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

“My child, help your father in his old age, and do not grieve him as long as he lives; even if his mind fails, be patient with him; because you have all your faculties do not despise him. For kindness to a father will not be forgotten, and will be credited to you against your sins; in the day of your distress it will be remembered in your favor.”

These words date from around 180 B.C. and appear in a book called Sirach (also called Ecclesiasticus). Protestant tradition groups this work among the apocryphal books of the Bible, whereas the Catholic Church considers it an authentic part of the Hebrew Scriptures. In any event, Sirach belongs to the category of Wisdom literature and is grouped with other such sacred writings.

What has prompted me to focus on these words was their proclamation in the liturgy of the Eucharist in which I took part this past Sunday. They struck me with special force on this occasion, sounding altogether modern to my ears, as if they were written by someone with current gerontological consciousness. They seemed to speak to a situation facing adult children of aging parents all across America.

They also made me reflect on my own situation, standing on the brink of old age as I do, and gradually becoming better acquainted with some of the ills that flesh is heir to. Inevitably, I also thought of my only child as I wondered what role might await her when physical decline changes the conditions of my life. The ancient words of the author Sirach struck me forcibly in their exhortation to compassion on the part of adult children confronted with parental need for support.

The reference to the father’s mind failing sounds especially modern. The writer seems to speak as if he knows about the widespread dementia that has afflicted so many older Americans. To him, as to us, it strengthens the case for reaching out to help the older family member.

Unlike most contemporary books dealing with care of aged parents, this ancient sacred writing invokes divine rewards for such caring. Responding to parents this way, the author promises, will lead to forgiveness of sins. God himself will be minded to discount the wrongs done by those who reach out to their father and mother when it comes to a crisis or before that time.

Sirach also suggests that when those adult children themselves grow old and need help, God will remember the way they helped their parents. This promise, of course, includes both parents; though the passage quoted at the beginning mentions only fathers, other lines extend the same considerations to mothers too.

In our time, taking care of parents has become a normative stage in the life course of many, if not most, adults. The time comes, often in early middle age, when grown-up sons and daughters are confronted with the need to respond to their parents’ changed situation.

Often this happens when a sudden crisis hits, such as father or mother suffering a stroke or losing a partner to death. Then the family must get involved and take some responsibility for the well-being of the older person.

Most adults when they think of this situation associate it with the word stress. They know from the experience of others or some of their own how difficult it can be to take on the caregiving of older family members. Especially when they may already have responsibility for their own children, the burden can seem insupportable.

However, thinking about the situation exclusively in terms of burden and stress obscures invaluable benefits that can come from the experience. I like to quote Mary Pipher on this subject:

“Parents aging can be both a horrible and a wonderful experience. It can be the most growth-promoting time in the history of the family. Many people say, ‘I know this sounds strange, but that last year was the best year of my parents’ lives. I was my best. They were their best. Our relationships were the closest and strongest ever,’ or, ‘The pain and suffering were terrible. However, we all learned from it. I wouldn’t have waned things to be different.’”

After going through this experience herself, Pipher came to understand it as a crucial opportunity for younger adults to grow up. Caregiving of older family members, in this framework, emerges as a precious occasion for maturing and becoming better persons by reason of having assumed the burdens of their elders.

This latter way of looking at the experience clearly differs from that of Sirach but remains in harmony with it. Both authors stress the benefits of helping relationships between the generations. I take inspiration from the two of them and reflect on their words to help me appreciate even more one of the most important silent happenings in contemporary American life.
 
After the death of great French thinker and inventor, Blaise Pascal, one of his servants discovered hidden within the lining of his master’s coat a scrap of paper on which were written secret words that would live on.   

These are the burning words that he had written in 1654, 345 years ago this month:

“Fire: God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob, not of  philosophers and thinkers. Certitude. Certitude. Feeling. Joy. Peace.”

These words, known as “The Testament,” witness to a vision this great Frenchman had of God’s real presence in his life. For him, God was no abstraction nor a being reserved for deep thinkers. Rather, God is available to every human and loves each one of us intimately.

