One of the advantages of being an early riser, I have discovered, is the sight of the still dark sky. As I walk the streets of the neighborhood on the way to our corner store to buy the newspaper, I look up and gaze in wonder at the brilliant planets and splendid stars that, when clouds do not interfere, burn brightly before the arrival of the day.

At this time of year I look with special attention toward the east where the planet Venus shines. This vision makes me think back to St. Luke’s Gospel and its account of the wise men who “saw the star in the east.” Formed by a lifetime of biblical imagery, I conjure up images of people connected with the birth of Jesus in the little town of Bethlehem. This association of stars and holy happenings sparks in me spiritual reflection about my place in the great universe, and that of my fellow human beings.

The sense of wonder I feel is itself a gift from above. This spiritual gift I hope never to lose – an awareness that at the heart of everything lies mystery, more reality than we can ever lay hold of. In the face of so stupendous a creation, how can we ever stop wondering about it all? And yet, even my astronomer friends confess hardly ever looking at the night sky; instead most of them nowadays focus on print-outs from their computers.

But these scientists do teach that there is much more to the universe than ever appears to us. Beyond our solar system, other systems further away than we can comprehend stretch out almost infinitely. Just hearing about these distances also provokes awe.

Down below, the lights that my neighbors display at this time of year also provide inspiration. The bulbs they string across small trees and bushes invite association with  the ineffable brightness of being. Local residents looking out from their windows and curious passers-by can take heart from this heralding of a sacred season.

Christmas and Hanukkah, coming in the same month, suggest many points of convergence between two great spiritual traditions. Both faiths call people to celebrate events of deep meaning. I recall former neighbors, now moved to Israel, whose weekly observance of the Sabbath and annual celebration of Succoth and other feasts moved me to admiration and reverence.

Other traditions, too, move their adherents to mark this season. Now that Americans find value in a variety of religions, from the Asia and elsewhere, we are learning to respect diverse approaches to the sacred. I recall gathering with Muslims in their local mosque where they shared with me the food and drink that ended their day of fasting during the holy time of Ramadan.

Still others among us gravitate toward new styles of spirituality, creating fresh forms of worship arising from new insights into the holy. They may find inspiration in the world of nature or newly fashioned rites of meditation.

Some people, however, feel no need of the transcendent or, perhaps better, find the transcendent in the merely human. This kind of secular spirituality can also lead to joyous celebration.

Whatever our approach, we can all discover motives for recognizing what is precious in this season. All of us are gifted, not only in qualities of mind and heart, but also in the country where we live.

We live in one of the places on planet Earth that has been most favored. This is a place of abundance, though unfortunately some have been left out and still await their fair share. Still, we are at peace, at least externally – if only that peace can take root in our hearts, then the promise of this season will be realized in our children.

The smallest children in our neighborhood also give me hope. One, named Peter, arrived only last month. What a blessing for us all his presence is! And those others slightly older – –  Georgia, Sam, Heloise, and Hayley – – growing up near people who treasure them, inspire me with what the future can be. Citizens of a new century and a new millennium, they will help shape the decades to come.

So there’s much reason to celebrate our having come into this season of festivity. For our children this means days free from school and freedom to play for hours on end. It may also bring with it the pleasure of unexpected gifts. I hope to see them  outside slid-ing along on new skis or sleds, and wearing bright jackets.

For grown-ups, beyond shopping sprees, may this time bring us fun at parties, reunions with extended family and friends, and (if we’re lucky) some leisure. We may even hope not to let this time speed by without our seizing the opportunity for prayerful reflection on the meaning of it all.

Richard Griffin

“God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things which should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other. Living one day at a time, accepting hardship as a pathway to peace, taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it, trusting that You will make all things right, if I surrender to your will, so that I may be reasonably happy in this life, and supremely happy with You forever in the next. Amen.”

These words make up the famous Serenity Prayer, used for more than fifty years by many people of faith and, indeed, by seekers of all sorts. Though often attributed to others, this prayer was actually written by the celebrated Protestant theologian Reinhold Niebuhr, a professor at Union Theological School in New York City and a man much admired for his intellectual and spiritual leadership.

“It was at a service at Heath’s Union Church that my father first spoke his new prayer,” writes his daughter, Elizabeth Niebuhr Sifton.  That was in 1943 when Reinhold Niebuhr was preaching in the small northwestern Massachusetts town of Heath, a place where he owned a house and spent much time.

At first sight the prayer seems quite individualistic. It can be read as if it is a plea for personal peace of soul. Notice, however, that it begins the request by using the plural: “give us.” This implies a community framework and it becomes a plea for a group of people, not just one

Professor Niebuhr’s intention, it seems, was to respond to the desperate situation in Europe then torn apart by World War II. As his daughter explains, “It was a prayer written by a teacher and writer who had spent a decade speaking out against Hitler.”

