Bubble Gum

One day Megan, a seven- year-old girl, called excitedly to her mother: “Look, Mom, look Mom!” For a time her mother was distracted and failed to turn around. When the mother did take notice, she saw that her child had blown her bubble gum into a large bubble, the first time she had accomplished this feat.

Immediately, and unaccountably, the woman burst into tears. Of course, they were tears of joy, prompted by a sudden feeling of the beauty of her child and her own heightened appreciation of the world’s splendor.

This ordinary human event had become a spiritual experience. The woman had received an unexpected vision of the wonder that surrounds everyone and of the God who created it.

This story comes to me from Jan Gough, a deeply expressive  middle-aged woman who practices the ministry of spiritual direction. She judges the mother’s experience a good introduction to what the spiritual life means. For her, it is a fine instance of what it signifies “to feel one’s heart suddenly on fire.”

This spring, Jan completed a year’s training at the Jesuit-run Center for Religious Development in Cambridge. This internship proved to be an intense and wonderful experience for her. She found the people at this center open to her, a Presbyterian in a Catholic environment. They showed themselves flexible as if accepting a truth that Jan expresses in these words:  “God hasn’t read all the rule books we have written about God.”

Jan learned spiritual direction by two methods: first, by actually doing it (Jan had ten people who came to her each week); and second, by receiving supervision from a veteran spiritual director. The supervisor, in reviewing her work, did not focus on what she might have said wrong, but helped her “identify where you are getting in God’s way.”

That phrase comes close to what spiritual direction is. In Jan’s view, it is “the opportunity for a person to help another person discover how God is trying to speak to them in their life.”

This activity may seem elitist, if only because most people, even those serious about the spiritual life, do not have individual directors. Whatever direction most of us get comes in a group setting, especially in church or in some other formally religious place.

But Jan feels strongly that almost everyone can profit from having an individual director. To her, spiritual direction should not be an activity reserved for the a privileged few, but something that remains accessible to almost everyone.

When I asked her if you must have faith in God, she replied: “Spiritual direction presupposes an openness to the possibility of God or some supreme being that wants to be in relationship with us.” “When spiritual direction works,” she adds, “it’s because people let themselves be loved by God and experience the presence of God.”

In taking on the direction of others, Jan got off to a dramatic start. Her first directee was a 49-year-old woman who was dying. For the last nine months of the woman’s life, Jan helped this woman remain open to God. “It felt like a pregnancy, like giving birth to something sacred,” Jan told me.

“Was it hard?,” I asked of this experience. “It wasn’t hard,” Jan said, “because it was so grace-filled. People who choose to live until the day they die, who choose to be open to where God might be leading them, the gift that they give the rest of us is extraordinary.”

Before her death the woman made Jan and her colleagues promise to get together regularly for a year after her death as “a resurrection group.” Commenting on this experience, Jan says: “The opportunity to think that, even in death, your life can be generative, is an incredibly important concept.”

Jan tells of another woman who felt drawn to God because her husband was dying. But the woman felt scruples about returning to church. “It doesn’t seem fair to go to church now in the hard times when I haven’t been there in the good times to praise God.” As her spiritual director, Jan helped her see that God welcomes everyone when they turn to Him, no matter what.

More detailed information about spiritual direction is available at retreat houses, churches, monasteries, and other religious centers.

Richard Griffin

Kitty Hawk, etc.

Joe Hardman, in retirement, works as a volunteer guide at the Wright Brothers national park in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. There, before large groups of visitors, he explains how Orville and Wilbur Wright in 1903 became the first persons to take flight in a motor-driven, heavier-than-air flying machine.

The subject is fascinating in itself: two Ohio bicycle-shop mechanics who dreamed of human flight managing to pull it off and achieving undying reputation. But Joe makes it all the more compelling as he shares with people of all ages this typically American story. Standing in front of two life-size replicas of the original airplanes, Joe explains in expert detail the engineering behind the Wrights’ great feat and also the human drama.

