wisdom – Page 5 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

Pip Discovers the “Power of Money”

I remember reading Great Expectations by Charles Dickens in Junior High. I recently thought I would read it again. I am still early in the story but was struck by one scene.

Young Pip has been raised by his irritable older sister and apprenticed to her husband Joe, a humble blacksmith. As Pip goes through his days, we see village life through his young eyes. He has some curious adventures and encounters. A few years pass and he is an adolescent. A lawyer from London comes to see him and tells him an anonymous benefactor has chosen him to be a person of “Great Expectations.” He will become educated as a gentleman and well-financed for life. He is given a generous sum of money to outfit himself with clothes befitting his new status before going to London.

He goes to the shop of Mr. Trabb, the village tailor. Mr. Trabb calls Pip into his kitchen to talk while he is having his breakfast.

“Mr. Trabb,” said I, “It’s an unpleasant thing to have to mention because it looks like boasting; but I have come into a handsome property.”

Mr. Trabb immediately gets up from his meal and begins treating Pip with great care. He also begins ordering his “boy” (his young assistant) around in a loud voice.

When he had at last done and had appointed to send the articles to Mr. Pumblechook’s on the Thursday evening, he said, with his hands upon the parlor lock, “I know, sir, that London gentleman cannot be expected to patronize local work, as a rule; but if you would give me a turn now and then in the quality of a townsman, I should greatly esteem it. Good morning, sir, much obliged –- Door!

The last word was flung at the boy who had not at least notion what it meant. But I saw him collapse as his master rubbed me out of his hands, and my first decided experience of this stupendous power of money, was, that it had morally laid upon his back, Trabb’s boy.[i]

“The stupendous power of money” creates an entirely new world for Pip. His status is instantly elevated by people who paid him little mind the day before. In contrast, the tailor’s “boy” is treated with public disdain by his master; he “collapses” as his low status is “laid upon his back.” Pip sees what money can do: elevate some while demeaning others.

Our youngest daughter once worked for the Santa Barbara International Film Festival. As a staff member, she received a “Platinum Pass.” This not only permitted the holder to attend all events, but to enter the theater before everyone else, walking up a Red Carpet separated by a rope and security guards from excited fans and photographers. She knew there was one particular night I wanted to attend. She said, “Dad, I have to work that night, but you can have my Platinum Pass. And I can escort you into the theater.”

I did not have a personal tailor but dressed up as best I could. We met on the sidewalk outside the theater. She put her arm under mine and we walked onto the Red Carpet. I noticed peoples’ faces as we approached – at first they looked at me with excitement, thinking, “Maybe this guy is important!” But they quickly realized I was not; the facial expressions of joyful anticipation dissolved and they began looking beyond us, hoping for someone worth seeing.

It was my one glimpse of stardom.

But I have had experiences of being in the presence of true greatness.

I once did a graveside service for a woman I did not know well. I met her years before when a mutual friend had asked me to visit her after husband had died; since then we had occasionally seen each other around town. She owned and managed two local dry-cleaning businesses. As I prepared for the service, I spoke to a few of her friends. They told me she had been dedicated to caring for her employees — providing them with full health care coverage when she wasn’t required to and always treating them like family. It was a small gathering. The friends stood closest to the casket. Behind them were the employees, huddled together and weeping quietly. When I finished my part, I invited those who wished to approach the casket to pay their final regards. The employees waited until others had passed by. Then they came one by one, pausing to gently touch the casket in silent reverence.

In moments like these, no one is exalted and no one is demeaned. Everyone is on the same level, united by love and respect.

[i] Great Expectations, Charles Dickens, Vintage Classics, 2012, pg 142

Illustration: “Pip and Joe on the Marshes,” Victorianweb.org

Being Grateful for Our “Inner Savings Account”

“As a lifelong traveler, I felt in my bones how home is not where you happen to live so much as what lives inside you…my inner savings account…the Sufis say that you truly possess only what you cannot lose in a shipwreck.”[i]

I spent five months backpacking in Europe in 1975. One summer day I was hitchhiking in Bavaria from the mountain village of Lindenberg towards Munich. There were few cars on the country road, so I was walking more than riding. I saw a thunderstorm approaching. I noticed a 2-story farmhouse up ahead and realized it might offer some shelter. I got there and huddled under the eaves as the rain began to fall. A few minutes later, the door opened. A woman stepped out and offered me a black umbrella with a wooden handle. I could not speak German well enough to converse with her, but we nodded and smiled at each other. She went back inside. I opened the umbrella and stood under it. Fifteen minutes later, the rain stopped. I shook it off, folded it, fastened the fabric strap around it, and knocked on the door to return it. She opened the door and I handed it to her, bowing my head in gratitude. But she smiled and motioned to me to keep it. Surprised, I thanked her and resumed my trek.