In a recent talk, Elizabeth Sifton called her father’s words “a prayer for collective action”  and explained that it was indeed a response to the world crisis that preoccupied his thinking.  This places the Serenity Prayer in the setting of social, not merely individual, concern.

Mrs. Sifton, a prominent New York publisher, also recalled a surprising historical fact. The prayer, she said, had been distributed to the United States Army troops who occupied Germany after the war. Some army veterans may remember having received this text and using it when stationed in that country.

Another group of people familiar with the prayer may be members of Alcoholics Anonymous. Reports of AA meetings indicate that Niebuhr’s words are often used to strengthen the resolve to keep sobriety. In that instance, the prayer may take on more of a individual than a social meaning.

In fact, the prayer in situations like AA meetings, usually drops the word “grace” at the beginning. Instead, this altered version begins “give us the serenity.” For Niebuhr the notion of grace was undoubtedly vital and a basic focus in his prayer. After all, he was a theologian who attached indispensable importance to the divine initiative at work in human life.

However, in the altered version, the prayer still holds beauty and power. It becomes the individual person’s cry for balance in the struggle to retain or regain peace of soul. It also emerges as the product of a general spirituality rather than as a specifically Christian statement.

In the context of Christian faith it expresses, not only the need for divine grace, but also the power of Jesus’ example, the value in surrender of self to God, and confidence that there is a life that goes beyond the earthly one. These are the convictions of a Christian believer that find compelling expression here.

Almost everyone can identify with the request for the wisdom to tell the difference between things that one can change and those that one cannot change. However, in practice this distinction can be difficult indeed. Going back to World War II and the prayer’s origins, one can imagine the conflicts felt by Germans who recognized the awful injustices imposed by the Nazis but honestly did not know what to do about the deadly situation.

Some paid the price for speaking out and taking action against the regime but, of course, the majority bent under the totalitarian pressure. The Serenity Prayer can therefore also serve as a reminder of the need sometimes to resist compromise in the face of evil.

Richard Griffin

Some twenty years ago, a neighbor who then lived across the street from us made a snide remark about me that I found, at one and the same time, irritating and instructive. Like other such bad-spirited observations, this one from a fellow with a reputation for being quite curmudgeonly told me something important about myself.

The neighbors had gathered outside after dinner, and the question of my absence from the gathering came up. When told that I was talking a course at a university that evening, the fellow observed with almost a sneer: “Richard is always trying to improve himself.”

This kind of remark lends itself to an obvious retort – “ Would that you, dear sir, might do something to improve your own disagreeable personality.” But this kind of rejoinder is not the point here.

Whatever his motive, that man had correctly identified one of my main impulses. And in holding it up to ridicule, he did me the service of revealing one of my traits that, in fact, had loomed large in my spiritual history.

Of course, it was more complicated than that – I have always been interested in knowledge for its own sake, as well as whatever  learning might lead to self-improvement. But, still, his stinging remark pointed to an issue important during much of my life.

Long before that incident, in the early days of my introduction to the spiritual life as an adult, I had set out at self-improvement by systematically rooting out my own imperfections. At that point, the desire to be perfect was so strong in me that I took pains to rid myself of every fault. My constant effort was to better myself morally and spiritually.

Some journal entries from those days long ago now make for  embarrassing reading. I blush with shame when I read such passages. One sentence, written during a retreat lasting thirty days, reveals my quest for self improvement.

In a reflection after a meditation on Judgment Day, I wrote:

“I see now that the delusions of my own heart are very real and very dangerous for my future safety unless I can ferret them out from their secret recesses.” This sentence, overblown in its rhetoric, suggests that I was involved in an all-out effort to tear myself apart in searching for my own faults.

Only many years later did I become reconciled to the stark fact that I would never become perfect and would have to live like other people, with a combination of personal virtue along with a fair number of bad impulses and actions. After deciding that the quest for abstract perfection was not what the spiritual life really meant after all, I settled on becoming merely human as my ideal.

Too many Americans consider spirituality as a means to self-improvement. Such a mistake comes easily: if you walk into a book store and look for books on spirituality, you will often find them shelved under the heading “self-help.” And there is no doubt that genuine spiritual life can better our character, making us more loving and honest.

But, still, spirituality is something worthwhile in itself and using it for other purposes can distort its meaning. Elizabeth Lesser, the author of The New American Spirituality, lists three reasons why the drive for self-improvement can even prove harmful. 1)You can become morbidly obsessed with yourself;  2) it is self-defeating to try to escape your basic character; and 3) you may cease to care about the welfare of the community.

