Hehir’s Prayer

“I don’t pray very well by myself, and therefore I am always grateful for a larger surrounding system of prayer that sweeps me up and it carries me along, makes up for my inadequacies.”

These are the words of Father J. Bryan Hehir, a Catholic priest well known for his church leadership and currently the dean of Harvard Divinity School. His surprising admission about not praying well was made at a public forum last spring at which scholars discussed their religious identity.

Two parts of this statement merit attention. First, for this priest, long experienced in the spiritual life, prayer does not come easily. And second, he finds his inadequacies in private prayer counterbalanced by belonging to a community of faith.

Of course, the prayer that he is talking about here is the prayer of silence or, at least, of few words. This kind of contemplation differs from the kind that relies mainly on words, either spoken aloud or repeated within mind or heart. Some people rely mainly on spoken prayers and may not experience the same difficulties that mark prayer that is often called “mental.”

For me, what Father Hehir says about the difficulty of wordless prayer comes as  welcome self-disclosure. In revealing his inner experience, he gives me hope because I, too, find prayer difficult. Perhaps others will be encouraged in their own attempts at praying by knowing that it does not flow easily for a person of his spiritual credentials.

The second part of his statement also touches me. In sharing with an audience how he compensates for his own inadequacies in prayer, Father Hehir gives a convincing reason for being part of a community that is committed to worship. In this instance, he is talking about the Church to which he has belonged since birth.

His words “sweeps me up and carries me along” suggest more than mere membership in that community, however. They describe something dynamic: an ongoing process whereby a spiritual force seizes him and propels him further along the spiritual journey.

For me also, belonging to a community of faith has long meant having a share in the spiritual strength that comes with access to the prayers of other people. They can compensate for my own spiritual shortcomings. I am glad at not having to go it alone spiritually. It is not all up to me.

That feeling also marks my attitude toward the five-person prayer group to which I have belonged for the last several years. Often I find myself staggering through the half-hour of silence when we sit with one another, eyes shut and attention gently fixed. Sometimes I battle the impulse to fall asleep; much of the time I fend off distracting thoughts that flood over me. But knowing that others are engaged in the same spiritual enterprise buoys me up and gives me needed courage.

For people devoted to frequent prayer, their experience of this prayer is not always difficult, of course. In times of feeling good about themselves, when welcome events are happening in their lives, their hearts can feel full and they may even find it easy to turn to God in prayers of thanksgiving.

For some, prayer may have become a comfortable habit as they have grown older. A researcher looking into the prayer life of older women has reported this of them: “Over the course of their lives, prayer has become more simple, more intimate, more meaningful, more flexible and open.”

It sounds as if their prayer life is harmonious and free of hassles. But even for these women, there will almost inevitably be occasions when praying gets to be a chore rather than a consolation. Dryness then becomes the main interior atmosphere during the time set aside for prayer and the temptation to give it up feels overwhelming.

Then you might be feeling what British author C. S. Lewis refers to as “the abyss of silence from which no echo comes back.” Mystics of various traditions have given often eloquent expression to this kind of nothingness. That is a time when you might feel especially grateful for belonging to a community of faith equipped to “sweep you up and carry you along.”

Richard Griffin

Nurturing Room

Faith Witte, the mother of an eleven-month-old baby girl, tells what she gets from contact with members of the oldest generation. “I have drawn encouragement from them for looking ahead,” she says. “They lived through it and they’re enjoying their later years.”

Of one older woman in particular, Jennie Glass, who is almost ninety-two, she says, “I thought she was around seventy-five. I really hope I can be like her. It gives me encouragement for getting older.”

These remarks sound like a gerontologist’s dream, eloquent testimony to the advantages of personal contact between generations. People who are decades younger can indeed find inspiration from older people.  And, of course, older people can in turn draw stimulus from those much younger than they.

On the afternoon of my conversation with her, Faith Witte was one of five mothers sitting on the rug and playing with their children in a living room on the top floor  of Cabot Park Village, an assisted living community located in Newtonville. This gathering place is called the Nurturing Room and is the site of an unusual, perhaps unique, set of social interactions.