As a tourist myself last week, I listened to Joe with fascination. Afterward I asked this 70-year-old  how he had acquired such knowledge. “They gave me a five-foot shelf of books,” he explained. In others words, his was no canned speech repeated over and over; rather, he had studied his subject and mastered it enough to talk about a wide variety of materials and to answer a wide range of  questions.

In his earlier career, Joe told me, he had been a foreign service officer for the United States and then a manager of the Fulbright program in the federal education department. So he brings much experience and sophistication to his volunteer position in Kitty Hawk. No wonder he carries off his teaching role with such aplomb.

Joe Hardman, though outstanding for his competence, was only one of several elder citizens whom my wife and I encountered on this vacation trip. At Antietam, the Civil War battle site, we found a similarly well-qualified guide in Gary Delphey. This gentleman told me that he is a retired bank officer who now contributes his time to public service.

From a position on a porch looking out over the fields where the Union and Confederate armies clashed repeatedly in 1862, this seasoned guide explained the ebb and flow of the battle. Inevitably the other listeners and I visualized the strategy of Robert E. Lee and the countermoves of Union General McClellan. Even though my sympathies were with the North, I thrilled to the crucial intervention of General A. P. Hill, who force-marched his troops from Harpers Ferry,  and  saved the day for the Rebels.

At Gettysburg, veteran guides abounded. Though our tour around miles of battlefield took place in our own car, before setting out we noted the human resources available. I remember asking one man of mature years who was dressed in a National Park Service uniform if he was a volunteer. His one-word answer amused me: “Almost.”

At Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s magnificent home near Charlottesville, Virginia, our guide was Bess Kane, a woman who possessed detailed knowledge both about the house and about its owner. The range and sophistication of her lore impressed me. Only last year I had read American Sphinx, the biography of Jefferson written by the Mount Holyoke College professor Joseph Ellis, so I was well-positioned to recognize a skilled presentation.

What a welcome change all of these superb talks represent! They strike a brilliant contrast with the spiels of the past, parroted by guides who knew precious little about their subject. But I suspect there may be more to it than that.

It seems to me that the guides we encountered on the vacation tour are people who love their country’s history and wish to pass it on to others, young and old. They have imbued themselves with the events of America’s past and have come  to value what we as a nation have experienced on our way through history.

Though they approach their official duties seriously, they seem to go beyond mere duty and take pleasure in sharing with others the knowledge they have acquired through study and reflection. In doing so, they have assumed a role in society that befits older people. Not only do they hand on a tradition vital to our common life but they also offer some evaluation of that history, letting us know what is important and why.

In doing so on a large public stage before huge numbers of people who come from all over this country and, indeed, the world, these guides help us lay more secure hold of our traditions. They help bring to vivid life the pages of history books that previously may have remained dry documents for us.

These veteran guides also help us flesh out the folktales that we learned long ago, correct them, and give them a local habitation and a name. And they seem to relish what they are doing. Gary Delphey, the Antietam guide, told me of his pleasure: “I enjoy it. It’s the least I can do for those fellows who sacrificed so much so long ago.”

Richard Griffin

The Great Secret

“It is told: In the city of Satanov there was a learned man, whose thinking and brooding took him deeper and deeper into the question why what is, is, and why anything is at all. One Friday he stayed in the House of Study after prayer to go on thinking, for he was snared in his thoughts and tried to untangle them and could not.

“The holy Baal Shem Tov (“Master of the Good Name”) felt this from afar, got into his carriage and, by dint of his miraculous power which made the road leap to meet him, he reached the House of Study in Satanov in only an instant.

“There sat the learned man in his predicament. The Baal Shem said to him, ‘You are brooding on whether God is; I am a fool and believe.’

“The fact that there was a human being who knew of his secret, stirred the doubter’s heart and it opened to the Great Secret.”