Instead of being focused on any self-fix, Lesser advises her readers: “Don’t worry about being good. Instead, discover how both good and bad live within you. Deeply accept the shadows even as you seek the light.”

Similarly, in a journal passage written years ago on the occasion of a vacation visit to New York City, I made something of the same point, not without some rhetorical exaggeration about allowing myself to behave badly.

This is how I framed the issue then: “To me, the moral dilemma of life is the fundamental choice to live by faith or not. When you do live by faith, then you can behave badly, but you will not necessarily go wrong. Trusting yourself, and the merciful love at the heart of the world, you can find your way.”

Richard Griffin

“There should be healing of the soul and healing of the body.” Jerome Groopman, physician and writer, quoted this line from a prayer said in Jewish synagogues every Saturday.

Only recently did he ask himself why, in this prayer for healing, mention of the soul comes before the body. He now sees wisdom in this word order: “a time will come when the body will not survive but the soul can always be healed.”

Dr. Groopman made these statements in a forum held two weeks ago entitled “The Challenge of Medical Knowledge” and sponsored by Boston College and the Atlantic Monthly. This forum was the first in a series of discussions under the heading “Dialogue: Belief and Non-Belief in Modern American Culture.”

This event has taken its inspiration from a series of public conversations initiated by Cardinal Martini, the archbishop of Milan whose forums have attracted widespread attention. Underlying these latter discussions is the view that “there is in each of us – whatever our religion; even in a bishop – a believer and a non-believer.”

Dr. Groopman’s co- presenter was Sherwin Nuland, a Yale Medical School-based surgeon who is the author of “How We Die,” among other books. He calls himself an agnostic but, at the same time, he professes a spirituality that takes inspiration from human love. Though he said “I have never been able to convince myself that life has inherent meaning,” he finds rich meaning in the human spirit’s longing for love.

Unlike Dr. Groopman, Dr. Nuland professes not to be a believer in God. At the same time, however, he admits “The wonder of the power of religion has never left me.” And he resists strongly the idea that the physician is like God.

He agrees with Dr. Groopman about the need for doctors to resist “this tremendous intoxication with power.”

In Jerome Groopman’s view, “within everyone there is a divine spark.” It is this spark that makes the practice of medicine “a truly humanistic profession.” He does not feel tension between his roles as doctor and as a person of faith. Rather, he draws inspiration from his own faith even as he quotes approvingly the theologian Paul Tillich who said, “the basis of all true faith is doubt.”

Dr. Groopman also finds inspiration in the faith of his patients. Among them was a woman named Elizabeth who died of breast cancer. In her he saw “an example of abiding faith that allowed her to pass through the storm without flinching.”

The death of a boy whom he calls Matt tested his faith, however. After recovering from leukemia, this boy died from AIDs contracted from a blood transfusion. “I found myself empty over such a horrific tragedy,” Dr. Groopman confessed.  

Dr. Nuland, for his part, feels vulnerable when his patients die. Though intellectually he recognizes that doctors cannot be godlike, he still says, “I always think it is my fault.” He adds, “There is no faith to help me in these situations.” But he wrestles with the moral issues around medical care, death and dying. Part of his approach is to recognize the biases in himself toward other people.

Returning to an earlier theme, Dr. Groopman stressed the limitations in the power of the physician. He thinks that physicians must be prepared to step back from power and finds this position strongly supported by the religion, notably in the writings of the rabbis who point out the dangers of egoism. Idolatry, after all, means the worship of the self.

Forum moderator Margaret Steinfels, editor of Commonweal magazine, asked about devising an “ars moriendi” (“art of dying”), reviving a medieval way of helping people prepare for death. In reply, Dr. Nuland said “We doctors must restore our pastoral role.” Instead of relying on technology for everything, doctors could begin by “accompanying”dying people when it becomes clear they cannot be cured.

In the question period audience members came forward to ask about prayer and evil.

Both physicians remain extremely skeptical about prayer at a distance. They do not think that someone else can help you by their prayers. Dr. Groopman calls prayer “a mechanism to look deeply into your heart and mind.” Dr. Nuland says it as a way to exalt the deity and to express love.

About evil, Dr. Groopman acknowledged our lack of understanding and quoted a rabbi who once said, “God exists where man lets him in.”

Richard Griffin

Last week I traveled to Philadelphia in order to celebrate the seventieth birthday of my longtime friend David. At the end of a festive dinner at the city’s leading Chinese restaurant, many family members and friends in the group rose to speak about their feelings for him.