I kept that umbrella with me for the rest of my trip. I took it with me on the flight home. I kept it for years afterward, even as it got frayed. Every time I would pick it up, I was taken back to that moment and the gracious kindness the woman had shown me. I’ve kept the memory all these years. It’s part of my “inner savings account.”

What lives inside us? Memories of many kinds.

How often do you hear a song that takes you back to a time when you first heard it as it was “deposited” into your memory account? How often does a food remind you of your childhood? How valuable are our spiritual expereinces and beliefs? How vividly do we remember the unexpected kindness of strangers?

Isn’t it the case that, the older we get, the more likely we are to draw something from that account and share it with others while we still can? Unlike monetary bank accounts, withdrawing a memory doesn’t mean you lose it; instead, you are keeping it alive.

I have always appreciated listening to peoples’ stories and keen to know what those experiences have taught them about life. I add them to my storehouse of significant experiences, even though they did not happen to me. Learning from the memoires of others is like investing in a communal “mutual fund.” Sharing stories with family, long-time friends, and in spiritual communities is like having shares in “Mutual Memory Funds” from which we all benefit.

As years go on, our ability to access memories in our own personal account may diminish, which is all the more reason to claim them while we can.

Our “Inner Savings Accounts” and “Mutual Memory Funds” are lifetime investments that don’t get lost in shipwrecks, wildfires, floods or fluctuations in the stock market. They are “high yield accounts.” They live with us and with those with whom we share them. I no longer have that umbrella, but what it means to me will never be lost.

[i] My notes tell me this is attributable to the writer and world traveler Emily Hahn.

King Tut and The Early Morning Drop-ins

I am continuing to read and reflect on Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life, by Dacher Keltner. Like many of us, I seek out and welcome experiences of awe wherever I can find them. But I am only now realizing the different ways in which those moments can arise. This week I had two very different experiences that, thanks to Keltner’s work, add to my understanding.

The first was remembering a piece of furniture I saw in 2008 at the “King Tut” traveling exhibit in Los Angeles. I vaguely recall studying Egypt in grammar school; a more vivid association is seeing Steve Martin’s perform “King Tut” (“Born in Arizona, moved to Babylonia… King Tut”). We came into a room which had just one object: in the center, a child’s chair. The description explained that this was the actual chair the 9-year-old Tut sat in when he was first crowned Pharoah. I had to take time to absorb what I was seeing: “This is the exact chair the little guy sat in 1332 BC where he was hailed as a god and Egypt’s ruler? And here I am in Los Angeles in 2008 close enough to touch it?” I tried to fathom how much time had passed between now and then. I tried to imagine what might have been going through the 9-year old’s mind as he sat here for the first time looking at all the people worshipping him. I was in awe.

The next morning, I was sitting in my backyard, waiting for my first cup of coffee to take effect. The sun had just appeared on the horizon and light was coming through our neighbor’s sycamore tree. A few feet away I noticed a single spider web thread waving in the morning air currents; stretching from an oak tree branch to the ground, it must have been 7 feet long. Two feet in front of me was a piece of patio furniture with a vinyl cover. Suddenly a small clump dropped onto it. I wasn’t wearing my glasses — I leaned forward, squinted and wondered “What is that?” A tiny little creature began scurrying away, no bigger than a pencil point. The horizontal rays of the morning sun cast a shadow behind it three times larger than its actual body. Then another little bug emerged from the fallen object and began running in another direction. Then three more. They all took off in opposite directions, hurrying like they were late for work. My best guess was this was a group of just-hatched gnats. I thought about what I was seeing. Until a few moments ago, these little specks of life were all huddled together is a gnat-clump. They all landed like a spaceship on the vinyl cover and now were rushing away from each other to begin their individual lives of adventure. How small their busy brains must be. How fast their mini-hearts must be beating. How strong is their will. I was in awe.

In Keltner’s research, beholding King Tut’s childhood chair in a museum is an example of cultural awe. Being mesmerized by a group of newborn gnats rushing off to start their lives is an example of awe found in nature.

