“Join Jim and Sherry in their Sukkah (in the backyard)” said the flyer delivered to our door by our neighbors. This welcome invitation came adorned with a graphic in green depicting a verdant tree, amid grass and sprouting leaves.

The prospect of joining in our friends' celebration of their autumnal holiday gladdened my heart. My instinct is to thank God for the fruits of the earth and the other gifts that this time of year brings us.

For Jews, the feast of Succoth comes as the third of the high holidays and is observed for a week. After Rosh Hashanah, the commemoration of the New Year, and Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, this third feast day joyfully celebrates the harvest.

It also reminds Jewish people of their ancestors wandering in the desert for 40 years after the fateful escape from Egypt, when they dwelt in temporary huts for shelter from the sun and wind.  

The Saturday when we were invited turned out to be a beautiful, clear, and seasonably cool afternoon, ideal for sitting in the back yard next to the garden.

Jim and Sherry's Sukkah was made of wood, with a roof decorated with dried corn stalks and other gourds. One end of the structure was wide open, enabling us to look out at the garden and surrounding houses.

This Sukkah had enough space for ten or so friends and neighbors who arrived during our stay. After we chose food and drink, Jim began our session with a traditional prayer from the Jewish liturgy for the day: “Blessed are you, O Lord, Ruler of the Universe, who has commanded us to dwell in the Sukkah.” We all assented to this beautiful prayer with the single word “Amen.”

After that we talked, asking about the couple's children who, when they were still at home, used to be an important part of the observance. This fall, Tamar is visiting India for a few months, and Akiva is away at college.

We also bantered about the neighborhood and local residents, all in a relaxed and joyful spirit. While we talked, new guests came and, gradually, others would leave as the afternoon moved on. (Everyone had gone by the time the Red Sox faced off against the Yankees.)

Our hosts established a spirit of pleasure in one another's company. Though they and the other guests who were Jewish were observing an important liturgical day, they made sure it remained a lighthearted occasion for everyone. We laughed a lot, as we sat in this once-a-year structure and enjoyed the company and the environment.

At the same time, we were conscious of what the day means to people who identify with a great faith. For our host, Jim, “it's a special time when we as a family get together and build our little temporary dwelling. It takes us out of our ordinary routine and puts us in touch with nature.”

He also feels contact with sacred history: “Looking out from the Sukkah in the evening, we see the same full moon that our ancestors saw thousands of years ago. Singing songs in the Sukkah gives me a feeling of great rejoicing.”

I myself, though not Jewish, feel strong appreciation of the faith tradition of the Jewish people and owe much of my own to it. Our whole civilization is indebted to those who have preserved the observance of special days through much travail and tragedy over so many centuries.

The feast of Succot that we were privileged to observe as guests has a deeper meaning than is commonly realized. In fact, David Linghoffer, writing for the online site Beliefnet, calls this feast an “edgy encounter with the apocalyptic strain in Judaism.”

He sees it as the most radical of the Jewish days of celebration because it points to “the final triumph of God over evil” at the end of time. To him, it completes the cycle that begins with Rosh Hashanah and goes on to Yom Kippur. Those two feasts may suggest that a struggle between good and evil “must go on forever, with no hope of an ultimate victory.”

Sukkot, however, offers a “preview of what it will be like to experience the culmination and conclusion of the historical process” when God will be victorious and history will come to a glorious end.”

Richard Griffin

“Now is the time.” “I have a dream.” “Let freedom ring.” “Free at last.”

These words, used as refrains by Martin Luther King, Jr. in his famous “I Have a Deam” speech at the Lincoln Memorial, continue to resound 40 years later. While recently watching a videotape of the event, I was again moved, not only by his eloquence but by the beautiful spirituality that animated his vision.

As we prepare to celebrate King’s birthday tomorrow, it is appropriate to emphasize the spiritual dimensions of this speech.

Only a person steeped in the Bible could have spoken the way Dr. King did to the 150,000 gathered in Washington D. C. on that famous day. And only a person who had absorbed the message of Jesus could have offered his particular vision of freedom, bodily and spiritual.

“Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice” Dr. King tells the huge audience of people assembled before him, eager to hear his every word.

“I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character” he informs his listeners in Washington and around the country.

“Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi” he proclaims. And he utters the same wish for every other part of America.

“Free at last,” he cries out in ringing final words, “thank God Almighty, we are free at last. Five years later, this quotation from a Negro spiritual would be applied to his terrible assassination.

Throughout, Dr. King saw himself as calling America to be its own best self. That was the new nation whose Declaration of Independence and Constitution promised freedom to every person. The words of those documents Dr. King described as magnificent but their promise was yet to be fulfilled.

It was one hundred years previously that Abraham Lincoln had freed the slaves. But, as the speaker saw clearly, “the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land.”

Dr. King’s appreciation of the brotherhood of all people is another factor that gives spiritual power to his vision. He envisions the day when people of every sort can sit down at the same table as brothers and sisters. This is the banquet spoken of in the great biblical tradition in which he grew up.

He speaks like the prophets in the Hebrew Bible who nourished his soul. “We will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream,” he says, using the words of Isaiah to express his people’s thirst for their rights, human and civil.

Then, in describing his own dream, he alludes to John the Baptist, himself echoing Isaiah:  “I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.”

Dr. King’s commitment to nonviolence forms another precious part of his spirituality. Witnesses who attended the huge rally 40 years ago recall the fear that gripped many people in Washington that day.. “The atmosphere was very tense,” says black leader, Roger Wilkins. Some white people fled the city because of the violence they expected.

They need not have worried, however, because Dr. King insisted that the struggle he led was one based in spiritual power, not violent action. Here is the way he put it: “Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.”

Of course, that would involve suffering. But Dr. King’s faith had room for that. “Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive,” he told his people as he drew upon the spiritual legacy of Jesus. The speaker believed that good would eventually come from the trials that his people had to endure unjustly.

Dr. King gave profound expression to the spiritual gifts that occupied a central place in his own life. Faith, hope, and charity were to hold decisive importance in the great struggle that he led for his people and for the whole nation.

Richard Griffin

Most adults will remember the childhood experience of turning around in place until becoming so dizzy it was necessary to stop. Frequently grown-ups would intervene so we would not faint or fall.

Most probably, there was nothing spiritual about that experience. However, it is just possible that, as children, we wanted obscurely to get some sense of a heightened consciousness. Without knowing what we were doing, we may have been trying to trans-port ourselves into a different world.

That’s what happens with the whirling dervishes, members of an ancient order of Sufis who dance ritually as an act of worship. For the first time in my life, I saw a group do this dance before a hushed and respectful audience. Beforehand, we were instructed not to applaud at the end because this was not a performance but rather a sacred event.

The ritual may go back to the beginning of Islam in the seventh century. However, the whirling dervishes are associated with the great Muslim poet and mystic Rumi who lived from 1207 to 1273. He is closely identified with one of the Sufi orders, the name being derived from either the Arabic word for wool or the Greek word for wisdom.

Before the ceremony, some twenty-five figures emerged on stage, all of them robed in black, wearing tall cone-shaped grain-colored felt hats, and some of them carry-ing musical instruments. After taking their places, a dozen or so came forward and shed their black robes, revealing long white skirts and blouses of the same color and material.

As the plaintive music began, the dancers started to whirl. They turned in place, over and over for what seemed to me a half-hour. To the dervishes it probably seemed timeless, thanks to their altered state of consciousness. The very name “dervish,” a Persian word meaning “threshold” suggests what the experience means.

Ideally, the whirling brings the dancers to the very edge of enlightenment. They enter into a kind of trance in which spirit is revealed as the deepest reality. They may have been repeating all the while the basic words of the Islamic faith, “There is no God but God” further defining the dance as an act of worship.  

To be frank, I found myself as a mere spectator brought close to sleep. The inten-sity of watching men repeat the same motions over and over was too much for me to bear. Were I more familiar with the Sufi tradition, presumably it would have been easier to enter into the inner experience of the dervishes.

Nonetheless, the spectacle had great style and beauty. Especially notable was the doffing of the outer garments revealing the white ones beneath. The change was symbol-ic: the dark clothes represents the world and its evils, while the white shows the blessed condition of people united to God.

