Long ago, when I entered the Jesuit novitiate, Shadowbrook, my prime model for implementing religious ideals was the Master of Novices, Father John Post. He was a spiritual leader with a reputation for having control of his emotions. In my two years under his direction, I never saw him do anything spontaneous.

His normal mien on entering the refectory for a meal was strictly programmed: eyes downcast, face held serious and steady, gait measured. Though his body, in outline underneath his cassock, appeared robust, his posture and the way he held his head suggested that he had learned to hold his physical self in check.

The Master’s demeanor changed radically, however, when Christmas arrived. Then he would enter the dining room smiling, something I had hardly ever seen him do previously. This holy day triggered in him a release from his normal look, as if he had heard a message from on high that cheerfulness was now required.

Whether that relaxation extended to other forms of compromise I do not know: it was rumored of this model of asceticism that, though he was a formidable tennis player, his habit was deliberately to lose games so as to preserve in himself the virtue of humility.

When one knocked on his door, he would say “Come in” with carefully modulated tones that, like everything else, suggested self-control. His favorite phrase in response to personal problems was “Brother, beat it down,” words that had become a slogan among his novices and material for parody.

But taken seriously, as I took it, this phrase meant that natural inclinations were to be subjected to control by higher faculties, the body made to obey the soul.

At this early stage in my spiritual development, I saw such rigid responses as required by my quest for perfection. Much of this effort focused on the uprooting of the deeply implanted root vice that underlay my sinful actions and my self-love that prevented me from moving closer to God.

In his daily conferences, Father Master presented a six-item menu of what he called “predominant passions,” for each of which he suggested remedies. From this list, I chose pride as my central vice, the chief reason why I was so unspiritual.

Father Master warned us that the struggle would not be easy because of the character of our adversary. He attributed much to the cleverness of the devil. In one of his conferences the master explained it this way: “Because of our nature we are thrown off easily by a pure spirit and his intellect is sharper than ours. The devil has 25 thousand years’ experience.”

Taking individual direction from the master, I received his approval for a strategy designed to defeat pride, the chief barrier on my road to perfection. Among his recommendations for fighting pride were the following remedies: “To hide oneself except when obedience or charity require; to put oneself below others by obedience;  .  .  . avoid speaking of oneself.”

During the night of March 12, 1956, three years after I had left that place, a great fire lit up the night in the Berkshire Hills town of Lenox, Massachusetts, burning Shadowbrook to the ground. In that spectacular blaze, three Jesuits priests and one Jesuit brother were trapped in the north side of the mansion and burned to death. Wakened from sleep at the other side of the huge house, some two hundred novices and other young Jesuits escaped with their lives, although a few were injured.

Father Post was trapped by the flames and had to leap from the second floor of the building. In his fall, he suffered serious damage to his back, his legs, and other parts of his body. Recovery from some of his wounds would take a long time and crucial disabilities remained with him for the rest of his life.

This was the man portrayed here as rigid in his observance of rules and unbending in his overall approach to Jesuit life. However, after the fire and, inspired by the Second Vatican Council, he became a different person, open to change and flexible toward the new conditions of his life.

His life continued to provide a lesson for others, but in ways that none of us, his former novices, could have foreseen. Now he even dared admit that the way he had directed novices had been misguided because it was often more stoic than Christian.

It was as if the fire had purged him of his stiffness, enabling him to accept a new church and a new world with astonishing grace.

Richard Griffin

Along with a closely packed group of visitors, I viewed the recent show of  Paul Gauguin’s Tahitian work at the Museum of Fine Arts. This 19th century painter began his artistic career in his native France, and then lived and worked for many years on the South Pacific island of Tahiti.

Among his major paintings, one stands out for its provocative quality. Sister Wendy, the television art critic, calls this “Gauguin’s ultimate masterpiece.” She suggests that, if only one of all his paintings were to be preserved, this would be the one to choose.

The painting, one of the jewels of the MFA’s permanent collection, shows a number of beautiful and mysterious people and animals in an idyllic tropical setting. Three questions are attached to it by the painter. “D’où venons nous? (Where do we come from?); Que sommes nous? (What are we?”) Où allons nous? (Where are we going?).”

Of course, Gauguin does not intend to provoke a philosophic discussion by means of these questions. Nor does he provide answers to them. Rather, he presents an artistic response to these great issues that confront every human being.