Keltner believes we can find awe in many places. They don’t have to be dramatic events, but can be simple experiences in the midst of our daily life. What such experiences have in common is the emergence of a particular emotion in the face of mysteries we don’t understand. That emotion liberates us from the constant absorption in ourselves and opens us to the fascinating world around us, which becomes a gateway to humility and gratitude. Remembering that decorated little chair and those determined little bugs helped me see my own life in a new perspective. That always feels like a gift.

Lead Image: King Tut’s chair and a solo gnat

This is my third post responding to Keltner’s work. The first was “Rising Above the Phone-Based Culture” (https://drjsb.com/2025/03/01/rising-above-the-phone-based-culture/ and the second was “A Voice in My Mind Said I Feel Awe” (https://drjsb.com/2025/03/29/a-voice-in-my-mind-said-i-feel-awe/

Letting the Sea Speak

What is it about the sea that stirs our imaginations?

What is it about taking a walk on the beach that helps us see life more clearly?

Why is it many of us ask that our ashes be scattered on the ocean?

Many facets of nature can stir our imaginations, offering us metaphors for life and spirituality. Recently I decided to turn my attention to the sea, searching for what it might teach me. Here’s my emerging list…

Like life, the sea is big, mysterious and wonderful. The ocean covers 70% of the earth’s surface and holds 97% of the earth’s water. More than 80% of it has yet to be mapped or seen by humans. Just as a scientific reality, it’s amazing. Isn’t life like that? The millions of years of life evolving into so many forms including us? Looking out on the sea, we are reminded of how small we are and how much we don’t know.

Both the ocean and the divine creating Spirit were here before us and will be here long after we are gone. But here we are in this moment. In the big picture, we may be just “a drop in the ocean.” But here we are. In the time we have we can learn what makes life worthwhile. The Indian mystic Tagore said, “The butterfly counts not months but moments, yet has time enough.”

We walk on the edge. When we take a walk on a beach, we can see what is close to us. But beyond the horizon, the ocean reaches out far beyond our sight. In our own lives, we “walk” through each day based on what is near us, what we can see and understand. But at times we are reminded that so much more of life lies beyond our day-to-day living.

It’s exciting to be on open water. Two years ago, I took a beginning sailing class at the local harbor. I remember the thrill the first time I steered the ship past the breakwater into the open water. It was exhilarating. Sometimes in life, we make a move or start a new chapter, and it feels like that.

In open water we navigate as best we can, but sometimes strong currents come upon us, pulling us in directions we do not want to go. When I was a teenager, our family had a small house in San Clemente where we spent many summers. Every chance I had, I would grab my Duckfeet fins to go bodysurfing. I became confident enough that when distant storms in Mexican waters sent swells up the coast, I could join the veterans who went out to catch the large waves. On one such occasion, I was with a group watching the horizon for the next set. I happened to look back at the shore. The beach looked like it was rapidly moving southward, which seemed strange since I was treading water. Then I the realized the shore was not moving – I was. A strong underwater current had developed and was taking me northward. The next thing I knew a lifeguard came alongside and pulled me up into a boat, ferrying me and others to the pier. I was grateful someone was looking out for us. Unforeseen events in life arise and take us with them; it’s not easy to regain control on our own. It can be frightening. It’s a gift to discover someone sees us and can help.

It’s vital to know how to find a safe harbor when we need it. We can find a safe harbor in life in many ways, including having people we can turn to when we feel “out to sea,” confused or overwhelmed. From a spiritual perspective, it’s a deep blessing to know we have a divine source of courage and wisdom that comes from beyond us. We can access it in prayer, contemplation, Scripture, music, art and community. Countless times I’ve seen a spiritual community reaching out and rescuing someone who’s being overwhelmed by life. It’s a beautiful process to see and reassuring to know.

Every time I ride my bike to the local beach, I feel renewed. Every time we take our grandkids to the beach, they become lost in play. Every time I’ve been part of a committal service which includes casting a loved one’s ashes on the sea, I feel a sense of peace. I’m grateful for all the ways the sea speaks to us.

“A Voice in My Mind Said: I Feel Awe”

Dacher Keltner is a psychology professor at UC Berkeley. For more than 20 years, his research has focused on answering the question, “What makes a good life?” At one point, he felt he had the answer. To test it, he and his team conducted thousands of interviews with people around the world and analyzed the results. What they discovered was also reflected in Keltner’s personal life experiences, including being at the bedside of his dying brother in 2019.