I talked about the dervishes with a scholar, Nur Yalman , Professor of Social Anthropology at Harvard who was also in attendance. Thoroughly familiar with the rite and its history, Prof. Yalman described the experience as “beautiful.” To him, the dance represents “the rising up of the human spirit to a space between man and God.”

He sees special meaning in the hand gestures made by the dancers. “When they open up their right hand, they receive blessings from God; when they open their left, they pass on the blessings to people on earth.”

The total effect on people who witness the dance is precious. “The emphasis on love is valuable,” says Prof. Yalman, “and brings people together.”

Incidentally, the whirling dervishes were present in connection with an unusual exhibit in Harvard’s Sackler Museum. Called “Letters in Gold,” this exhibition displays calligraphy from the Ottoman empire. Calligraphy (beautiful writing) holds a vital place in Islamic art and worship and has been called “music for the eyes.”

Among the connections between the calligraphy and the dance is the following fact. The reed from which comes the flute-like instrument used in the dance is the same reed from which the “Kalem” or reed pen used in calligraphy.

Much of the writing reproduces chapters from the Qur’an, the holy book of the Is-lamic faith. It is revered as the word of God received by the prophet Mohammed in the seventh century.

Though I myself brought precious little previous knowledge to this display, the artistry behind the beautiful writing and the depth of spiritual feeling stirred my soul.

Richard Griffin

Nancy Mairs stayed at our local university all last week as “Lenten Writer in Residence.”  Together with her husband George, she offered prayerful reflections that come from a life intensely lived.

The intensity of her life finds expression in a series of books, the most recent of which she entitles “A Troubled Guest: Life and Death Stories.”  Of this work and its author, one reviewer says: “She never minces words or backs away from strong opinions, neither does she aim to shock.”

Yet, whether she aims to or not, Nancy Mairs does sometimes shock when she talks about her personal life. For example, in telling about the difficulties she has encountered she lists the following three: the multiple sclerosis that has largely confined her to a wheelchair, the murder of an adopted son, and the life-threatening melanoma suffered by her husband.

To these three, she then adds a fourth: the adulterous relationship that George had and now publicly acknowledges. Around the time when he thought he was dying, George was sexually involved with another woman, an event that Nancy has forgiven him.

And yet, despite all that the two of them through have been through over a long marriage, they radiate a peace of soul that impresses me deeply. They seem unconscious of having this effect on others because, when I asked them about the source of that peace, they seemed uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

Meditation helps, they answered. Then, paradoxically, they suggested it comes out of an activism directed toward others. “The community pulls us open to the world,” they say, providing a counterweight to caregiving.

Community, for them, is above all their religious community, a group of some 40 people who gather for the Eucharist each Saturday evening in the homes of members. The Mairs became Catholics years ago and much value the small community that shares their faith and their values.

Those who gather each week as “the Community of Christ of the Desert” place strong emphasis on the priesthood of the laity. Though Father Ricardo presides, they all say the central prayer of the Mass together. But “we don’t want to cause the bishop anxiety,” they add.

They live in Tucson, some 70 miles from the Mexican border. Of the struggles connected with the efforts of Mexicans to cross over to the United States side and those of the border police to stop them, the Mairs say: “It’s a war.”  Since peace and justice are the main focus of their religious community, they try to provide some assistance to the people who risk their lives trying to cross the desert in search of a better life.

George serves as Nancy’s caregiver, an activity that requires great patience from them both. In the face of her long, slow decline, George says: “I’m sometimes angry at God, sometimes at Nancy.”

It’s a never-ending struggle that requires continued managing of angry emotions: “Some of my prayers are angry prayers,” George admits. “But I get back love,” he says, referring perhaps to both Nancy and God.

And Nancy adds: “We have learned over time that anger happens and you won’t come to an end as a person.”  Besides which, they have found they can speak to their two cats. “You can thus communicate information to one another even when you can’t talk to the other guy.”

For Nancy especially, writing also helps. “Because I’m a writer of personal essays, I scrutinize experience the way others may not do,” she explains. George agrees on the value of this activity: “I’m sure her writing has helped us endure.”