This anecdote belongs to a group of stories collected in two volumes by the famous Jewish philosopher Martin Buber. Called Tales of the Hasidim, these books are full of brief narratives that breathe religion and spirituality.

The stories center on religious figures of 17th century eastern Europe who were leaders of Jewish communities. Most of the tales are set in  Poland or Russia and reflect the sufferings imposed on the Hasidic people of that time and place.

Not only are the stories charming and graceful in structure; they breathe a piety that is grounded in a deep faith and love of God. Often certain details require explanation but the incidents narrated here speak across the centuries.

This particular story strikes a familiar theme – – the inadequacy of mere human knowledge for grasping the divine being. Personal study about the mysteries of the universe, no matter how profound, can carry a person only so far. In fact such investigation frequently causes a person confusion. The role of the rabbi is to release the thinker from this confusion and lead him to the release of faith.

In this instance the great rabbi known as the Baal Shem Tov calls himself a fool but a fool who, through his belief, has been given access to knowledge not possessed by deep thinkers. This theme, celebrating the sublime foolishness of faith, has also loomed large in Christianity, especially in the writings of Saint Paul.

Miracles also figure prominently in these stories and add to their spiritual charm.  In this instance, the rabbi reaches his destination faster than any modern jet airplane could transport him. The rabbi also can read the human heart at a distance and, without being told, is aware of the philosopher’s problem. And it is this special knowledge of the problem that solves it, that releases the man from his doubts.

The issue itself is expressed with simple monosyllables – – “why what is, is, and why anything is at all.”  These are the questions that greet the person who breaks with routine and takes the trouble to wonder about the origin of ourselves and everything around us.

The answer given to the doubter in the story is described only as “the Great Secret.”  Listeners are not given  a definition but are left to ponder what the phrase means. Clearly we are meant to understand this title as the central mystery of God, the author of all that exists.

The simplicity of the rabbi’s response to the problem  has great power. This power flows, not from the clarity of rational explanation, but rather from the teacher’s ability to read the man’s interior.

Also the man is cured of his doubt, not by argument, but because his heart is stirred. The rabbi’s ability to see into his problem and his concern for the doubter’s spiritual well-being clearly touch the man where he lives.

Time and place are important for full appreciation of the story. But the tale itself transcends these circumstances and speaks to the spiritual seeker of every era. The central issues remain the same; their solution leads in the same direction.

We, too, find ourselves often perplexed by the most important questions. Maybe, at times, we doubt the value of the spiritual enterprise. But the Great Secret, in all its power and fascination, remains.

Richard Griffin

Daring a Guest

What an ideal guest Tom proved to be! He and his wife Maria came down from Montreal last weekend to visit. Maria herself is a marvelous person, always welcome for her own gifts of personality and her flexibility as a guest. Whatever plans you as host have, she is ready and willing to accommodate herself to them.

On this occasion, the arriving guests found me just about to leave the house for my weekly softball came. It was a steaming hot day, not the kind of climate the ordinary person would choose to run around a shadeless field. Though neither an Englishman nor (presumably) a madman, I was eager for the noontime sun.

Did my duties as host require me to stay home? Certainly not. Instead I invited Tom to come and play with us. Mind you this is a guy then on the eve of his 65th birthday, someone who grew up in Poland, France, and England, all countries not enlightened enough to have chosen baseball as their chief sport.

With no perceptible hesitation, Tom agreed to accompany me and play ball. So I gave him a fielder’s glove, lent him a Red Sox cap, and off we went to the field in Allston , next to Harvard Stadium.

After a warm-up period, the game started. Tom, chosen for the other team, took his position at second base and batted low in the order. During the game I observed his play closely because, without acknowledging it, I felt somewhat protective of my guest.

Well might I have felt solicitude for Tom’s well-being. Though a frequent tennis player and daily swimmer, he had presumably not played softball for years and I was not sure how he would handle drives hit hard in his direction. Our players do get injured sometimes; I would have been thoroughly chagrined to have Tom spend his 65th in a local hospital.