Rolf had been dealing with colon cancer for several years and had decided it was time to take the “cocktail” of prescribed medication that would peacefully bring about his death. After receiving this news, Dacher drove from Berkeley with his wife and daughters, picked up his mother in Sacramento, and arrived at his brother’s house in the foothills of the Sierras at 10 PM, joining other family members at the bedside. Here are excerpts from his account:

Rolf’s face was full and flushed. The sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks caused by colon cancer were gone; the tightened, sagging skin around his mouth smoothed. His lips curled upward at the corners.

I rested my right hand on his left shoulder, a rounded protrusion of bone. I held it the way I would the smooth granite stones we used to find near the rivers we swam in as young brothers.

“Rolf this is Dach.”

“You are the best brother in the world.”

My daughter Natalie laid her hand lightly on his shoulder blades: “We love you Ralf.”

The cycle of his breathing slowed. He was listening. Aware.

Listening to Rolf’s breath, I sensed the vast expense of 55 years of our brotherhood… (at this point, Dach’s mind fills with memories of their many shared adventures including skateboarding, playing on the same Little League team, traveling in Mexico, and being the best man at each other’s wedding) …

I sensed a light radiating from Rolf’s face. It pulsated in concentric circles, spreading outward, touching us as we leaned in with slightly bowed heads. The chatter in my mind, clasping words about the stages of colon cancer, new treatments, lymph nodes, and survival rates, faded. I could sense a force around his body pulling him away. And questions in my mind.

What is Rolf thinking?

What is he feeling?

What does it mean for him to die?

A voice in my mind said: I feel awe.

…Watching Rolf pass, I felt small. Quiet. Humble. Pure. The boundaries that separated me from the outside world faded. I felt surrounded by something vast and warm. My mind was open, curious, aware, wondering.[i]

“A voice in my mind said: I feel awe.” The feeling of awe, Dacher believes, is the most important human emotion we can experience. He and his team concluded there are eight primary ways we can encounter awe; one of them is being at the boundary of life and death.[ii]

I experience awe attending memorial services.

This week I attended a celebration of the life of a legendary local building contractor, John Carter, who lived to be 96. Family, friends and employees shared many stories of his ingenuity, accomplishments, innovations and integrity. One story in particular has lingered in my mind. John was born on a farm in the San Fernando Valley. One day he and his brother decided to dig their way to China using an empty coffee can. They dug for days; the hole became deep enough that they could stand in it. Eventually they gave up. That was the early hint of a life filled with ambitious plans, determination and a love of moving earth and making things. All those qualities were already present when he was a child and had a vision in his mind and a coffee can in his hand. Where do such qualities come from?

A few months ago, I attended a private family graveside service for Joe Jowell, who died at 93. His children and grandchildren recounted highlights of his life. Joe was born and raised in Hawaii. He was a ten-year-old riding his bike on Sunday morning, December 7 when he looked up and wondered why a large group of planes were flying overhead; moments later he saw them dropping bombs on Pearl Harbor. After finishing high school, he moved to San Francisco. He served in the Navy during the Korean War. He then spent five years preparing to become a priest in the Boston Maryknoll Brotherhood. He decided to leave that order to marry and raise a family in Long Beach. Joe became a certified Appliance Repair Technician and worked for Sears for many years. He and his wife were raising five children when she died, leaving him on his own. Later one of his sons took his own life. Joe learned to endure these losses and wanted to help others experiencing grief. He became a Hospice volunteer and served our community for 35 years. I met Joe when I became Director at Hospice of Santa Barbara in 2008 – I was told he was known by his colleagues as “St. Joe.” Sixteen years later I had privilege of hearing his family’s stories at his graveside. If we had seen Joe at Costco or in a hospital hallway, could we have imagined all he’d experienced and how many people he had cared for?

Watching his brother take his last breath, Derik Keltner said: “My mind was open, curious, aware, wondering.” He believes experiencing awe puts us in touch with the mysteries of life. It both humbles and inspires us.

When someone’s life ends, we begin to see what mattered and what it meant. Time and again, I have been filled with awe.

[i] Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life, Dacher Keltner, 2023, pages xxi-xxiii

[ii] The eight categories: moral beauty, collective effervescence, nature, music, visual design, spiritual and religious, awe, life and death, and epiphanies (moments in which a new and grand understanding dawns).

I first came across Keltner’s work as cited by Jonathan Haidt in his book, The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness, which was the subject of my recent post, Rising Above the Phone-Based Culture. I expect to share more of Keltner’s findings in the weeks to come.

