wisdom – Page 13 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

“You Never Know”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Art Work: “Two Dancers,” Matisse, 1937

Mom, Apple Pie, Technology and the Holidays

My mother had her share of hardships in life. Her first husband died only a few years after they married, leaving her with a young son and pregnant with my older sister. Not long after, her mother died suddenly. She met and married my father; I was born a few years later, my younger sister five years after that. Raising a noisy, blended family of four children while carrying within her the emotional burdens of trauma and grief made it hard for her to be “present” with us individually.

Except when she made apple pie.

I remember watching her from an early age. In time, I became old enough to participate. I learned how to peel, core, and slice the green Pippin apples with a paring knife. The peels were kept in a separate bowl and I would snack on them while we worked. She added sugar and cinnamon to the sliced apples and gave them time to absorb the flavors. She’d make the crust with Crisco, flour, and a few drops of water. She’d roll the dough and create the pie crusts she needed, pressing them into the pie plates. She’d add the apples, dot them with butter and a few drops of lemon juice, then seal them with the top crust. She taught me how to flute the edges of the crust with my fingers before the pie was put into the oven and to use a fork to poke venting holes on the top. The leftover dough was rolled out on the cutting board. She’d add sugar, cinnamon, and butter to it, then cut the dough into strips. She’d roll the strips into “pinwheels,” which would bake along with the pie. Pinwheels only took 10-12 minutes to bake. We’d take them out and let them cool, then enjoy them as the pie continued to bake. The kitchen filled with the smell of a baking apple pie.

My mom wasn’t a great cook, but she was a master at making pies. They were always a highlight of birthday and holiday dinners.

But as I got older, and especially after she died in 1993, I realized what I valued most was not the pies themselves, but the quality of time we shared during the process. Focusing on the manual labor allowed us to become calm and reflective. We listened to each other, laughed together, and simply enjoyed being together. I didn’t realize until I was older how rare and wonderful those times were. What a gift for a child to have such time with a parent!

Eventually, I found a word to describe such activities: “focal practices.” This is a term coined by Albert Borgman, a philosopher who has spent much of his career exploring the role of technology in our lives. The root of the word “focal” is focuser, a Latin word meaning hearth. In Roman families, everything was centered on the hearth. It was location of the family shrine, as it was where symbols of ancestors were carefully arranged and displayed. It’s where food was cooked, and where the family ate together. As Borgmann says, the hearth was where the family gathered to be present with each other and share what they most deeply valued. In our own times, focal practices can include preparing and sharing meals, going on walks and hikes, camping, playing games, crafts, fishing, building things, gardening, and sharing skills of all kinds. Engaging in such activities, we experience life at a deeper level. As Borgman says, focal practices both gather and radiate meaning.

Technological devices are a threat to such practices, he believes. Devices are objects that promise to give us what we want in a more effective way and with less effort. They always promise to save us time and labor. But something is lost when they displace focal practices.

Let’s imagine a device that makes perfect apple pies, like bread-makers make bread. You simply add the ingredients and push a button, and – voilà – a pie as good as mom’s appears. So effortless and convenient. But if we had that when I was a kid, I would have never learned the art of what she did, the satisfaction that came from doing it, or experienced the quality time we spent together. Pie-making was a focal practice. It did “take time”. But time is not an adversary to be conquered. Time is a gift to be received with gratitude.

As we approach the holidays, we can be grateful for memories of “focal practices” we’ve experienced in our past and seek opportunities to share such activities with family and friends this season.

As for me — I’m looking forward to the aroma of homemade pies baking in the oven.

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

_______

Borgman, Albert, Technology and the Character of Contemporary Life: A Philosophical Inquiry, University of Chicago Press, 1984; Crossing the Postmodern Divide, University of Chicago Press, 19

The Strange Case of Parking Lot Pete

He longed for something exciting to do in retirement. He needed a new challenge, a bold adventure, maybe even a new identity.

One Saturday he was looking for a parking spot at Costco. It was busy. Cruising by each row and scanning for the best spot available, watching as other people took spaces he thought could have been his…he was frustrated.

He finally had to settle for a spot far from the entrance. He sat in his car, fuming.

Then the vision came to him.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked it.

He decided he didn’t need anything at Costco after all and went home.

In the days that followed, he made preparations. If he was to do this well, he’d have to master every detail.

Over the next few weeks, the elements fell into place.

The car for instance. He needed one well-suited to the task.