Pascal’s words loom large in Philip Zaleski’s introduction to The Best Spiritual Writing of 1999. Professor Zaleski sees in them a sublime example of spiritual writing and an appropriate lead-in to the selections that follow.

Professor Zaleski came for a presentation at the public library in my community three Saturdays ago, along with two authors who contributed essays to this volume and one whose essay appeared in last year’s collection.

What a bonanza for fellow seekers to find on the panel writers who are known for their insights into the spiritual life!

One of them was Thomas Moore, author of Care of the Soul and other best selling books that have won him recognition across America. To meet and talk with him I took as a privilege because of my respect for his thoughtful probings of modern people’s desire for transcendence.

In his presentation, Thomas Moore told a story from the Zen tradition. One day, a Zen master is walking along a road and sees a temple that has fallen into rack and ruin. He determines to get it fixed so announces that on the next Saturday he will set himself on fire before the whole community.

He tells people who wish to see him burn that they should bring donations for restoration of the temple. As everyone watches, a priest comes forward with a torch to set the master afire.

“Wait,” says the master, “I see bodhisattvas (enlightened persons) in the sky – they’re telling me it’s not my time yet.

“Leave your offerings – I’ll be around next week.”

The moral of this tale, according to Thomas Moore? Vitally important though it is, “don’t take our spirituality too seriously.”

Another presenter, Harvard Divinity School professor Kimberly Patton, read a reflection focused on the birth of her daughter as an event filled with spiritual meaning. She made her own the words of a lawyer in the television drama “Chicago Hope” who had adopted a child with a severe heart problem. The lawyer, in response to a surgeon who asks how he can possibly manage this situation, answers: “I was never alive before.”

In becoming a new mother, Professor Patton learned things “that current social wisdom can never give us.”

Ultimately she realized that “God wants nothing less than our complete rebirth.” With this realization comes a stunning insight: “What better tool than a child who shatters our self-centered, fear-driven egos and causes, through Love’s great compulsion, our complete submission?”

Surprisingly enough, the third presenter, Andre Dubus III, also focused on childbirth. For him, the birth of his daughter was an event filled with emotions that, in a conversation with his father and brother, he expressed through his tears: “Now the walls of my heart seemed to fall away completely and become a green field within me.”

On this day of his daughter’s birth, he felt new certainty about the future, a certainty not available “without the horizonless love and attendant faith and hope that opens up in us when we are given the gift of children.”  

In concluding the discussion, Professor Zaleski observed that “the western world is now in reaction against the attempt to suppress spirituality.”

He also thinks it characteristic of our time that activities not previously seen as related to spirituality now bring people closer to the soul. Such activities as walking in the woods are now recognized as capable of producing in people a deeper appreciation of the sacred.

In Professor Zaleski’s view, it is important to see that spirituality is “a response, not a construction.” It is the human recognition that the whole world is filled with holiness.

Richard Griffin

In a Christmas letter, a friend of many years standing has written about changes in her life. Based in one of the mountain states, this middle-aged woman (whom I will call “Lisa”) has suffered through a recent divorce that has required her to make a new start. Her husband is now living with another woman, bringing to a definitive end a marriage of more than 25 years.

Lisa speaks of “all the drastic and difficult changes of this past year” and it is not hard to imagine what she means. She has had to accept a radical transformation of her life that, at an earlier stage, she would have considered unthinkable.

Another recent event is the unexpected marriage of her daughter. In her senior year of college, this young woman has surprised her mother by deciding to elope. Though Lisa expresses some pleasure in her daughter’s marriage, it  amounts to yet another change that requires a major adjustment.

My friend has now moved to another city and has begun a new job working with adults who have developmental disabilities. Her new home offers her a marvelous view of nearby hills and mountains and her job allows her to serve people who inspire her.

From these latter, Lisa has “gotten back just as much as I have given.” Despite their disabilities these clients of hers show talents that amaze her. She feels “blessed beyond measure” to have discovered what they can do.