Photo: Late Afternoon, Goleta Beach, January, 2025

Letting Life Speak Through Us

Sitting quietly in my backyard early on a recent morning, I noticed the roses and shrubs near me. They’d changed since the last time I had seen them. For months they’ve been showing the same dark leaves. But now bright green growth is emerging. They have been waiting for signs the season is changing and now sense the time is right. I wondered: if plants have any level of self-awareness, what’s it like to be so calm and still for so long and then begin to make your move into spring?

Several months ago, I arrived early for mass at the Santa Barbara Mission. I appreciate the respect for privacy and silence which is the norm in Catholic churches. I found a seat in the middle of an empty pew near the rear. Seven or eight others were in solitude, some sitting, others kneeling. I closed my eyes and centered myself, then mentally named blessings and concerns, as well as my wish to be open to new possibilities. Then I opened my eyes and looked around. I thought about the others with whom I was sharing this space and time. I wondered what their own private thoughts and prayers were like. Did their “inner voice” sound like mine? What were they saying or asking for? Here we were, this random group of human beings, each in our own private world of thoughts and feelings. But all wanting to be open to something more.

Recently I gave a presentation to a local men’s group. My topic was how spirituality can be expressed in our everyday work. I shared stories about people who have found meaning in their labor. Afterwards, one of the men came up and handed me a note. He told me it was a question he had used many times to help people find direction: “What is Life trying to express through you?”

I believe the roses and shrubs know: “Our reason is to blossom, flourish and pass Life on.”

At times in my life, I’ve felt clarity about what I am being called to do. Now is a time when I’m not sure what season it is for me. The seasons of our life don’t always follow a set calendar – we must figure them out as we go.

What is Life trying to express through you this season?

George Washington Died a Worried Man

How many times have we held a quarter in our hand and seen his profile? There he is: calm, strong and confident.

Every February, teachers would tell us the story of how young George went to his father and confessed he could not tell a lie – he was the one who had chopped down the cherry tree. We were encouraged to follow his example of honesty.

History books often include the painting of him standing in the middle of a rowboat full of soldiers crossing the icy Delaware River on a winter’s night. They won a daring victory which became a turning point in the Revolutionary War. We were encouraged to be inspired by his courageous leadership.

After winning the war, he was elected our first president, then reelected, then peacefully stepped down. He was honored as “First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.” We were taught to revere his life and example.

But nobody told us he died a worried man.

After the 2016 election, the historian Thomas Hicks wrote First Principles: What American Founders Learned from the Greeks and Romans and How That Shaped Our Country. He wanted to know what values guided and inspired our first four Presidents: Washington, Adams, Jefferson, and Madison.

I learned Washington was not as well educated as the other three – they could read Greek and Latin and speak French; he spoke only English. They had spent extensive time in Europe, he never left America. They read books on philosophy and political theory while he preferred books on farming.

He believed you can always learn from your mistakes, which served him well as a military commander. He believed in the importance of personal and civic virtue, which he saw embodied in the great leaders of Classical Rome. He sought to be honest in all his dealings and respected the opinions of those who didn’t agree with him, refusing to be dragged into political factions. Personal integrity and selfless service to his country were of utmost importance.

These ideals served him well in his 45 years of leadership. But after he left office, he saw the rise of political parties which seemed to disregard all he stood for.

A month before he died, he wrote, “I have for some time past viewed the political concerns of the United States with an anxious and painful eye. They appear to me to be moving by hasty strides to some awful crisis…”[i]

“He would die a worried man. On Thursday December 12^th, 1799 and the following day, Friday the 13^th, he did farm oversight work on horseback, even though the weather was an atrocious mix of rain snow and sleet. That evening he was hoarse. Between two and three in the morning of Saturday December 14^th, he woke Martha to tell her he felt ill and that his throat was painfully sore. Doctors came and during the course of the day bled him four times, which probably sped him toward his demise that evening. His secretary Tobias Lear reported to President Adams that Washington went out like a Roman: ‘His last scene corresponded with the whole tenor of his life — not a groan nor a complaint escaped him in extreme distress — with perfect resignation and in full possession of his reason he closed his well spent life.’”[ii]

Hicks’ book gave me a new respect for the complexities of George Washington. It also cast a light on one of his closest followers, James Madison.