He thought about something bold and brawny, maybe a Hummer or an old “muscle car” like a GTO. But those would attract too much attention.

He thought about something small and agile, a vehicle that could slip into choice spots with stealth and ease. He looked at Mini-Coopers. But they, too, would attract attention.

He realized what he needed was something humble, common, and bland. On Craigslist, he found a tan, 2007 Honda Accord. People would never notice it. Perfect.

What should he wear? Black leather jacket, dark shades, Oakland and Raider baseball cap? Tempting, but no…again, you don’t want people to notice you. He found what he needed after visiting thrift shops: an old white golf shirt, a pair of Levi’s, a light blue baseball cap with no logo, plain white sneakers. He’d be invisible.

He did find something empowering for his rear-view mirror — a shark’s tooth on a leather thong; he’d always wanted one in high school, and now was the time to claim it.

He’d need sustenance. He got a case of Red Bull and a generous supply of beef jerky, which he kept in the trunk.

A personal soundtrack would be important. The old Accord had a CD player. He burned two songs onto a blank disc: the theme from Jaws, which he would play as each encounter began, and the theme from “Rocky” to celebrate each victory.

The right car, a good disguise, sustenance, the shark’s tooth, and a personal soundtrack: he was ready.

His mission was simple: to become an expert at getting the best parking spot in crowded lots.

He began practicing in large open lots, like one by an old Sears store. He’d go early in the morning and put himself through drills focusing on cruising, sharp turns, and quick stops.

He then began training at more challenging battlegrounds: Trader Joe’s in the late afternoons. The Funk Zone on Friday evenings. The County Bowl just before concerts.

He created a plan. When he entered a lot, he’d circle the permitter, scanning the layout. Then he’d cruise up and down each row. He’d take note of the cars that had found good spots, then imagine what the driver of that car might look like. He became skilled at matching cars and drivers. Then he’d prepare to strike, sometimes still cruising, sometimes idling at the curb in a loading zone. When he saw the likely driver emerge from the store, he pushed the “Play” button for Jaws and inconspicuously shadow the person as they walked to their car. When the person did turn to get into their car, Pete assumed his “strike” position and snuck closer. As soon as the person pulled out, he deftly slid in and claimed his trophy.

Sometimes other drivers would see the spot opening, but rarely could they beat Pete. He took a particular joy in seeing their surprise and frustration. But he never gloated. He had practiced how to look completely innocent as he’d get out of his car and walk leisurely towards the store. He’d always buy something to keep his cover. When he returned to his Accord and drove away, he pushed the play button for Rocky.

He’d unwind at night with his favorite videos, alert for any tips he could pick up: Rambo. Terminator 2. James Bond movies. And any installment of The Bourne Supremacy.

Life was exciting. He felt strong, confident and proud.

Until that fateful Saturday.

The holidays were coming — peak season at Costco.

He drove out for the busy time in the early afternoon. He cruised back and forth near the entrance, Jaws on low volume, making mental notes of possibilities. He saw a well-dressed lady come out with a few items. He guessed she’d be driving the white Audi that was in a prime spot. Then he realized he had a competitor. Just turning into the far end of that row was an old, slow-moving Mercury. But Pete was ready. He was right, the Audi was hers. As the Audi pulled out, Pete slid in. The Mercury driver had not seen Pete at first, but when he saw he’d lost the spot, he abruptly hit the brakes, stunned. The Mercury slowly resumed its quest, turning and heading to the outer limits of the vast lot. Pete put his finger to his lips, touched the shark’s tooth and smiled.

He got out of his car to play the role of a genuine shopper. As he walked toward the entrance, he saw the old Mercury had finally found a spot, far beyond the Tire Department. Pete decided to walk in the direction of the Mercury, curious to see who would be driving such an old car.

He watched from a distance. The driver’s door slowly opened. An older man with a baseball cap got out. He couldn’t move very well…almost a shuffle He went to his trunk and opened it. He took out a walker and unfolded it. He then lifted a steel canister out of the trunk and put it in the walker, then fitted some kind of tube around his neck. Pete realized it was an oxygen tank. The man closed the trunk and began the long journey to the store entrance.

Pete lingered outside, pretending he was waiting for someone.

Finally, the old man with the walker came by. He looked tired. Pete could see what was on the man’s black hat: “Korea Vet” framed by gold braid. He saw the man fumble for his Costco I.D., approach the entrance and then disappear into the store.

Pete was feeling disoriented. His training taught him to always go into a store so he would look like a real shopper, but this time he had no interest in doing so.