My friend also feels blessed by family members both nearby and in other parts of the country. “They have helped heal my pain” she says, and they “enrich my life daily.”

A poet in her spare time, Lisa is now writing more. She hopes to collect her poems into a second book. From what I have seen of her earlier poems, I would expect the new ones to be worth sharing.

In concluding her Christmas message, my correspondent prays for us, her friends, hoping “that each of you shares your love and care with friends and family and that we all help to foster the peace which passeth all understanding.”

I share parts of this letter with readers because I think it captures the spirit of New Year hope. Here is a woman for whom the past year has brought much suffering and uncertainty. She has had to accept changes that no one would have chosen freely. Surely there must have been times when she has wept in frustration at what was happening to her.

One of the hardest facts to accept must surely be her own role in the breakup of her marriage. Since almost always both sides bear some blame for the failure, one can presume that she reproaches herself for some past mistakes. If only, she thinks, I had done things differently, maybe the marriage would have survived.  

Looking toward 2004, Lisa has established her life on a new footing. With courage, she has taken on the challenges of living alone and a different job.

While accepting change, she has had the wisdom to find consolation in those family members and friends who have shared their love with her. Lisa also values the men and women for whom she works, seeing in them a creativity not normally associated with people marked by severe disabilities.

In addition, this enterprising woman continues to discover her own creativity as she crafts new poems. This kind of writing enables her to express some of her soul’s struggles and breakthroughs.

I find inspiration in Lisa’s resiliency in the face of devastating loss. She is a person who has been wounded by the unexpected blows of life but, resisting self-pity, she has resolved to move ahead in her search for peace and love. She has the courage to look toward the future hoping for God’s good gifts.

Henri Nouwen, one of my favorite gurus, once wrote in an unpublished journal: “The great temptation is to use our many obvious failures and disappointments in our lives to convince ourselves that we are really not worth being loved.” Lisa, I like to think, has received the winter grace of resisting that temptation and of daring to make a new beginning in the spirit of hope.

Richard Griffin

“I just wanted to be there with God and hang out.” That is what Rev. Bill Anthony says of his recent drop-in visit to a church in the late morning of a warm summer day. As it turned out, he stayed sitting there for two hours, praying and just being there in the presence of God.

He finds similar spiritual relish in his frequent visits to a nearby monastery. The aspirations of the monks in that place inspire him. “Their aims are so noble,” is the way he puts it.

In retirement, this 93-year-old Episcopal priest continues a vibrant spiritual life, both in the quiet of contemplation and in reaching out to others. Though he loves being “quiet with God,” he leaves the door of his studio apartment open so that people can confer with him.

Hospitality of all sorts counts as one of Rev. Anthony’s prime values. To underline that, he readily quotes the New Testament line: “Some have entertained angels unaware.” To him, the love of God and neighbor are tied together. “The same God that taught me to love Him,” he says, “taught me to love him and her.”

When he talks about spirituality, “Rev,” as many members of his assisted living community call him, glows. His face reflects outward what seems an inner light flowing from his union with God.

About that ongoing dialogue, Bill likes to repeat words from one of the prayers used in the Episcopal liturgy: “In quietness and confidence will be our strength.” Though he likes to repeat words like these when he visits church, he also feels content to forego formal prayer, and sometimes just to look at the altar and think about the Eucharist.

Sometimes this man of faith philosophizes about evil. “There is no sense to evil,” he believes. “It’s anti-reasonable; it has no standing in itself.” He takes note of the adversary, however, Satan who wars against God but ultimately faces defeat. Bill’s confidence in God is unshaken by the power of evil in the world.

For him, God is the real thing. “God created us to play with Him, to dance with Him, as well as to get His help,” Bill believes. “The real thing is exciting but we’ve been inoculated against the real thing.”

“He’s nuts about us,” Bill says of God’s love. Carrying that love to others is our main purpose in life, he is convinced. He admires doctors, journalists, and other brave men and women who travel to dangerous parts of the world to serve others. Whether or not they know it, they are glorifying God in their courage and devotion toward people in need.