It would be heartwarming to report that Tom’s performance in the field and at bat was outstanding. The fact is that he allowed several shots to get by him; at bat, he got one good clean hit, a drive that carried between the third baseman and the shortstop into left field. The rest of his contacts resulted in either outs or errors.

My own efforts were little better. Though I do not recall making any errors at first base, I made precious few solid contacts at bat. The one notably hard shot off my bat went back at the pitcher with dazzling speed; somehow, he was able to catch it, thus preserving his vital parts from injury.

So Tom and I, later-life warriors both, experienced failure at first hand. We freely endured the frustrations built into the game of baseball. Is any other sport so designed that those who claim success themselves fail at least six times out of ten when in the batter’s box and other times when deployed in the field?

Former baseball commissioner Fay Vincent, speaking of people who have grown up with the game, said the same thing better: “Baseball teaches us, or has taught most of us, how to deal with failure. We learn at a very young age that failure is the norm in baseball, and precisely because we have failed , we hold in high regard those who have failed less often.”

This quotation I have borrowed from a book recently sent me by an old friend, Ernest Kurtz. He and his co-author, Katherine Ketcham, entitle their 1992 volume, The Spirituality of Imperfection: Modern Wisdom from Classic Stories. Their writing pleases me because it provides a rationale for what I did many years ago: give up the effort to become perfect.

Mind you, these authors stand in favor of spiritual growth; it’s just that trying for human perfection, in their view, can block such growth by falsifying one’s life. They draw on stories from many of the great spiritual traditions of world history to show that wisdom requires us to accept ourselves as we are, rather than as some abstract ideal would have us be.

So this forms the background to my perseverance in playing the game, inglorious as so much of my play continues to be. I make outs, often in clutch situations. And I screw up in the field, sometimes even allowing runners to advance because I fall asleep while awake. But it’s good for my soul as well as exercise for my body.

Whether Tom clutched failure to his heart that day and grew in true spirituality, I have not discovered. Nor should I try to impose my rationale for the game on him. But he and I, as the oldest players on the field, may have served the others as outstanding models of  failure. At game’s end, we could leave the field with the hope of having shown our juniors the wisdom and beauty of self-acceptance.

Richard Griffin

Pool Encounter

Two of us older guys, he my elder by at least several years, arguing strenuously about their space. This scene at the pool where I swim every day must have fascinated those who witnessed it.

He was swimming down the center of a wide lane reserved for people with handicaps. I was prepared to climb in myself and, in accordance with universal custom at the pool, share the lane with him.

As I started toward the ladder, however, the other fellow explained to me in no uncertain terms that he was doing backstrokes and could not guarantee my safety. I told him in reply that I was coming in anyway and would take it upon myself to stay out of his way.

That declaration threw him into a rage. As I climbed down the ladder, he stormed up edging me out of the way. Then I began swimming down the lane taking care to stay on the left side so that, if he wanted to reenter, he would have plenty of space.

But instead of getting back in, he walked down the side of the pool almost foaming at the mouth with anger as I swam, bitterly accosting me with profanity, using in particular one word that I cannot print here.

By contrast with him, I remained calm throughout but resolutely determined to exercise my right to one-half the lane. I found it easy to refrain from abusive language myself but was not above a couple of subtle verbal jabs.

My best line, admittedly the title of a recent book written by a colleague, was “Thank you for being such a pain.” Stunned by this rapier-like thrust, he could only reply by lamely throwing the same words back to me.

The fellow soon gave up, left me be, and went – – presumably to do his backstroke – – to another lane. But all during the rest of my swim, I had visions of him coming back and, in renewed fury, beating me about the head with a blunt object.

How should one evaluate this short but intense conflict between two older men? For me it raises issues that are different from those that would arise from such an encounter between two young guys.

That we could engage in such a duel breaks a certain stereotype of older people. As one writer, the psychologist Mary Pipher, observes: “The old are admired for not being a burden, for being chronically cheerful. They are expected to be interested in others, bland in their opinions, optimistic, and emotionally generous.”