He returned to his car. He got in, backed out, and drove. He wasn’t sure where to go. He had no desire to play “Rocky.” He decided to drive to a local beach where he could park and think.

He found a spot away from the crowds facing the ocean. He sat there in silence. He felt empty. He thought about what that vet had been through all his life. And how hard it must be to just get to the store. And Pete asked himself, “I think I’m some kind of warrior?”

A month passed. Pete didn’t go out much. A new vision was forming, and a new chapter in his life began.

When he did go to the store, he no longer had to have the best spot. He figured he needed more exercise anyway so would park far from the entrance, leaving more room for others.

He still enjoyed jerky but stopped drinking Red Bull.

He took the shark’s tooth off the rear-view mirror and put it in the glove compartment.

He didn’t play the CD anymore.

He got a part-time job as a driving instructor. He gave special discounts to teenagers, seniors, and vets.

On days when he knew certain lots in town would be congested, he’d arrive early and act as a self-appointed parking lot attendant. He found he could use his knowledge and skills to help manage parking rather well. He fearlessly would step in front of aggressive drivers, and motion to someone slower to take a good spot, then walk away. He began thinking of himself as a parking-lot Jedi.

When he did go in a store, he would see if any shopper was having a hard time reaching a product on a high shelf. He’d quietly come alongside, ask what they were seeking, reach up and hand it to them.

As he drove around town, he started noticing church buildings more. They had just been places with big parking lots before, but now it wasn’t the parking lots he noticed. He was curious about why people would go there and if he could make new friends in such places.

He spent off-duty time at the parking lot at the beach. Before, he would go there only to review his strategy for the day. Now, he sat in his car for long periods, entranced by the ocean and the sunlight shining on the surface. He watched waves quietly form and patiently break on the shore. People of all ages and backgrounds walked by, and he felt a bond with each one of them.

If you are out and about this holiday season, you may find yourself scanning parking lots, wondering if Parking Lot Pete is out there, working his magic. He may be. But he’s gotten very good at being invisible to the untrained eye.

Two Lasting Lessons from My Rock-Climbing Career

Some years ago, I was at a wedding in the Sierras. Guests stayed at a resort for the weekend. The groom was a well-known mountain and rock-climbing guide and offered to teach any guests the basics of rock-climbing.

I remember my lesson well. I was on a safety rope, and slowly made my way up the rock face with Doug coaching from below. I was maybe 20 feet up the rock face when I looked back down. Even though I logically knew I was safe, the adrenaline began to flow, and I envisioned falling. My brain offered a vision of my head hitting the granite below like a dropped watermelon.

“Ok,” I said. “I’m experiencing some fear right now. Should I just ignore it and keep focusing on the next move?”

Doug smiled. “No, your fear has important information to give you. You want to take in the information, but not let fear control you.”

Acting brave, I continued to climb for another ten minutes or so before I slowly made my way back to the ground. I thanked him for his patience.

I learned two lasting truths that day:

I don’t like rock climbing. I’ve never tried it again.
“Your fear has important information to give you. You want to take in the information without letting fear control you.”

I’ve thought of this insight often over the years. It’s come to mind as I’m dealing with unexpected family medical situations, occasional crises at work, financial decisions and even when responding to political events.

I know there are times when fear and adrenalin may save us from danger and there’s no time for thoughtful contemplation.

And I know many people live with phobias, panic attacks, and chronic anxiety – those complex issues are not solved by remembering a simple principle. (In such situations, I’ve seen impressive results from skilled practitioners using Cognitive-Behavior Therapy.)

But I continue to value the basic insight.

It reminds me of one of the five principles taught by Frank Ostateski as he applies Zen mindfulness principles to end-of-life care: “Welcome Everything, Push Away Nothing.” If we can find a still center within, we can observe thoughts and feelings as they arise in us and deal with them calmly and wisely, rather than in a state of fear.

I’m grateful for that lesson: “…your fear has important information to give you. You want to take in the information, but not let fear control you.”

And I’m also grateful I don’t have to pretend I’m calm while I’m clinging to the side of a boulder.

Haunted By A Story About An Oar

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

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

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

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

Here’s the story.

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

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

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

Who eat their food unsalted, and have never seen

Red-prowed ships or oars that wing them along.

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

One you cannot miss. When you meet another traveler

Who thinks you are carrying a winnowing fan,

Then you must fix your oar in the earth

And offer sacrifice to Lord Poseidon,

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

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

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

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

For me this challenge is about identity in retirement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image: Conrad Shawcross, *Winnowing Oar*

When I Fall

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

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

He paused.