We cited the numerous virtues found in David’s character and recalled experiences through which our affection for him grew strong. Several of the speakers, men and women both, finished by saying explicitly that they loved him, a sentiment that struck a resonant chord in my own heart.

David thus received compelling evidence that his friends really do love him. Though it does not always work this way, I like to think that this outpouring of affection worked to strengthen the love that David has for himself.

Jesus told his listeners, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” This commandment, rooted in the Hebrew Bible, is honored in virtually all the religious traditions of the world. It urges on spiritual seekers an ideal that enhances the value of human life. It tells us of our duty and privilege to treat others as we would wish to be treated.

What lies almost hidden in this sublime commandment, however, is its assumption that we ought to love ourselves first. Caring deeply about ourselves is the bedrock on which this religious requirement rests, the starting point for a love that embraces all other people.

Ironically, many people have grown up in religious surroundings that taught them a kind of self-hatred. In the name of spirituality, they learned to be harsh and unrelenting in judging themselves. For reasons that seemed spiritual, they became their own worst critics as they habitually found fault with their own actions and even with their own thoughts and feelings.

Thus, not a few people whose upbringing has been religious do not show much compassion toward themselves. While knowing about the teaching of the great spiritual leaders, they still find it difficult, even impossible, to treat themselves with tenderness. Instead they often feel a gnawing guilt that makes their life much less rewarding than it could be.

Burdened with that guilt, many people think less of themselves than do their friends. They dare not believe the appreciation that friends and family members feel for them. Instead they stay fixated on their own faults, continuing to blame themselves for past sins and mistakes.

Religion often seems to approve of this stance. “Self-love” is often advanced as something that clashes with spiritual well-being. Masters of the spiritual life typically teach their pupils to overcome their self-love by humility and acts of penance.

Used by these spiritual guides, however, the expression “self-love” means something different from what Jesus meant in his commandment. What it points to here is egotism,  the pride that cuts us off from God and other human beings. It suggests an unhealthy focus on oneself that narrows the soul.

Both good mental health and a flourishing spiritual life lead toward an appreciation of ourselves as loveable and loved. Genuine spirituality encourages us to have a high esteem for ourselves, to admire what we are. It teaches us to reject the inner voice that says “If other people really knew what I’m like inside, they could never love me.”

Of course, this should not limit our ability to recognize our own genuine faults. When we have done something wrong, feeling guilty is altogether appropriate. But this feeling of guilt remains compatible with a strong love for ourselves. In fact, a true self-love can free us to admit it when we have done wrong.

Given the wonderful way in which the life of a human person has been created, you might think that loving oneself, being compassionate toward ourselves, would be easy. But, in fact, a proper-self love has to be developed and cultivated. It is part of growing toward spiritual maturity and is a gift that becomes more precious as life goes on.

As the young pastor in Georges Bernanos’ Dairy of a Country Priest says: “How easy it is to hate oneself! True grace is to forget. Yet if pride could die in us, the supreme grace would be to love oneself in all simplicity – as one would love any one of those who themselves have suffered and loved in Christ.”

Richard Griffin

Sometimes the simplest messages carry the most precious spiritual meaning. That truth applies to words heard two summers ago by a young woman college student from the United States who was working in New Zealand on assignment for a student-run travel publication.

One Sunday, she felt homesick and went to church in the town where she was staying. Her feelings about being away from home were soon soothed when she heard the message from the pastor. (I have this account from my own pastor, Monsignor Dennis Sheehan who recently told it to a group of new collegians, their parents, and others in our congregation.)

Addressing his congregation, the New Zealand pastor made three points. First, you are welcome. This he intended to be, not just for the people as a group, but for each individual. He wanted them to feel that, wherever they had come from, whatever the color of their skin or economic standing, they belonged there. The college student felt this pledge directed to her and she took comfort in it. The words made her feel at home, something she longed to feel at that time.

Secondly, the pastor told his listeners, “You are loved.” Again, he meant that each individual there was loved by God and by the community of faith. Each person could count on being appreciated for herself or himself, not because of their status in society or for some other distinction.

The pastor’s third point was, “You are needed.” This adds another dimension to the love pledged earlier. It meant that people were also valued for the personal gifts that they brought to church. Being loved themselves, they were now urged to reach out to others in need.

Clearly, this was a wise pastor who knew how to speak to people’s deepest needs. His was an approach that emphasized the positive and responded to the need everyone feels to be appreciated.

Being welcome, being loved, and being needed are precious human gifts and also find their roots in spiritual attitudes. When extended as wishes to others, they give evidence of something that goes beyond the surface of human life.