Madison had a different view of humanity than his mentor. He did not believe you can count on political leaders being virtuous. (“…it’s not saying that humans are wicked and have no virtue, just that virtue alone is not sufficient.”[iii]) People will be motivated by self-interest and gravitate to others who share their interests, forming factions and parties to advance their aims. We need a system of government with checks and balances that assumes and sets boundaries on such behavior. Madison became the primary architect of our Constitution.

The book was published in 2020, and in the closing chapter Hicks asks: “What would the founders say about the America of today? Is our nation what it was supposed to be, or what they hoped it would be? He answers, “The picture is mixed.”[iv] That was in 2020. I’m guessing he’d give the same answer this year.

George Washington has been called the “Father or Our Country.” Many fathers and mothers come to their last days looking back and wondering what they could have done differently. They are often deeply concerned about how life will go for the people and institutions they have loved and served. They worry. But they’ve done their best. What happens after them depends on the action of those who follow.

Washington Crossing the Delaware, Emanuel Leutze, 1851

Postscript: In light of recent debates regarding the history of American slavery, I found this worth noting: “In his will Washington tried to free as many of the enslaved people on his plantation as legally possible. Some were the property of Martha and her heirs. Others were married to those owned by Martha. He was the only founder involved in human bondage who tried to emancipate so many enslaved people.”[v]

[i] Hicks, pg. 243

[ii] Hicks, pg. 243

[iii] Hicks, pg. 207

[iv] Hicks, pg. 285

[v] Hicks, pg. 243

The Way of Nature and the Way of Grace

I’ve been ruminating over these words for fourteen years:

Τhe nuns taught us there are two ways through life-

the way of nature… and the way of grace.

You have to choose which one you’ll follow.

Grace doesn’t try to please itself.

Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked.

Accepts insults and injuries.

Nature only wants to please itself…

– Get others to please it too.

Likes to lord it over them…

To have its own way.

It finds reasons to be unhappy…

when all the world is shining around it,

when love is smiling through all things.

Τhey taught us that no one who loves the way of grace

ever comes to a bad end.

We hear this in the voice the mother of the O’Brien family (Jessica Chastain) at the opening of The Tree of Life. As she recites the first six lines, we see dream-like images of her with her young sons in 1950s suburban Texas. At the line, “Nature only wants to please itself…” the camera shifts to the father (played by Brad Pitt) at their dinner table. After several viewings, I realized the shift in focus suggests the mother embodies the grace the nuns talked about while the father embodies “the way of nature.”

“The way of grace:” self-less, tolerant, forgiving. The “way of nature:” self-centered, willful, domineering. Those living “the way of grace” experience a world shining with love; those living the way of nature are blind to all that shines, and instead “finds reasons to be unhappy.”

From the beginning of my spiritual awakening in my twenties, I wanted to “live in the way of grace.”

As a pastor, living “in the way of grace” felt like the ideal job requirement. I strived to lift that up and live that out with the people I was serving. It brought me joy.

As time has passed, I am less certain one can always live in the way of grace.

As Malick uses the phrase “way of nature,” it feels selfish, insensitive, and destructive. But we can think of it another way. I am going to interpret it as our biological and evolutionary history. We carry primal instincts within us that recognize our need to survive. We can draw on a stubborn stamina that enables us to endure hard times with grit and determination. If we lose at something and it hurts, we may resolve to recover instead of giving up. Winning and accomplishing a goal feels good. We find ourselves in a position of power and appreciate what that offers – not only for ourselves, but for others. Are these moments we want to run from?

I once organized and participated in an Earth Day retreat at the La Casa de Maria Retreat Center. We had invited a local trail guide to lead a tour of our property. He had an interest in both the natural world and ways we can listen to our ancestors. Our group took an hour to make a slow walk around the 26-acre property, stopping along the way.

We came to the organic garden and paused. He reminded us human beings have been farming for several thousand years. He asked us to close our eyes and visualize our own ancestors farming and what their life was like. Most of my ancestors came from Scandinavia. I found myself traveling back in time, watching them work in the cold climate and bare soil.

We came alongside the San Ysidro Creek. Before agriculture, our ancestors were hunters and gatherers. We closed our eyes and imagined their life. I realized my ancestors survived by learning to fish the North Sea and hunt elk. A hard life.

Living “the way of nature” involves cunning and a strong will. That can get messy when it demeans other people. But those instincts in themselves are not bad.