The generations come together as participants in the “Nurturing Rooms for Mothers and Infants” program sponsored by Jewish Family & Children’s Service. The group at Cabot Park Village, comes together two afternoons each week. The space is filled with the noise of small children chattering, gurgling, and sometimes screaming, along with adults talking animatedly with one another. Some half dozen residents of the retirement community are usually there, among them Jennie Glass, the lead volunteer.

The program at this site is one of  only two groups thus far; the other is located in Randolph. A third is scheduled to begin in October at the Youville House, an assisted living residence in Cambridge. To credit the remarks of the people taking part in the Cabot Park setting, the nurturing room seems to be having a remarkable effect.

With well-organized succinctness, Faith Witte summarizes the impact the nurturing room has had on her: 1) her daughter gets to associate with other kids of different ages;  2) it gives the mothers a chance to relax; and 3) her grandparents do not live nearby so it makes association with older people possible.

An entirely unexpected effect on at least one older person was dramatized for me when I interviewed a woman whose name I have agreed not to publish. When I asked her what the room meant to her, she said “It’s delightful because the children are so sweet.” She went on to tell me about having had two children herself a long time ago when , she said, things were very different. Though this woman did not have much else to say, she often laughed sympathetically as she observed the children playing.

Then, I moved over to talk with a gentleman who turned out to be the woman’s husband. When he heard that his wife had talked with me about being there, he was astounded. He could not believe that I did not suspect anything about her condition. “She has Alzheimer’s,” he revealed. “I don’t know how she made out with you.”

The husband also described the good effect that coming to the nurturing room has on his wife: “When she comes here, her face lights up like she’s a new person.” Confirming the value of her visits, he adds: “It’s only because of her that I’m here.”

This exchange was instructive for me. It makes me wonder if settings like the nurturing room might be the best kind of environment for some people with dementia. Maybe contact with young children enables them to draw upon mental and emotional powers that otherwise remain inaccessible. Of course, the woman in question seems to be in the earlier stages of the disease.

Another mother, Sarah Bengelsdorf, pronounces her own grandmother “the wisest woman I know.” But the grandmother lives in Atlanta so they don’t get to see one another very often. That’s why Sarah values contact with the residents of Cabot Park.

“It’s nice to see the people from that generation,” she tells me. “They really enjoy the children and vice-versa.” With disarming humility, she says of them, “They know a lot more than I do about families and children.”

A woman whose apartment is the closest to the nurturing room, Dorothy Bronstein, enthuses about the chance to take part in the activities. “What could be better than to see the kids?” she exclaims. “It brings back wonderful memories.”

The person who invited me to visit is Diane Nahabedian, Director of Marketing Communications for JF&CS. A reader of this column, she feels pride that her agency has taken the lead in establishing the Nurturing Room.

The agency has kept up with the times in recognizing the importance of providing support for early nurturing. And yet, she says, this program is traditional and has some continuity with other services offered by her agency, founded in 1864. “It’s a program that is catching on,” she says as she looks ahead.

Richard Griffin

Human Destiny

“We want to control our own destiny.” That statement still echoes in this writer’s ears long after hearing it spoken by an elderly woman testifying before a committee of state legislators.

Those words give expression to a zeal for political and social change that many spiritual traditions of the world would endorse. What the woman said can be understood as a form of love for one’s neighbor, a love that traditions such as Judaism and Christianity, among others, highly approve.

It can also be understood as the expression of a need for political and social independence, a spirited refusal to be written off, or even patronized, by those in power. One can only applaud this assertion.

But, on a deeper level, none of us, however powerful, can control our own destiny. At least, that is how persons deeply grounded in spirituality would see it. Instead, they would locate personal destiny in the hands of God.

Another expression of destiny centered in the individual person came more recently in the final statement of Timothy McVeigh, executed for his mass murder in Oklahoma City. As his last testament, he chose a famous nineteenth century poem by the Englishman William Ernest Henley to express his view of human life.