A time when I felt overwhelmed with hospitality takes me back in memory to Mexico City. There on a first-time visit I was welcomed into the home of a friend who had been a college classmate. I cannot forget the words he then spoke to me: “Mi casa es su casa”  (“My home is your home”), the first time anyone had said that to me.

And he followed through, giving me the best bedroom in his house, serving me delicious meals, and plying me with heady margaritas to drink. From the graceful way he made me feel welcome, I knew myself, after many years of separation, still his dear friend.

Many experiences of feeling loved stay lodged in memory. Among them, I will cite only one – the birth of my daughter. That ecstatic event evidenced for me an altogether special gift from a loving God who gave to my wife and me, in our mature years, a child healthy and full of promise.

The experience of feeling needed also has been mine many times. Probably that awareness reached fullest expression on the day of my ordination to the priesthood. In that rite, the community of faith was announcing that my services were recognized and accepted. Even though many years later I decided to leave this first calling, the memory of being needed remains for me a source of value.

As a reader of these words, you also can go back in memory to your own peak times when you have known yourself to be welcome, to be loved, and to be needed. If you sift these experiences for their deeper meaning, you can perhaps discover their spiritual roots. Deep down, they are signs of our value as human beings. Our lives do indeed go beyond appearances and have in them a meaning and a destiny that ennoble us.

The New Zealand pastor spoke a message simple yet profound. He also expressed an agenda for his community of faith –making everyone indeed feel welcome, loved, and needed. If we ourselves could adopt that triple agenda in our dealings with other people, would we not go a long way toward enriching our own lives as well?

Richard Griffin

Lucy, as I will call her, set down twelve small stones that she had picked up on a beach in Martha’s Vineyard the previous weekend. She arranged these stones on a green cloth that she spread on the floor in front of us. Next to these objects she placed a small vase that held a single rose. Within the circle of stones she put a candle and touched fire to its wick.

This simple but beautiful arrangement amounted to a still life design, suited for contemplation. The flame, however, did not stand still but moved in response to the slight currents of air circulating through the room. That flame is what fixed my attention at certain points during our small group’s discussion and the meditation that followed.

What came to fascinate me is how the flame gives light. As I continued to gaze at it, I moved into a new appreciation of this fire as a source of light. Beautiful as the rose is, that flower cannot give forth light like the flame. This fire, so insubstantial and yet so subtly brilliant, does deserve its choice as symbol of the spirit after all. Light-giving from its depths, the flame suggests the living soul deep down within us.

Another motif for our meditation came from a conversation that took place before we began. Lucy shared with us  memories of her dearest friend, a woman who had died three weeks ago. That death came at the end of a long illness, a time when the friend had shared much with Lucy as she prepared for the final day.

Lucy was not present as her friend died but family members later told Lucy of her last words. Just before she died, the woman’s face changed expression and she was heard to say, “I get it.”  

This phrase says a whole lot and also very little. What does “get” mean? Even more important, what does “it” refer to? Does anyone really know what the woman was saying?

Lucy, of course, does not pretend to know but, like others, feels stirred with wonder. The phrase suggests a sudden insight into reality. It is as if the woman, in her last moments of life on earth, sees a vision of the way everything holds together. A lifetime’s striving for understanding is rewarded at the last. Perhaps she sees the root of reality, the love that gives the world its ultimate meaning, the divine kindness that underlies all of life.

One can only imagine what this revelation would have meant to the dying woman. This vision into what Dante called “the love that moves the sun and the other stars” could have made death, for her,  the doorway into a new and ecstatic way of being.  She was granted a more intense appreciation of the real than she had ever experienced in her life previously.

As we pondered this death, the splendid late October light streamed in from the garden outside filling the room with subdued brilliance. One of our group rang a soft bell several times and we turned to the silence inside us. Most people sat on the floor in the lotus position, eyes closed and body still. A peace descended over us as we opened ourselves to the action of the spirit.

The spirit of the woman who had died remained a motif of the group meditation. Her vision at the last inspired in us a renewed appreciation of the mystery that lies at the heart of all creation and of our own lives. There is more to reality, it said, infinitely more than we can ever plumb.

The flame, in its own mysterious being, continued to feed my soul. So did the continuing courage of Lucy’s husband Ned (again, I have substituted another name for the real one). His serious loss of memory gives a sober dimension to our gatherings but his courage in coping with it inspires us all. On this occasion, referring to his wife, Ned says: “She is my memory.”

And she is. In giving him loving support Lucy helps us all move toward the love that undergirds our hopes. We perceive that love fitfully and need to be supported in our own weakness. As yet, we don’t “get it” but look at the flame and try to remain open to its promise.

Richard Griffin