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

“‘How can the harshness of existence be sweetened at the core?’ the Ba’al Shem once asked his disciples.

He then answered his own question: ‘By raising oneself toward the greatest desire of all: the longing for true goodness.’

It is perfect compassion.’”

I found this brief passage from a book referred to in this month’s issue of Tikkun, a Jewish magazine that typically offers much to think about. In this instance I would add: and pray about too.

Ba’al Shem Tov (the Master of the Good Name) as he is usually referred to, was one of the great rabbis of the Hasidic tradition that swept through Eastern Europe a few centuries ago. Living in the 18th century, the Ba’al Shem Tov inspired such devotion among his followers that he is still held in great reverence even now.

Many stories are told of this charismatic man whose teaching was collected and handed down after his death. The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, writing in the 20th century, said of his name, “the term ‘Baal Shem Tov’ signifies a man who lives with and for his fellowmen on the foundation of his relation to the divine.”

In this instance, his teaching starts with a realistic view of human life. That life was especially difficult if you had to live as a Jew in Eastern Europe some 300 years ago. Your chances of being persecuted because of your religion were excellent and, almost surely, you lived in poverty.

Was there any way of changing this grinding way of life, asks the teacher. In putting the question, he suggests an image of daily life as a piece of fruit. The outside many be rough and prickly but there may be some way of changing it as the material nears its core, of turning it from bitter to sweet.

The rabbi’s first answer – – raising oneself toward the longing for true goodness – – does not impress us as surprising. He sets forth a spiritual task that sounds quite familiar. Most masters of the inner life would assent to his recommendation.

Developing in yourself the desire for true goodness sounds like a beautiful agenda for one’s whole life. The phrase “true goodness” suggests that one will encounter false goods, those substitutes for the real thing that often deceive us.

Also the instruction “raising yourself” teaches us that we must move to a higher plane if we are to lay hold of true goodness. It is above us and reaching it requires a discipline that stretches our capacities.

This first answer coming from the Ba’al Shem Tov moves the heart immediately.  Who among us does not aspire to true goodness? Does not everybody deep down want to be good, to grasp goodness and never let it go?

But it’s the second question and answer that throw us off stride. What is true goodness, the teacher asks? Perhaps we think we already know the answer, something like cultivating within ourselves spiritual perfection.

To our surprise and perhaps dismay, the rabbi’s response is outer rather than inner directed. For him, true goodness is perfect compassion. That means entering into the suffering and problems of others and responding with sympathy and understanding.

Once more, we discover how central compassion is to the religious spirit. When you come right down to it, caring for and about other people is more important than looking toward ourselves.

Of course, we must have compassion for ourselves too. But that comes comparatively easily, at least for those who know themselves loved by God. That knowledge allows us to sympathize with ourselves in the difficulties we encounter.

But then, reaching out to love our neighbor as ourselves, that is the test of true goodness, says the Ba’al Shem Tov – –  and not only he, but most of the other great spiritual teachers as well. They form a kind of chorus: if you want to be good, first be compassionate toward others.

These masters love to put things in a nutshell, to make us think, reflect, and pray. The words discussed here provide ample material for contemplation. They might even help us to find some sweetness at the core of existence, no matter how hard we find our lives to be.

Richard Griffin

A letter written by a beloved pastor to his parishioners provides abundant inspiration for this week’s column. His words express courage, peace, and love, enough to fill the hearts of readers with material for reflection and prayer.

The pastor whom I will call Father Frederick Rynne, has been a friend of mine since we first met as high school freshman, 60 years ago. Not only did we share intellectual adventures in the classroom but we played on the same baseball team, he at third base, I on the pitcher’s mound (occasionally).

Even more important, we shared the same spiritual ideals that helped activate our post-college careers. He has been outstanding as a priest who has served with distinction the people of several parishes and, at an earlier time, also directed campus ministry in the Boston archdiocese.

In the last few years, as the archdiocese was torn by the sexual abuse scandals, Father Rynne has assumed a wider leadership, calling for the removal of the previous archbishop and heading a priests’ association that has spurred reform.

His tenure as pastor in his current parish has been marked by devoted service to the people there, helping that community of faith to flourish. He has given serious attention to liturgy and homilies, and to current biblical and theological scholarship. His parish is active in service to others.

Now, however, this outstanding priest has become sick with a life-threatening disease. He has an inoperable tumor that involves a kidney and his liver. Currently, he is consulting with doctors about how best to deal with this serious threat to his bodily well being.

Were I in this situation, I fear that my response would be fear and foreboding. “Why me?” I would probably ask as I searched for reasons for my  fate.

Father Rynne, however, feels at peace despite the diagnosis. “It is not for me a great misfortune,” he writes, “but a necessary part of my life to which I feel called.”