When I came to this painting toward the end of the show at the MFA, I felt the power of the questions once again. Though I tried to appreciate the way Gauguin poses them in visual terms, still I sensed myself thrown back to my early childhood when I first confronted these central issues in my catechism classes at home and in church.

These questions have stayed with me ever since. They have remained unanswered, at least in any detailed way. And yet, I take it as a gift that they stay fresh for me, and give meaning to my life.

The small book of questions and answers that, in my tradition, is called the catechism, provided an answer to all three questions at once. “God made me to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him in this life and to be happy with Him forever in heaven.”

Of course, this answer was given us children by the church before we had much grasp of the question. And yet, the response printed in the catechism did give us a strong foundation for later life. We had an answer handed down by an old and valued tradition that contained the roots of a spirituality rich in both thought and emotion.

In a world marked by the decline of some religious traditions, many people live without the advantages of this kind of teaching. They declare themselves not to need such guidance and say they are getting along just fine without it. In fact, many do not even ask the Gauguin questions any more because they do not seem relevant to their lives.

To me, however, the questions open the mystery of the world and our existence in it. I value the way asking them provokes thought and stirs reflection on why things are as they are.

These questions proceed from a sense of wonder. You can go at them from at least two different angles: Why is the world in which we live such a crazy mixed-up place? or Why is the world so splendid, so beautiful in its never-ending complexity?

Not even asking about where we come from, who we are, and where we are going also strikes me as defeatist, an admission that we cannot know anything about the really important things in life.

I cannot prove myself to have originated with God and being bound to end up with God. Even if I could, I’m not sure proving it would be good. Would it not take away the depth and mystery of human life?

Of course, like everybody else, I feel bamboozled by evil. Why have some 90 children been burned to death in a fire in an Indian school? Why are thousands of people in Sudan dying at the hands of their neighbors simply because they hold a different faith?

But still, the knowledge and love of God are precious spiritual gifts that enable us to live fuller lives. I intend to keep asking the three questions in hope of appreciating more the mystery of my own life and that of the stupendous universe in which I exist.

Richard Griffin

This was the closest to a royal wedding that I have ever seen live. The church was packed with hundreds of guests who, on the late afternoon of Independence Day, awaited the cortege. In due course, the procession entered through a side door and made its way to the back of the church before advancing triumphantly down the center aisle.

There were several dozen attendants in the bridal procession: young and old, famous and unknown, gay and straight, solemn and smiling. All were dressed with cheerful formality, and flowers were much in evidence. Last in line came an Episcopal bishop, robed and mitered and carrying a crozier.

When the attendants reached the sanctuary, they turned to face us in the congregation, awaiting the couple to be married. Then, to the strains of Purcell’s Trumpet Tune and the fervent applause from the congregation, the couple came down the aisle together, splendidly dressed in long gowns with broad brimmed hats. Their faces were radiant as they acknowledged their families and guests.

After Diana and Dorothy had taken their places before the assembly, the bishop welcomed the congregation, charged us to support the couple, and ritually asked them to declare their intention to marry. The congregation then joined with spirit in the singing of “Now Thank We All Our God,” and listened with attention as some members of the wedding party gave short speeches in celebration of the two women.

As the service continued, great Welsh hymn tunes were interspersed with readings from the Bible, Shakespeare, and e.e. cummings. The wedding address was given by a justly renowned preacher Reverend Professor Peter Gomes, who on this occasion served also as Best Man. After Diana and Dorothy had exchanged their vows, the marriage was pronounced by a woman minister and blessed by the bishop.

After the church part of the celebration, guests walked in a less than perfect file through Harvard Yard, and across two main streets (the police blocking traffic), for a meal under a tent in the courtyard of the undergraduate residence where Diana and Dorothy serve as masters. During dinner, a few guests came forward to propose toasts to “the glorious couple,” as Professor Gomes consistently called them.

“Only in Cambridge,” you might say dismissively of this hyper event. Why should a column on spirituality be devoted to a same-sex wedding, a union that is legal only in Massachusetts?

A solid reason for its place here is because this wedding was so religious. Both partners are professionally involved with religion, Diana as a professor of the subject, Dorothy as an ordained minister. Beyond that, both women are seriously committed to religion in their own private lives and order them according to religious ideals.