Such a stereotype certainly fits neither me nor my antagonist. On that afternoon, at least, there was nothing bland about either of us, cheerful, nor, I fear, emotionally generous. We were acting with abandon, free from the expectations society has for people of a certain age.

For feeling free to enter the lists of conflict, I am thus tempted to award both of us points. Advancing age has not dulled in us the fires of irascible emotions. When provoked, each of us can rise to the occasion in ardent defense of what we see as our rights.

On sober reflection, however, the event appears more complicated. If age remains indeed free for the expression of emotion, still we elders are supposed to have grown enough in grace and wisdom to have established control over our feelings, especially our irascible ones.

No matter how we justify the exchange of nasty words, there remains something disedifying about seeing two people of mature years engaging in such a conflict. People who heard us going at it could reasonably feel let down by this spectacle.  In some way we seem to have damaged society by resorting to violence, if only in words.

Haven’t we learned by now that disputes can be settled by peaceful means?  Should we not, at least have been able to discuss the merits of our case without resorting to personal abuse?

As I left the pool that day I felt mixed: though I had said something unkind, I never resorted to abusive language.  Throughout the fray I had remained completely calm. And I successfully claimed what I saw as my right.

But I recognized some failure too. I had violated my own code of personal ethics. I could not credibly claim to have loved my neighbor as myself. And there I was, supposedly a champion for the cause of older people, giving offense to one older than myself.

Like most other human experiences, this encounter was a mixed reality. It embodied both good and bad together. If I should happen to meet this unknown fellow again, preferably with our clothes on, perhaps we can talk calmly about what happened. We might be able to walk away from such a discussion as friends or, at least, no longer at enmity.

Richard Griffin

A Gap That Preserves Love

This past May third was a desperately hard day for members of my extended family and me. On that day we came together to mourn the loss of a beloved nephew who died in an automobile accident at the age of nineteen. As we said good-bye to him at his funeral, all of us – – his parents, uncles, aunts, and cousins – – found it hard to believe that Greg had left us. It seemed like something that was happening in a nightmare world.

Adopted as an infant by my brother and his wife, Greg grew up in Mont Vernon, a small New Hampshire town that nurtured his young life. Early on, he showed himself able to take on responsibility. He learned valuable skills at all sorts of practical tasks such as building, repairing machinery, and, in his last two years, helping run a business. When you wanted to get something done, Greg had already proven himself a valuable fellow to have around.

Though usually fairly quiet in family groups, he had endeared himself to all of us and we looked forward to seeing him on special occasions. As he matured, we family elders looked on Greg as a person of promise who would carve out a solid future.

With the tragic crash, all of those hopes came to a horrible end. If only, we felt, the vehicle had not ended up near the tree that killed Greg, the only passenger in the car to die. We had a hundred other “if onlys” but, to our deep chagrin, no one of them availed to bring him back.

As I, together with his other uncles, carried Greg’s casket into the church where his funeral was celebrated, the weight of our burden brought home the reality of his death. Externally, I felt hard-pressed to carry this physical weight; interiorly, I found it more difficult to bear the weight of our loss.

Looking back over a period of several weeks, I continue to regret that Greg is no longer with us. I especially grieve for his parents who provided him with such love and nurture. And I feel for his sister, two years younger, for whom Greg was an altogether special person.

Though nothing can replace him, Greg’s immediate family has received some consolation. First, signs that he was so beloved of so many people. All of his cousins came to his funeral, some from great distances. Large numbers of people resident in Mont Vernon and surrounding towns also came. Fellow students from the high school from which Greg was about to graduate helped fill the church.

Neighbors reached out to Greg’s parents with food and with expressions of sympathy that were truly touching. What a grace it was to family members to realize that anyone was so loved! It seemed as if people, on this one occasion at least, were acting God-like in directing toward Greg’s family their love and support.