The best known lines of that poem are the last two: “I am the master of my fate / I am the captain of my soul.” These sentiments express a romantic viewpoint popular in the Victorian era when Great Britain was riding high and the sun never set on its empire. Looked at now, these sentiments sound naïve and thoroughly unrealistic. It was sad to hear Mr. McVeigh using them for his farewell, rather than words that might express at least a measure of regret at his monstrous deeds.

Is human destiny ours to manage or does it ultimately depend on the work of a higher being? That is the crucial issue vital for each person to determine. Modernity seems almost to require the answer that we are in complete charge of ourselves. However, huge numbers of people have discovered a different answer.

Two of the classical teachings in the Western tradition of spirituality that bear on the question have been called providence and abandonment. Both names are admittedly old-fashioned these days but the reality underlying them remains vital for many people who are searching for ways to ground their lives in the deepest reality.

Providence might be translated as divine caring. It is closely joined to God’s action in creating the world. It means that God cares about the world and watches over it with solicitude. The fall of a sparrow, the welfare of each human being matters to the maker of all creatures.

Jesus gives poetic expression to these ideas in the Sermon on the Mount. There he speaks of the God who takes care of the lilies of the field whose splendor is “greater than Solomon in all his glory.” He urges his followers to put aside anxiety and instead trust to the Father of all creation.

Applied to personal spirituality, providence is related to the effort to decide what God wants of us. As one theologian sees it, providence is practical: it helps one “to discern God’s will in accordance with time and circumstance, to attune oneself to his calls, to distinguish between trials sent from God and devilish temptations, and to persevere in faith even through severe struggles.”

The other theme, abandonment, can be understood as letting-go. It is closely related to providence because it means the surrender of self to God. It implies a trust that God will take care of you, no matter what lies in store.

Jesus serves as a  model  of letting go, especially when he abandoned himself to the Father as he suffered on the cross. That is the meaning of his words “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” These words from a Hebrew Psalmswere probably known to Jesus as he grew up at home and may have often formed the content of his prayer.

Many other people committed to spirituality have used these words as a daily theme in their prayer. Those especially who have suffered serious illness have had recourse to this way of confiding in God. Though this kind of letting go may seem extreme and even irrational to people for whom God remains distant and uncaring, these words have brought peace of soul to many in times of stress and hardship.

Richard Griffin

A Visit to Italy

A friend has called to report on her vacation in Italy. This woman, whom I will call Janet, went there with some members of her family for three weeks in June. They stayed in the countryside but visited Florence and other cities in Tuscany as well. During this, her first sojourn among Italians, she was taken by the beauty of the country and the marvels of its artistic heritage.

Janet also confided a secret to me. This secret was a small action that she took on a kind of impulse. It was the first time in her life she had done such a thing. Even now, she is amazed at what came over her and she feels half apologetic about her action.

What she did was light a candle in a church. Two factors moved Janet to do so: first, she was moved by the atmosphere of simple piety in the church, the art and the people who came there to pray; secondly, her thoughts often turned to a sick friend back home, a woman with a life-threatening illness. So, as a kind of silent prayer for that friend she lit the candle, as many other people do.

Lighting a candle does not seem anything notable, people do it all the time. Yes, but for Janet this was no ordinary act. She considers herself an agnostic as she has for much of her adult life. She does not deny God’s existence or that of a world beyond this one but she has no confidence anything can be known about this subject. Though she is a person with high moral standards, they are not based on an ethic derived from faith.

She thus regards it as quite extraordinary to have found herself doing something that is normally associated with believers and with pious believers at that.  That she should have done what simple people of faith are accustomed to doing still strikes her as amazing.

How could this have happened? Could it have been a moment of revelation, a precious time when a person becomes suddenly aware that reality goes far beyond what we can see and touch?

Of course, no one really knows. But many people of faith would find the desire to light the candle a sign of the divine presence. They would interpret the impulse as a gift of the Spirit that leads a person to live on a higher level.

Almost certainly Rabbi Abraham Heschel, a revered New York-based spiritual leader who died in 1972, would have agreed. He once wrote: “There is no human being who does not carry a treasure in his soul, a moment of insight, a memory of love, a dream of excellence, a call to worship.”