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

I’ve thought of this often.

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

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

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

Seeing People Through a Spiritual Lens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How Do You Know If Someone Is Enlightened?”

Huston Smith has been a guiding light in my life.

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded to him that we were ready.

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

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

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

He paused for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

This was his way of being.

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

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

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

“Six Things That Matter Most” — A List for All Seasons

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. 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 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 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?

Once, I was doing a daylong retreat on this theme. I gave the background and handed out the cards. Then I said, “But let’s not wait. I encourage us all to think if there is anyone we want to say any of these statements to now.” I gave everyone 45 minutes. I’d brought stationery and envelopes if people wanted to write letters, and also encouraged people to make a phone call, send an email or text a message.

When we regathered, I asked for people to share experiences. One woman said she had called her daughter. The call went to voicemail and mom left a message, “I just want to say I love you!” The daughter called back a few minutes later sounding frantic: “What’s wrong mom?! Are you OK??” Mom laughed and reassured her she was fine, but was doing this as part of a retreat. So, giving a little background can help when we are conveying such deep feelings.

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? Why not just do it? Once we do, there is a sense of freedom.

Six simple statements, loaded with healing power.

When Compassion Isn’t Enough

As part of my work at Hospice of Santa Barbara, a group of us attended a week-long retreat at the Metta Institute in Marin County. The theme was “Cultivating Presence” and led by Frank Ostateski, an accomplished teacher of both Zen meditation and hospice care.

In one of his talks, Frank focused on the traditional greeting in parts of Asia – “Namaste.” You clasp your hands palm-to-palm in front of your chin and sometimes follow with a slight bow. It had become well-known in the West through its frequent use as a way to close a yoga class and was often said to symbolize “I bow to the sacred in you.” Frank had closed his classes with the familiar gesture, and as students we returned the blessing.

At one session, Frank focused on a deeper meaning “Namaste” can have. One hand can represent the virtue of compassion and the other hand wisdom. He went on to describe the importance of the two virtues always being combined. We may feel great compassion for someone and feel the impulse to take an action. However, actions arising from a genuine motive may have unintended consequences. Therefore, it is critical to evaluate the compassionate urge with patient and practical wisdom if we want to make the best choices.

I thought this was very helpful and began to share this concept when I was doing the initial training session for hospice volunteers. Many are led into hospice service out of a compassion for those who are dying, but it is critical we always seek to place that emotion in the presence of wisdom from trained staff and veteran volunteers. I often used the following story as an illustration.

Once we had a very caring volunteer assigned to a low-income family where the father had died. The volunteer had spent time with the young son in the afternoon and when he dropped the boy off back at home, realized the family had very little food. Moved by compassion and wanting to make a difference, he and a friend went to Costco and bought several hundred dollars’ worth of food for the family and dropped it off at the house. Soon after, one of the family members called our staff member responsible for the case. They noted how appreciative they were but said they did not have sufficient refrigerated storage to keep so much food and were embarrassed it would be going to waste. If the volunteer had run his idea by our trained staff member, he would have been affirmed for the impulse, but guided into an action that would better fit the situation. The compassionate value needed to be matched by wisdom.

I was reminded of the charge Jesus gives his disciples when he sends them out in pairs for the first time: “… so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” (Matthew 10:16). The serpent was seen a very subtle and clever creature (it was not always identified as evil as it became in later tradition.) Doves were seen as pure and often symbols for the divine spirit. Jesus is saying: be open and trusting, but also be smart and strategic.

I have thought of this many times in my life and career, which I have spent in religious and nonprofit communities. It was always natural for me to approach any challenging situation with compassion and tact. Many times, those values led to outcomes I felt good about. But as time went on and my responsibilities grew, I encountered more complex situations where compassion and “innocence” alone were not enough. I benefited from practical wisdom from others who understood the complexity of organizational challenges and the need to make unpopular decisions that could be perceived as uncaring. When I was able to incorporate that wisdom, outcomes improved.

Anyone who has been involved in 12-step programs knows this well. If someone you care about is struggling with addiction and they beg you for money or help, it is a natural reaction to meet their requests. But that can often make the situation worse. You need the accumulated wisdom of the support group and the program to make the best choices.

Caring, empathy, love and compassion are prized virtues. But the best outcomes arise when they are blended with voices of experience and wisdom. Namaste!