They made a point of endowing this signal event with the trappings of religion so that everyone would recognize that their wedding was of God. Doubtless, they also wished to define the event as an act of independence as well. That is why they choose July 4th as the date of this celebration and why they had everyone sing “My Country Tis of Thee” before leaving the church.

One of the notable guests was Margaret Marshall, Chief Justice of the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts, whose leadership and vote led the Commonwealth to legalize same-sex weddings. How most members of the congregation felt about her action emerged loud and clear when they applauded her thunderously in the church and later at the reception.

My appraisal of this and other same-sex weddings continues to evolve. I believe that these unions deserve serious attention for the spiritual values they contain. Not only do I rejoice that Diana and Dorothy have been able to form a family with the blessing of the state and of some churches, but I draw spiritual inspiration from their love for one another.

However, I also sympathize with those who have doubts about the course Massachusetts has followed. A friend named Emily feels both approval and disquiet. “It makes me feel good,” she says, “that people make a commitment to each other and enjoy the privileges that this gives them, to enjoy the advantages of family life.”

At the same time, Emily feels that in legalizing same-sex marriages “we did not know what we are doing because it’s too profound, too difficult to sort out.” Surely Emily is not alone in feeling that Massachusetts has moved too fast, but still she respects the spiritual values in same-sex unions, as do I.

Richard Griffin

My car was one of dozens and dozens that seemed to stretch along the highways and roads for at least a mile. We were following the hearse that carried my dear friend’s body the 15 miles or so from the church to the cemetery. I had never before seen such a long line of mourners taking the somber trip to the place of burial.

To me, the outpouring of people going to the cemetery was yet another sign of how much my friend was loved. Serving as pastor of the Catholic parish in Sharon for 25 years, Father Robert Bullock had forged deep bonds with the people who came to church there and with many others outside his church and local community. We all had many reasons for esteeming him but I suspect it was his deep and authentic spirituality that we found most attractive in him.

In dealings with their pastor, his parishioners knew that his faith not only remained solid but also grew and developed as he grew into later life. Despite the buffeting that his church has suffered in recent years, they knew that Father Bullock would be there for them with open-hearted service. As a parish priest, he put his people first and responded to their spiritual and other human needs generously.

Seeing the response at his funeral, I felt confirmed in my belief that spirituality attracts people, that sincere faith, expressed in spiritual exercises and public service, responds to the deep feelings of a great many people. As human beings, we want to find spirituality enfleshed in the lives of others, especially those who have emerged as leaders.

These same feelings surfaced in me in response to the ordeal of another friend, namely Steve Collins. For the last decade, he has served as executive director of the Massachusetts Human Services Coalition, an organization that lobbies the state government to support services to those with various kinds of needs.

Now Steve is suffering what appears to be a disease that will end his life sometime soon. No longer is he able to work, but must endure an inner assault on his vital organs. The prospect of dying in middle age, only seven months after entering into marriage, must be difficult indeed.

I hope that he can take some comfort from the way his friends and associates responded in big numbers to a invitation for an event dubbed “For Steve.” At a meeting place in Boston’s Back Bay area, fans of Steve gathered to pay tribute to him as a person and in recognition of all that he has accomplished for others.

Among those accomplishments was an inventiveness that made office holders in state government willing to change priorities and provide money for social programs in need of funds. This he often did by making people laugh, rather than threatening them with political sanctions.  As the Boston Globe recently editorialized, he “used his humor like a weapon in the fight for economic justice.”

At the rally for Steve, Michael Dukakis, the former governor and nominee for president, said that Steve’s humor was more than a mere tactic. For Dukakis, it was a quality of mind and heart that, at certain times, could have served his own administration well.

What I said about Father Bullock also applies to Steve Collins. People have found Steve attractive because of his spirituality. It is his thirst for justice that has been widely recognized as deeply human, and also as a quality that comes from the soul.

On the surface, the spirituality of Father Bullock and that of Steve Collins admittedly seem quite different. The first operated in an explicitly religious setting whereas Steve worked in the secular world. But they shared a spiritual vision that had something in common, an unselfish dedication to the community of people who looked to them for support.

Of course, they probably shared much else, but spirituality is rooted in the secret places of the heart and cannot easily be described. I like to think that these two friends of mine, different yet sharing many values, have given a good name to spirituality.

The attractiveness that their people have found in the spiritual lives of these two men indicates once again how much we love to discover genuine spirituality in the life of others, as we strive to deepen our own spiritual life.

Bob Griffins