In 2008 I transitioned from parish work to leading nonprofit organizations. I discovered I could not be, in the eyes of everyone, always “full of grace.” Sometimes I had to make unpopular decisions. We had to let some people go, and as they left they didn’t feel like “love was smiling through all things.” But these actions had to be done. Looking back, I don’t regret them. It was part of my job.

The spiritual life is not an unending experience of grace and beauty. Jesus was more a lion than a lamb. Many of his conversations comforted, healed and renewed. But other times he confronted people with their self-righteousness, and they walked away dejected or angry. He told people what they needed to hear.

Trying to be gracious every moment doesn’t guarantee ideal outcomes. Sometimes things just go badly. But we do the best we can.

Is it true — “…there are two ways through life – the way of nature… and the way of grace. You have to choose which one you’ll follow?” I’m not so sure it’s that simple. I believe there is a third way, one which draws on both nature and grace. There are times when we need instincts for survival that nature has given us so we can protect ourselves and others and do the right thing. But that doesn’t exclude “the way of grace.” Grace is always worth striving for, and when it emerges it comes with a radiant awareness.

Images: The Tree of Life, Terrence Mallick

Last October I wrote another post inspired by Tree of Life: Where Were We?

Taking Care of Your Gyroscope and Your Compass

I follow different weekly columnists looking for useful insights. I recently saw a comment by Peggy Noonan giving advice to fellow commentators as we face what might be a chaotic year: “Keep your tools, compass and gyroscope, clean, dry and level.”[i]

I liked this statement. The metaphors weren’t new, but I appreciated putting them together: “Keeping your…compass and gyroscope, clean, dry and level.”

I take our personal gyroscope to be what keeps us balanced when our life gets topsy-turvy – what keeps us in touch with our deepest values and best thinking.

A compass helps locate where we are at any one moment. It gives us trustworthy information with which we can decide on the best direction to go.

It is common for us to start our day, our year and any new chapter in our life with certain assumptions about what’s going to happen and how we will respond. Sometimes things unfold like we expect. But often unforeseen events happen – events that we did not see coming — and we can feel like we’ve been knocked off balance and are lost. Time to check our navigational instruments.

I have previously written about a scene from the movie Lincoln. [ii] In the winter of 1865, Lincoln wants to have Congress pass the 13^th amendment (abolishing slavery) before the Civil War ends. He needs the support of Thaddeus Stevens, an abolitionist who wants an amendment that goes beyond just the abolition of slavery to declare the total equality of the races. Lincoln and Stevens have the same inner conviction that equality is the ultimate goal – they share a similar gyroscope. But Lincoln knows Steven’s amendment won’t pass. Lincoln grew up on the frontier and has been in wilderness. He says, “The compass points you true north but does not warn you of obstacles and swamps along the way.” Where we want to end up may be clear but the way to get there may not be; we must forge ahead as best we can. Stevens reluctantly agrees to compromise and with his support the amendment passes.

I’ve performed many weddings in my ministry. Early on, I wanted couples to have a good experience in premarital counseling, but knew I was not equipped to provide it. I found marriage and family counselors whom I trusted and arranged with them to see couples for three sessions. I would tell the couples that an added benefit would be becoming familiar with someone in town they could always go back to for support and advice as time went on – people who could help them get in touch with their “compass and gyroscope” when needed.

One topic I did personally discussed with couples was the vows. Sometimes people wanted to write their own vows, which I could support. But I would also have them consider the traditional vows:

I, ____, take you, ____, to be my lawfully wedded (husband/wife), to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

I would tell them to consider the three couplets: “for better/for worse, for richer/for poorer, in sickness/in health.” When events in life are going for the “better,” if we are feeling “richer,” and if we are in good health, loving another person is easy. But consider what might happen when life events are becoming “worse.” Or circumstances mean you are getting “poorer.” Or one person becomes seriously ill. These vows mean that you will not turn away in hard times but promise to dig in and deepen your commitment. “Hollywood movies show how wonderful falling in love is,” I would say, “but over the years I’ve learned to look at the couples who hang together in hard times. They develop a love deeper than just emotions – they create a bond that is lasting and profound.”

I would add that spiritual beliefs and practices become particularly valuable in disorienting times. There is wisdom beyond just ourselves that can be found in prayer and contemplation, in timeless teachings about what makes life worth living, and what our ultimate purpose can be. Calling on these resources is turning to our spiritual gyroscope. Then we can check our compass to see if we are headed in the best direction and not get stuck in an egocentric wilderness.