To respond the way my friend is doing takes not only courage but spiritual vision. He sees this latest blow as something that fits in with his vocation. He does not, of course, think that God wants him to suffer but, still, he accepts suffering as part of his calling. As he tells his parishioners, “I have always felt fortunate, blessed by the Lord, and I do now.”

The word “always” suggests that his attitude forms part of a life-long habit of regarding himself as blessed. Now that a time of personal crisis has arrived, he can draw upon a spiritual reserve made up of gifts received from a loving God.

Father Rynne regards his parish as his home and he wants to stay there. He has so informed his archdiocesan superiors, who have shown themselves sympathetic to his request.

As he tells his parishioners, “I love being pastor here. It has always seemed right for me and the conviction that this is part of my vocation has never wavered and still does not.”

He also assures his readers that the works of the parish will continue as usual. Despite his illness, he will do what he can to serve parishioners and will see to it that the priests who have helped there will continue their service.

In closing, he asks for prayers and support, both of which I feel sure he will receive in abundance. I have seen at first hand the way in which his parishioners have supported Father Rynne before now, an indication of how they will respond in his time of crisis.

My friend does not regard himself as a person of outstanding virtue, I am sure. However, I regard him this way. He has thus far lived out his priesthood faithfully and generously, a sign of hope in a period of scandal and grief in the Archdiocese of Boston.  

No doubt there are other parishes where pastor and people are well matched and share mutual respect and affection. To find it in my friend’s parish to such an extent has buoyed up my faith as it has the spiritual life of others. For this pastor to have responded to personal crisis with such faith and courage gives to his parishioners and others who know him a renewed appreciation of spirituality.

Richard Griffin

“Did God make himself?” This question, if you can believe it, a four-year-old child recently asked her mother. She really did.

How could such a young person ask such a deep question? I don’t know but have irreproachable witness that she actually did.

Maybe it’s an example of the natural wonder that every child is born with. This would be the wisdom that children have until schooling or Saturday morning cartoons shake it out of them.

Whatever the case, the question about God qualifies as an instance of someone almost unbelievably young reaching into mystery.

Mystery is that condition of things whereby there is more to be known about them than we can ever know.

I take it as a gift that I have been able to maintain some of the wonder about God’s inner life that I first felt as a child. Thanks to my spiritual tradition with its emphasis upon the Holy Trinity, I learned enough about the inner life of God to enable me to think about this mystery from time to time all through the decades of my own life.

While not claiming to be a theologian, I have read what theologians have said.

More important, I have entered into the celebrations of the church’s liturgy that have focused on various aspects of the divine being.

What I love about this mystery is its revelation of an exciting dynamism within God. The divine being is seen as the site of movement, rather than inactivity. There is not a lonely solitude there but rather a continual exchange of love.

In this scenario, the Father gives life to the Son, and then together in love they produce the Holy Spirit. If this sounds sexual, then perhaps it is reflected in the physical love that human beings exchange with one another. It is the way we use human experience to grope for who God is.

This language does not mean gender, however, because that would make the three persons, or at least two of them, sound masculine. Father and Son have to be understood as above gender, so that you can call God “She” just as much as “He.” And, if you follow the original language of the Bible, you almost have to call the Holy Sprit “Her.”

Back to the girl’s question, I do not know how her mother answered. My response would have been to explain my belief that God never needed a beginning. God always was.

I like to think that this answer might stimulate further wonder on the child’s part about God’s being. Could there actually exist a being who never began, always was?

Not having any experience of a thing without a beginning, we are flabbergasted by such thinking. Even the astronomers, who assign almost unimaginable ages to the galaxies that make up the universe, see the Big Bang as the beginning of that universe.

To get your mind around the idea of a non-beginning, you have to go beyond rational thinking. Drawing on some of the wonder I felt in my early years, I still find it stimulating to contemplate that reality.

As further answer to the child’s question I would fantasize about the movement in God’s inner life as a kind of replacement for a beginning. No, God did not have to make himself but God did not have to simply wait around doing nothing. Instead, there was this marvelous activity that amounted to a life fuller than can be imagined.

The question we began with here contains an insight altogether remarkable in a child. Her asking it means that she has at least some grasp of something fundamental about God. The girl seems to know that God is sufficient unto himself.

Otherwise she would not have posed the question as she did. Her words presuppose that no one else could have made God. Only God would have been an agent powerful enough to have been the cause of his own existence.

I feel glad for a child’s question that has stimulated me to an enriched contemplation about God. God did not need to make himself but I believe God made me. And I am convinced God did so out of the love that permeates his own being.

That realization strikes me as enough to reenergize the contemplative life for many a meditation.

Richard Griffin