Integrity like theirs is in short supply, however. “Integrity is very important to me,” Bill asserts. “That’s the thing that’s missing in Washington.”

Even those who achieve a certain level of integrity, however, cannot be certain of results, Bill acknowledges. “The results I leave in God’s hands,” he says. Going further, he claims that we are too result-oriented. “You’re not going to see results; our job is not to harvest but the tilling of the ground.”

If he walks out of step with the times, that does not bother Bill Anthony. Playfully, he calls himself a pterodactyl, a dinosaur who continues to cherish the values that he learned in his classical education and from the theology that guides his life.

Not does he fear death. Asked how he feels about that inevitable event, so daunting to most people, this aged man answers: “I can’t wait.”

His dear wife, an artist whose paintings adorn the walls of his apartment, died several years ago. Appropriately enough, given what she meant to him, her name was Grace. They both made the decision to let her die rather than go through further painful and unavailing surgery.

Bill recounts something extraordinary that happened after her death. “Six months later,” he says, “my wife came to see me in a night vision.” In his sleep, he heard her telling him: “Everything is marvelous, everything is heavenly.”

This genial and loving man finds joy in having four adult children, along with five grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. For them, he wishes that they all may come to find delight in God’s love, a delight that he wants everyone to experience.

Richard Griffin

Two stories this week suggest the presence of spirit at work in the lives of people.

A few days before his older brother Paul died at home in a mid-west city, Jack called him on the telephone from his residence in Boston. Concerned that her husband was too sick to take the call, Paul’s wife, on the other end of the telephone, tried to make Jack give up the effort to reach Paul. However, with urging from his own wife Susan, Jack insisted that he had to talk to his brother.

When he did get through to his brother’s bed, Jack explained to Paul that he had called to say goodbye. He wanted to bid his brother farewell until the two of them should be reunited “wherever we are going to go.”

Then Jack told him, “I love you, Paul.” As if with his dying breath, Paul replied, “I love you too, Jack.”

This true story (only the names have been changed)  shows the power behind the urge to reconcile. In this instance, the rift between the brothers had not been deep. Rather, it had resulted from a gradual growing apart over many years. They had remained on speaking terms but their feelings for one another had grown cold and their personal contact rare.

Jack’s impulse to call his brother at a time of crisis, as Paul lay between life and death, can be seen as the spirit of reconciliation at work. As a result of one brother following this spiritual impulse, two men came closer together emotionally than they had ever been previously. By reason of this bold action, one of them became better prepared to die, the other to go on living.

Jack, the survivor, suffers from dementia in his old age. His future does not offer much expectation for anything but continued decline, painful for him, his family members, and friends. Given his mental condition, the initiative he took with his dying brother takes on even greater meaning.

By acting this way, he was doing something that will soon become impossible for him. But now this reconciliation has been sealed in his soul. Even if he gets to the point where he cannot remember having done it, this spiritual action will retain its value.

Another evidence of spirit at work came to me last week in the form of a sermon written by a friend. Charles, a Protestant minister, serves a church in the northwest part of Oregon.

Recently the parish sent Charles and several lay members to visit Los Cimientos, a remote village high in the central mountains of Guatemala. They brought with them gifts for the desperately poor people of the village, along with the desire to share spiritual goods as well.

In a sermon that serves as a report to parishioners, Charles tells about arduously climbing up the mountain where most of the people live. At a certain point, the group of visitors and the villagers accompanying them sat down for a rest which the Americans desperately needed.

They also needed water so they pulled out of their bags the water bottles they had brought with them. Each of the visitors drank from his or her own supply, oblivious of their hosts’ thirst. One young woman among the visitors, however, rose, walked over to one of the local men, and gave him her water bottle. This woman, Fiona, was neither a member of the church back home nor a Christian.