The five spiritual gifts mentioned by the rabbi can be seen manifested in the action taken by Janet. Her soul was stirred, suggesting a richness in her inner life. The moment of insight came upon her suddenly, without warning, as she found herself in a sacred space. The memory of her ailing friend reminded her of the love that they felt for one another. Perhaps she felt some kind of aspiration toward a divine excellence. And, finally, she may have felt stirred to light the candle in recognition of a higher reality.

This one event may not prove strong enough to change Janet’s life forever. However, it may. At the very least it seems likely that she will remember the moment, reflect upon it from time to time, and perhaps find continuing inspiration in it.

That’s the way it was for me when, some fifty years ago, I felt myself to have received a sign of God’s reality. At the time, I was walking in a cemetery, in a beautiful setting featuring hills forming a giant bowl, and flowers in profusion in the nearby gardens. There, suddenly, without warning, I felt hit by the realization, not only that God was the deepest reality of life, but that I would always remember the moment. In fact, I have done so, now and at many other times.

There is no guarantee, of course, that what happened to me then was authentic. But, still, the sudden realization has stayed with me and has enriched my spiritual life. For my friend Janet too, I hope that her lighting of the candle will have permanent good effects. I would be happy if this became for her a privileged moment to which she can keep returning spiritually and find in it a source of richness, pressed down and flowing over.

Richard Griffin

Big Apple

As a child, I used to feel disappointed whenever we traveled from Boston toward western Massachusetts and passed by the signs pointing toward New York City. Almost always my father continued driving straight to Holyoke, the city where he had grown up and where some of his family members still lived. How much more exciting it would be to visit New York, I always thought, instead of the dull place where my relatives lived.

This memory floats back when, as an adult, I do take the New York City exit and visit that metropolis every once in a while. Seeing the skyline as I approach Manhattan still evokes in me a sense of wonder that so much dynamism can be packed into one small island.

My attitude toward this place is like that of Samuel Johnson toward the London of his day. “When a man is tired of London,” he told his industrious biographer Boswell in 1777, “he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” And when you are celebrating a significant anniversary as my wife and I were, where better than New York?

I love the variety of people one sees on the streets of Manhattan. Millions of them come at you displaying all the colors of the human family and speaking many of the languages in use throughout the world. And at all hours of day and night; pulsating human life never retires from the streets. Yes, I realize that those streets are mean for many: you see wrecks of humanity scraping out mere existence from an environment not friendly to them.

But you also see surprising pockets of mercy. While traveling down Second Avenue on a municipal bus, I was intrigued to see the driver stop the vehicle, get up, and walk toward the back. There he lowered a platform and then raised it, accommodating a man with disabilities sitting in a motorized chair. Public transportation halted during rush hour, delaying dozens of people in their journeys home, in order to provide a place for a person who could not otherwise get where he wanted to go. The Americans with Disabilities Act had proven itself once again.

Shamelessly, I love to listen as New Yorkers converse. Sitting cheek by jowl with two ladies in a restaurant, I could not help but take mental notes of their conversation for my folder on practical gerontology.

“Most women our age have a lot of problems,” one of the ladies told her companion. As a possible remedy, she spoke approvingly of some anti-wrinkle stuff costing 45 dollars a jar. “She’s had her face done,” she reported about a mutual acquaintance. Of another she said, “When she drinks the night before, she looks older.”

The same speaker’s chief concern, however, was not aging, but where to get her hats blocked. No one seemed to be offering this service anymore but she thought a cobbler’s shop might be worth trying. She also wondered about taking a risk management seminar offered by an investment firm but was hesitating because, to quote unladylike language, “they’re all bullshitters.”

On another occasion I asked a cop the best way to get from our hotel to Lincoln Center. He replied in perfect “poy and koughee” New Yorkese, suggesting a taxi. I do not yet need subtitles to understand the language but I do consider it a subspecies of English.