Caregiving always threatens to become the center of things. But this couple insists: “Caregiving is not the point of our lives.”  They resist allowing it to siphon off their concern for others and for the peace and justice of the larger world.

The murder of their adopted son when he was in his 20s proved devastating to Nancy and George. They did take some consolation from hearing reported a conversation their son had had with a friend sometime before his sudden death. He told his friend that his life had begun at the point when Nancy and George adopted him.

Despite what happened to this young man, this couple continues to stand firmly opposed to capital punishment. Nancy’s reasoning is straightforward: “My son is dead. Why would I want anyone else dead?”

Richard Griffin

Sometimes a single word or short phrase from a sacred text can stir rewarding refllection. Just thinking about the word or repeating the phrase silently can provide spiritual seekers with surprisingly rich food for the soul as we go about our ordinary tasks. Such language can also give us interior strength for the challenges of daily life and sometimes motivation for changing behavior.

Such a phrase struck me as I heard it read aloud in my church during one of the Christmas liturgies. Two words jumped out at me from a list of virtues that St. Paul urges upon the Christians who live in the city of Colossae in Asia Minor. Writing around the year 60, he exhorts them to transform their conduct, making it more like the Lord’s.

Hearing the words “heartfelt compassion” reminded me that one of the prime features in the spiritual traditions of both East and West is the virtue of compassion. The word’s Latin roots mean “suffering with” and suggest entering sympathetically into another person’s life when that person is struggling.

Together with enlightenment, compassion forms the bedrock of the spiritual life, as understood by many of the great religions of the world. By enlightenment, we are enabled to see things in God’s light; by compassion, we are empowered to reach out to others with loving concern.

The longer section of St. Paul’s beautiful text is worth repeating so as to identify the other virtues that accompany compassion. He tells the Colossians: “Put on, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, heartfelt compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience, bearing with one another and forgiving one another, if one has a grievance against another; as the Lord has forgiven you, so must you also do. And over all these put on love that is the bond of perfection.”

Curious about the root meaning of the word translated as “heartfelt,” I consulted the original text. The Greek word turns out to be “splagchnon,” one almost impossible to pronounce because of all its consonants.

Not without some mild shock, I discovered that the word means “bowels.” To us moderns the word sounds anatomical, referring to the intestines. In biblical times, however, it was used metaphorically to indicate the center where a person’s truest self is found. Its meaning comes close to what we intend by heart, that is, the seat of our deepest feelings.     

Various translations of the New Testament show different approaches to the phrase. Two traditional versions reproduce the equivalent word: a standard Latin version translates it literally by the phrase “viscera misericordiae” and the classic 17th century King James Bible uses the phrase “bowels of mercies.” The modern Revised Standard Version, however, backs away from the literal meaning, dropping the word bowels altogether and simply saying compassion.

The translation read in my church is the New American Bible. The scholars responsible for rendering the Greek into English found what seems a happy medium. As noted above, they called it “heartfelt compassion.” In doing so, they directed attention to the heart as the central organ that we associate with feeling. They take account of  the modern way of describing human feeling, in which we often make reference to the heart.

Admittedly, however, heartfelt lacks the earthiness of the original word and therefore some of its force. We tend to pass over the word heartfelt without realizing the power of the original Greek word. “Heartfelt” clearly rates as an English equivalent but nonetheless it makes you see why the word translator in some languages is itself translated as “traitor.”

Paul wants his people to offer others, not pale, dutiful “charity” as that word is now often understood. Rather, he wants us to reach out to others in a feeling way. Our compassion is heartfelt when our whole person is invested in it, when we offer sympathetic help to others, giving of the best in ourselves.

This kind of compassion represents a marvelous ideal. Whether you think it is actually practiced often depends perhaps on how you see the world. Those who look at the bright side would cite numerous acts of heartfelt compassion; those for whom pessimism is the norm will bemoan the absence of enough compassion among members of the human family.

“Heartfelt compassion” is a phrase worthy of reflection and, even more so, of being put into practice.

Richard Griffin