kinds of seminars led by consultants or speakers who seemed to unequivocally assume every “change” is a good thing. Or maybe I sensed she assumed the way we ran things needed improvement without first appreciating what we were doing. Or maybe I was just feeling ornery.

With nothing to lose, I raised my hand and said, “Well, one reason we might be resistant to change is that things that are working well don’t need to be changed. They should be respected and preserved.”

She looked at me as if I said something incomprehensible. She didn’t ask me why I felt that way, or what examples I could give. She ignored my comment and turned to the others to give the answers she wanted.

I confess from that point on I tuned her out.

“Out with the old, in with the new” is a common phrase in our culture. But there are times when we should question it.

To be clear, I’m all for new things – when they are necessary. In the past year, I bought a new Ride1Up E-bike that is a delight to use. We bought a new TV that’s far better than our old set. In May I went to Los Angeles for the premiere of a bold new classical composition by Thomas Ades and it was thrilling. I got a new pair of shoes that I really like — only $25 at Costco! I put a new coat of paint on the walls of my home office, and it looks a lot better. I’m always on the lookout for a new way to grill fish, or an exciting new movie, streaming series, or book. I love meeting new people, asking where they’re from, and learning what’s been important in their life. And I’ve led organizations where I’ve worked hard to envision and implement changes, and felt satisfied and gratified when things turned out well.

But some old things are worth hanging on to.

I have a dining room table from my ancestors’ farm in Iowa that is 150 years old. My grandmother did her Latin homework on it in 1915. It was old, worn, and in pieces when my father asked me if I wanted it when he was cleaning out his garage. I almost left it for the landfill. But I decided to take it home and see if I could refinish it. I sanded it, shaped it, stained it and finished it with a coat of varnish. It turned out far better than I had expected. When you put all the leaves in you can seat 12 people, and it’s a meaningful link to my family history.

I treasure friends that have remained close over the years.

I have a special affection for old dogs.

I don’t think I need to seek out a “new and improved” version of the Pacific. Or trade in the Sierras for a “new” mountain range.

I was a history major in college because I wanted to understand how the world got to be the way it was. One day I realized I had always assumed that the story of Western civilization was constantly moving forward toward something new and better, and that everything “old” needed to be discarded. That may be true in some areas. But how about the arts and sports? Would you say someone has finally gotten “better” than Bach, Gershwin, Lennon/McCartney, Bruce Springsteen, Willie Nelson, Aretha Franklin, or Michael Jackson? Has painting “improved” since Botticelli, Monet, and Van Gogh? Are athletes “better” than Babe Ruth, Pele, Serena Williams, or Steph Curry? New composers, artists, and athletes come along, but that doesn’t mean they are “better” than those of the past…they are just new arrivals.

Our economy is built on the assumption that we must be constantly expanding. But look what it’s done to our “old,” dear earth.

In the last year, I’ve been meeting with a group focused on the redesign and rebuilding of La Casa de Maria, the 26-acre retreat center that was damaged by the 2018 mud and debris flow while I was the Director. We’ve been working hard to see how we can bring it back better than ever. But we also know there was a sense of “soul” and presence there that can’t be improved on but must be preserved. After months of work, we believe we have found an optimal balance between innovation and preservation.

I believe the divine Spirit is always fresh and creative, asking us to dream new dreams and be open to new approaches to life. At the same time, have we found better values to live by than to seek justice, love kindness, and walk humbly on this earth with one another?

So — out with the old, in with the new? It depends. There comes a time when we need to let some things go. But other things need to be kept, held with deep affection, and revered.

Photograph: “Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park,” amercianforests.org