The view of the East River from our 38th floor room was spectacular and ever changing. We looked over the United Nations buildings with their flags representing the peoples of the world. To the side, a ninety-story tower purporting to be the tallest residential building in the world, testified to the vaulting ambition of its developer, Donald Trump. Gazing at this monument to pretension, I saw manifest the daunting power of this island’s movers and shakers.

A play by Edward Albee stirred in me once more the power of dramatic art. “The Play About the Baby” has something of a gerontological theme that held me fixed, as did the marvelous performances of two veteran actors, Marian Seldes and Brian Murray.

The two younger actors appeared naked, fleetingly alas, in a display that I associate with New York sophistication. These two parents of new baby receive from their elders, what a New Yorker capsule review calls “a harsh taste of what life has in store .  .  . the ravages of adulthood.”

This column does not intend to serve as a mini travelogue nor an ad for tourism. It’s just that New York ties together some themes that have run throughout my long life and renews my appreciation for vibrant living. The cliches about the city are true: it’s altogether too crowded and many people living there are brash. But, as Dr. Johnson suggested so memorably of London, you’ve got to be tired of living not to love New York.

Richard Griffin

Eucharistic Minister

“Don’t wait till you’re sick to pray,” is the advice of a religious sister of my acquaintance. If you have ever been seriously ill, you have discovered the wisdom behind this suggestion.

That was my experience recently when I spent twenty-four hours in a hospital for some tests. During this period there were times when I wanted to pray but found it impossible. The main reason was the feeling of nausea that I was feeling. It made me so uncomfortable that I could not concentrate my thoughts or succeed in praying without being able to focus.

The machines that were attached to me also caused constant discomfort so that it was hard to attain peace of soul. In addition, nobody knew what, if anything, was wrong with me so the uncertainty made prayer difficult.

As often happens in modern hospitals, my fellow patients kept their televisions on so that I was subjected to constant unwanted noise. Though the three other men were fine people, they regarded the chatter of news and advertising as routine and normal, whereas I found it an obstacle to recollecting my thoughts.

So it was a stressful time, not at all conducive to prayer, even though I felt the need of spiritual consolation.

Fortunately, in the late morning my restlessness was temporarily broken by the arrival of an unexpected visitor. He was a eucharistic minister who was bringing the sacrament to patients who wished to receive the host that he carried. This marked the first time that I had seen a layman administer this rite.

He introduced himself as Joe Tomlinson, a eucharistic minister from St. Joseph’s parish in Lincoln, Massachusetts. Retired several years ago, Joe now has taken over the small electrical engineering company started by his daughter. He has been covering four hospitals, visiting patients and offering them communion.

At one of the hospitals, that specialized in serving people with mental problems, Joe does not go to individual rooms but instead conducts a Eucharistic service for patients who wish to come to him. The service features scripture readings and hymns in addition to the reception of communion.

When he came to my bed, Joe held hands with me and my visitor and led us in reciting the Our Father. His manner was at one and the same time relaxed and reverential. I was impressed by the sincerity of his faith as he reached out to me and the other sick people in the room.

Catholics of a certain age never saw this kind of visit happen when they were growing up. It was only in the middle 1960s that the church appointed lay people as eucharistic ministers. Previously, only ordained priests were allowed to touch the host and give it to others. To me, it is still a reason for thanksgiving that lay people are now expected to exercise this kind of ministry.

In the light of traditional theology, this activity can be seen as the priesthood of the baptized at work. Lay people thus perform a rite for which they are equipped by their own baptism.

The occasion on which Joe first became interested in serving as eucharistic minister happened when his wife became seriously sick. He asked his pastor to commission him for this role so that he would be able to give communion to his wife. Later she died but with the consolation of having received communion from her husband many times.

Joe Tomlinson appreciates the spiritual significance of it all. “Spiritually, I go to the church,” he explains, “and get the host, then I pause to reflect on what I’m about to do.”

He goes on: “It’s got nothing to do with me. The person I am visiting is Jesus Christ because he said, ‘whenever you do this to they least of my brethren, you do it to me.’”