Sometimes we need to find an environment which helps us tune in to our gyroscope and compass. For three decades, I was involved at the La Casa de Maria Retreat Center as a board member and director. Individuals and groups would come for a day or several days for retreats. There were no televisions or newspapers, and we enjoyed limited cell phone service. People were free to wander our 26-acre oak forest, orchard and spiritual gardens. They could enjoy good food, leisure time and opportunities for meaningful contemplation and conversation. This was our mission statement:

The mission of La Casa de Maria

is to be a sanctuary of peace

Where groups and individuals

Can renew their purpose

Strengthen their community

And increase their effectiveness in the world.

La Casa was a place where 12,000 people every year people could tune into their gyroscopes and compasses. It was inspiring to see what a difference the right environment could make and what it means for people to find a direction in life they know to be right.

In the days to come, may we each make good use of our gyroscopes and compasses.

[i] https://www.wsj.com/opinion/what-is-your-attitude-toward-trump-2-0-f3f8532c

[ii] “Faith and Sight,” Dec 9, 2023, https://wordpress.com/post/drjsb.com/2925

Lead image: La Casa de Maria, givinglistsantabarbara.com;

Waking The Dead

The documentary filmmaker Ken Burns was raised in a small, 2-bedroom home in Ann Arbor, Michigan. A recent article[i] describes his personal journey, which began with a traumatic childhood:

Ken was 11 and his brother, Ric, was 10, when their mother was on her deathbed. Their father, Robert Kyle Burns Jr., an anthropologist, was mentally ill.

As his mother’s cancer metastasized, Ken overheard conversations — his mother pleading with relatives, asking for someone, anyone, to take her boys in the event of her death. “I remember being scared — scared all the time,” he said.

With their mother in the hospital, the boys were left to wait at home for the inevitable. On the night of April 28, 1965, Ken went to bed with one of the worst stomachaches he had ever had — his body registering what none of the adults would speak about.

The pain disappeared suddenly. The phone rang. His mother was gone.

Following his mother’s death, his father would disappear “for hours and then days at a time” and sometimes be gone for months.

There is a saying I learned when I was at Hospice of Santa Barbara: “Pain that is not transformed is often transferred” — meaning if we don’t’ find a way to channel personal hurt and anguish into something positive, we can end up inflicting that pain on ourselves or others. In his grief and confusion, Burns found such a path:

The filmmaker remembers the exact moment when he decided what he wanted to do with his life: He had never seen his father cry — not in all the years his mother had fought an excruciating illness, not even at the funeral — until one night after her death. His family was in the living room in front of their black-and-white TV, watching a movie, and suddenly his father began weeping.

“I just understood that nothing gave him any safe harbor — nothing,” Ken Burns said, except the film, which had created the space for a bereaved widower to express the fraught emotions he had suppressed.

Burns began creating historical films that would present the past as something much more personal than just a series of facts. Through stories, letters, photographs, and music, he has been able to bring real people to life, whether the topic is baseball, music (jazz and country), war (World War 2 and Vietnam) or any other topic.

The article ends with this:

Years ago, a psychologist finally gave him an answer to the meaning of his work. “Look what you do for a living — you wake the dead,” the psychologist told him.

When I finished the article, I realized much of my life has been about “waking the dead.” I’ve been reading history and biographies since grammar school, constantly looking for how real people endured hardship and crises. I love listening to music that can seem to bring the composer’s lived experience accross time and directly into my heart and mind. I gaze at works of art hoping to time-travel into someone else’s world and imagination. I turn to the great spiritual traditions to listen to their wisdom and insights. I never thought of it as “waking the dead” but maybe that’s what I’m seeking – and not just to “wake” them but to be in a living and learning relationship with them.

Some years ago, I heard the writer, activist and defender of rural values Wendell Berry speak at UCSB as part of a series on environmental poets. In the question-and-answer period, someone asked if, given his dedication to family farms, gardening should be a required subject in high school. Berry paused for a minute, then said, “No, students should read Homer and the Bible, because they need to know they problems they are facing are not new.” Our world has changed a great deal in terms of technology and science, but the challenges of being a responsible and resilient human being have not. I’m grateful for those who can wake the dead so we can learn from them.

“As a baby, Ken Burns appeared in this photo showing his mother spoon feeding him.” (NY Times)

[i] “The Land That Allowed Ken Burns to Raise the Dead,” New York Times, Nov 27, 2024

Lead image: “Burns in the mid-1970s, just as he was starting to create his film studio” (from the Times article.)