When Charles and the others saw what the young woman had done, they were crestfallen. They suddenly realized how unfeeling they had been, how closed to the needs of other human beings. They were ashamed to acknowledge that they had not acted as Christians are supposed to. It took a person who does not believe in Jesus to show them how to put the teachings of Jesus into practice.

Charles’ own words complete our story. “When she sat down, one member of our team said to her, ‘How could you do that?’ And Fiona replied, ‘How could you not?’

“‘How could you not?’ The moment I heard those words I felt as if I had been shot. Here we were, having come thousands of miles to be with these people, of offer support, to establish relationship with them, and yet I had not done the most basic, simple, human thing of all: to share my cup of water with my new brother.”

Richard Griffin

The use of incense as part of the official prayer of their church offends some people, I have discovered this Christmas season, much to my surprise. As a person accustomed to it throughout my whole life, I feel comfortable with it and had thought everyone else felt the same way.

I did know of certain members of the Church of England in the last century who objected to elaborate vestments and incense, referring dismissively to these liturgical features as “lace and smells.” To them, these uses smacked of ornamentation that they considered foreign to the spirit of the liturgy.

The objections that I have heard recently are more serious. Some people, it turns out, dislike incense because it stirs up allergies in them. When it is directed toward their face, incense makes them feel choked up, the way cigarette smoke does.

Others complain that the use of incense in church smacks of “voodoo,” a kind of pagan ritual that is at odds with Christianity. It seems closer to superstition than true religion, they feel, and should have no place in enlightened worship.

To the first objection, one can only sympathize with the discomfort of worshippers who suffer from imposition of a substance that upsets their well-being.  Perhaps their best option is to anticipate when incense may be used and to avoid such services.

Responding to the second objection is more complicated. For one thing, the word Voodoo is a popular corruption of the name Vodun, a religion of African origins that is now practiced by some 60 million people. In particular, many people in Haiti espouse Vodun, sometimes mixing it with the elements of the Catholic religion.

By contrast, Voodoo usually refers to a cult born of Hollywood films that feature bizarre practices and eerie ghosts. It should not be confused with the Vodun religion that was brought to the new world by African slaves and offers them spiritual values.  

Incense is not something that the Christian Church has come up with in recent times as its own invention. Rather, it can claim a tradition that goes as far back as the beginnings of recorded history. Pictures in ancient temples and tombs reveal its widespread use in the ancient Near East both in ordinary daily life and in religious worship.  

By no means was incense the exclusive property of pagans, however. The people of Israel made extensive use of it: it is mentioned more than 100 times in the Hebrew Bible. In Proverbs 29:9 one reads: “Perfume and incense make the heart glad.” And in Exodus 30:34 the Lord instructs Moses how to make incense as something “holy to the Lord.”

Priests in Israel used incense when they offered the prescribed sacrifices to Yahweh. It was also associated with private prayer: in Psalm 141, the worshipper says: “Let my prayer be counted as incense before you.”

Though the New Testament contains only a few references to incense, the most notable perhaps being the “frankincense” offered to the infant Jesus by the wise men from the East, its use by the Christian Church can be traced back to the fourth century. Of course, it could well have been employed in worship long before that time.

Incense, in particular, would seem to have been a welcome addition to the public worship of the church. Its main value is that it appeals to one’s sense of smell. Most worshippers, I suspect, find it thus opens another dimension to the sensual experience of liturgy.

Even now, I can remember from my youth the characteristic smell that used to fill the church at times when the golden incense holder was swung. I also associate it with funerals in which the body of the deceased person is recognized as holy by having the clouds of incense directed toward it.

Many people who do not adhere to any particular religious tradition find incense of spiritual value. Members of New Age groups often burn incense to create a certain atmosphere conducive to meditation or spiritual reflection. A room filled with pungent clouds of incense makes for an appropriate environment for moving beyond thoughts bounded by earth.

Count me among those who value incense and welcome its frequent use. To my mind, its fumes symbolize the spiritual character of prayer effectively. I have made my own the verse from the Psalms: “Let my prayer be counted as incense before you.”

Richard Griffin