Most people are very respectful, Joe observes, even when they say no to receiving communion. And he senses a spiritual effect on himself when he completes his task: “When I leave the hospital, I feel really energized.”

If Joe and other lay ministers can have the same effect on other sick people that I received, I count it a grace for everyone concerned. As described here, I felt a spiritual lift from the sacrament given me by a fellow lay person and feel thankful for his kindness.

Richard Griffin

Book Group

The number of book groups across America exceeds 250,000. At least, that is the heady figure arrived at by educated guess. I am glad to belong to one such group, as I have for more than thirty years.

I also feel happy that our members are both male and female. That makes ours different: an estimated 80 percent of this country’s book groups are made up solely of women.

Our most recent selection was a novel by the South African writer J.M. Coetzee. Titled simply “Disgrace,” this work focuses on a professor deep into middle age whose sexual liaison with one of his students plunges him into crisis. The novel also introduces readers to the turmoil of post-apartheid South African society, with its violence and shifting values.

We also enjoy reading nonfiction works. One previous selection, for example, was James Carroll’s “Constantine’s Sword.” The friendship that some of us share with this author did not prevent us from bringing some objectivity to our appraisal. Most of us appreciated Carroll’s painful historical expose of the injustices visited upon Jewish people by the Christian Church, while some members felt critical of him for mixing autobiographical episodes into the history.

For the summer, our custom has been to read a blockbuster, a long book, usually a classic novel, that we can sink our teeth into. Our choice this year came down to either “Pride and Prejudice” or Thomas Mann’s “The Magic Mountain.” Surprisingly, given the abiding popularity of Jane Austen in our group, the latter won the majority vote.

Not everyone finishes all the reading every month; in fact, some have been known not to have read the book at all. However, we encourage members to come to the meetings and, without shame, honor our dubious tradition of talking articulately about unread writing.

My reason for devoting a column to our reading group is not merely the joy found in good books. I am also convinced that, of all the devices that enhance the experience of getting old, social networks rank among the most important. Studies reinforce this conviction by showing that elders tend to flourish when they interact with friends, especially friends all along the age spectrum.

This conviction finds support in the words of George Vaillant, the 66-year old psychiatrist who directs what the Harvard University Gazette calls “the world’s longest continuous study of physical and mental health.”

The June 7th issue quotes his advice: “Life ain’t easy. Terrible things happen to everyone. You have to keep your sense of humor, give something of yourself to others, make friends who are younger than you, learn new things, and have fun.”

Most of this advice has been repeated so often as to have become almost shopworn. But one phrase leaps out by reason of its freshness: “Make friends who are younger than you.” This imperative, for those of us who can put it into practice, has the potential for transforming our experience of later life.

To me, at least, having friends of all ages offers precious support. People with whom you can share insights and exchange views of the world become a rich resource for living in later life. If you are comfortable enough with these friends to make mistakes and try out ideas that may not fly, so much the better.

It is of considerable benefit to me that some members of our reading group are more than thirty years younger than I. They bring a different perspective to the discussion and often offer insights that I am incapable of. That they take my views seriously and seem to appreciate my longer life history also brings me pleasure.

It gives our group cohesion that members share the same spiritual tradition. This common heritage provides a base of shared understandings that give us a head start in discussion. But it does not act as a straitjacket; rather it frees us to talk in terms that everyone can grasp, though they may disagree with points being made.

With the passage of time, our group will undoubtedly change. I hope, however, that we do not ever split over ideology the way an ancestor of this group did. That liberal/conservative falling-out sliced the membership into two, with the Charles River becoming the water of separation. The Newton/Boston members chose to stay on their side of the stream, while Cambridge and other communities remained on theirs.

In her charming book of essays “Ex Libris,” Anne Fadiman regales readers with this brief anecdote: for her forty-second birthday, her husband stealthily took her on a half-hour train ride from New York City to a weather-beaten little shop in the suburbs where he bought her nineteen pounds of used books. She felt overcome with delight at the surprise gift.

Our book group, in its most recent incarnation, probably equals this poundage in a single year. And while doing so we continue to enjoy one another’s company.

Richard Griffin