But still, for Greg’s parents, a long period of grieving would be just beginning. Though they carry with them the support shown them by so many others, nothing will ever quite fill up the gap in their lives made by Greg’s sudden death.

Maybe, however, this ongoing gap offers something we should try to understand. Perhaps, paradoxically enough, the continuance of this void, bitter though it may be felt, may keep Greg’s parents close to their son.

That’s what the Lutheran theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer suggests. He died in 1945 at the hands of the Nazis for his refusal to accept their hateful ideology. His words seem to me profound and important for those of us who have suffered loss.

“Nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love, and it would be wrong to try to find a substitute; we must simply hold out and see it through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time, it is a great consolation, for the gap, as long as it remains unfilled, preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; God doesn’t fill it, but on the contrary, keeps it empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other, even at the cost of pain.”

Richard Griffin

Times and Seasons

My daughter, recently rooting around in our attic, has rediscovered some old prayer books. These slim volumes used to serve my spiritual life on a daily basis. One contains all the Psalms from the Hebrew Bible, prayers here presented to suit the needs of each day. They come with ink drawings that show the psalmist in various poses, illustrating key verses.

Since King David is traditionally the author to whom the Psalms are credited, one sketch  portrays him as a majestic figure with a sword in one hand and his harp in another.

I used to carry this little book in my pocket and, from time to time in the course of the day, especially on solitary walks, I would take it out and read parts of it. Or I would bear in my mind and heart lines from these inspired prayers and repeat them over and over. These verses would form a kind of leitmotif, a theme for each hour.

The beauty of the Psalms is their way of giving expression to a wide range of emotions and spiritual sentiments. When you feel enthused about life, they serve you by giving you words that exult; when you feel down, with everything going wrong and everybody against you , they express your heart at those times too.

My little book contains all 150 Psalms. In front it has a guide that recommends certain ones to answer current feelings.

“Are you impatient?” Psalm 30 is a good remedy: “In God I put my trust; I shall not fear.”

“Are you wanting in confidence?” Psalm 26 begins, “The Lord is my light and my salvation: whom shall I fear?”

“Are you depressed?” In Psalm 41, the psalmist expresses great longing, “As the deer longs for the streams of water, so does my soul long for thee, O God.”

Thus one can pray in need, “O God, hear my cry, listen to my prayer./ From the ends of the earth I cry to thee, for my heart is faint.”

Or, when everything has clicked, “I will bless the Lord at all times . . . I sought the Lord and he answered me.”

Since the Psalms form such an important part of the Christian liturgy, I have never strayed far from their use. But the recovery of this little book prods me to renew daily recourse to them from now on.

Even when people have long experience with prayer, they still need the support of inspired words. Trying simply to stay in God’s presence without saying anything at all can often prove too difficult. But too many words can sometimes stifle the spirit; that’s a reason why the verses you pick and choose from the Psalms can serve your needs so well.

One psalm in particular holds a special place in my life. That’s the 23nd (or 22nd for some). “The Lord is my shepherd,” despite its frequent use, never cloys. It has survived sentimentalized illustrations and has proven its value over and over. Surprisingly enough, I owe my familiarity with it to public school. In the early grades of elementary school we used to recite the verses of this psalm often.

The lines that move me most are “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for you are with me.” This expression of confidence in divine protection even in the worst of times impels me toward a courage that I often do not feel.

I also love the prayer of Psalm 16 that says to the Lord: “Guard me as the apple of thy eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings.”

The use of the Psalms as daily prayer can respond to the frustration many people meet in trying to live the spiritual life. As Elizabeth Lesser, author of The New American Spirituality, writes: “Sometimes the spiritual quest feels like knocking, knocking, knocking on a closed door; like a volley of questions bouncing off the walls of our own limited capacity to reach beyond ourselves.”

The Psalms, I suggest, can help at times like those described and at other times as well. They can open closed doors and help us reach out further toward a loving God.

Richard Griffin