Literally referring to a “book of sparklets,” the identification of “florilegia” is an ancient spiritual reading practice I’ve recently been exploring in my own life. Historically, this practice was performed by monks reading and praying the Psalms. Essentially, it’s a quote journal.
In this practice, as you read a sacred text, you look for sentences, phrases, or words that “sparkle” in the material. You then record those. When finished, you put all these separate quotes together to create a new text – a florilegium – that may allow the quoted material to take on new meanings, as each thought gets embedded in a different context than the original.
In engaging in this practice, it’s important to consider what text you consider sacred that you want to draw spiritual meaning from. To begin, I started my practice with Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7, but I started with 4:12 for more context). What sparkled for me recently appears below. (If I had done this practice 10 years ago, or even 10 days ago, my florilegium may be entirely different!)
“When Jesus heard that John had been put in prison, he withdrew to Galilee” (Matthew 4:12).
“From that time on, Jesus began to preach, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near'” (Matthew 4:17).
“Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and healing every disease and sickness among the people” (Matthew 4:23).
“Now when Jesus saw the crowds… His disciples came to him, and he began to teach them (Matthew 5:1-2):
“Blessed are the poor in Spirit… Blessed are those who mourn… Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness… Blessed are the merciful… Blessed are the pure in heart… Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:3-9).
“Love your enemies and pray for those who persectute you” (Matthew 5:44).
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven” (Matthew 6:19).
“Do not worry about tomorrow… Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matthew 6:34).
“In everything, do to others what you would have them do to you” (Matthew 7:12).
For me, then, at least in this most recent reading, this florilegium summarizes what sparkled for me in Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount. To take this a step deeper, I could consider this and reflect on what individual sparklets or the overall message may mean for me and what actions I feel called toward.
Like it has done for so many, college transformed me.
It started on freshman move-in day. My dad, my brother, and I drove 4 ½ hours from my small town of 300 people in rural Minnesota to the eye-popping, “big city” of Madison, Wisconsin. I enrolled in the University of Wisconsin because I had watched the University compete on television in Big 10 sports. Beyond that, I knew very little of what I was getting myself into. So, on move-in-day, I was astonished by the city: the grandeur of the state capital, the beauty of the lakes surrounding campus, and the expansive cultural life scattered throughout.
It took a while for me to orient myself, but I eventually settled into my new home, where I gradually encountered a variety of mind-stretching experiences. When the first semester started, I couldn’t believe I was being taught by renowned experts who raised deep issues and facilitated far-reaching discussions about ideas way beyond anything I previously realized even existed. I went with my friends to ethnic restaurants, with flavors I never tasted before. I visited an art museum for the first time. I attended massive political rallies, being exposed to people with passions and perspectives unlike any I had ever encountered.
I enrolled in what was to become my favorite college course – Environmental Science – during my second year. Most evocative for me was the weekly required lab, usually consisting of a field trip. One trip especially stands out. We met at our Professor’s home, located on the edge of a wetland outside Madison. It was a cold, January afternoon, and there was at least 6 inches of snow on the ground. The Professor eventually led us to a bubbling brook in which I was stunned to find vibrant, green watercress growing. He picked some for us to taste. Not only did I not realize any vegetable grew in this kind of winter climate, I was dumbfounded by the peppery, fresh flavor and icy, crisp texture of the watercress itself. This course, more than any other experience I’ve ever had, nurtured in me a love of nature and a commitment to conservation.
After four years of these kinds of encounters, my mind had expanded in ways that made me almost unrecognizable from the person I had been previously. In retrospect – and knowing what I know now – I believe this is because college regularly exposed me to feelings of awe.
According to Dacher Kelter, in his book, “Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life,” awe “is the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your understanding of the world.” To clarify, many kinds of vastness can trigger this emotion. For instance, we might feel awe in the presence of something huge, powerful, timeless, or complex. Other people can leave us awestruck as well because of their astounding knowledge, virtue, or skill.
Twenty years of research on the emotion of awe reveals many unique positive effects. For example, awe takes the focus off of ourselves, humbling us in the presence of something beyond us. Physiologically, awe can bring tears to our eyes, chills to our bodies, and goosebumps to our skin. More broadly, awe promotes well-being and interpersonal connection. It may even decrease the body’s inflammation response.
Less research has explored how awe impacts learning and development, but a deeper inspection yields some clues. According to the great psychologist, Jean Piaget, our minds grow through two interrelated processes: assimilation and accommodation. When we assimilate, we fit new experiences into our existing mental frameworks, something not possible during awe. This is because the vastness of what we’re encountering in an awe experience cannot be comprehended with our current way of thinking. As a result, we’re absorbed into a process of trying to reduce the discrepancy between our new knowledge and our pre-existing knowledge. As we do so, we may feel confused, disoriented, or even frightened, as we feel a need to accommodate and create an expanded or entirely different mental framework. We may start to wonder and become curious about new questions. If we can successfully expand our minds in ways that incorporate the new information, we may significantly change how we think, what we believe, and potentially even how we self-identify. Even if we can’t ever fully accommodate an experience, our lives may be taken into different directions as we explore a new passion.
In his book, Keltner describes 8 common sources of “everyday wonder,” any of which could spark transformative change. These sources include exposure to lives and acts of moral beauty; the collective effervescence of big events, rallies, and ceremonies; various features of the natural world; music; visual design; great mysteries that often underlie religion and spirituality; the beginning and end of life; and ideas and truths that stretch our minds beyond what we previously believed was possible. College can regularly expose students to these kinds of stimuli.
Steven Cordes | Unsplash
Based on all this, my best advice to students is to seek awe during your time in college, inside and outside the classroom. Get involved in opportunities that stretch you, such as service learning, internships, field trips, community events, and study abroad and away programs. You may occasionally feel confused, disoriented, and even frightened because of what you’re experiencing. That’s okay: a real education requires some degree of discomfort. Pay attention to what brings you awe and follow that path, seeing what interests and passions that leads you toward. Give yourself space to wonder, to figure things out. Then, when you walk across the stage at your graduation ceremony, you, too, may find you have transformed into a version of yourself you wouldn’t have thought possible when you began.
Within Christianity, some traditions emphasize a more mystical and spiritual approach than others. One tradition I’ve been particularly intrigued by is Quaker spirituality.
Part of Quaker spiritual practice is to identify, share, and meditate on specific advices and queries. Some of these can be traced back to George Fox in the mid-1600s. In some ways, these advices and queries translate Quaker experiences and insights about the Gospels into modern life.
Communities might lead a service with reference to an advice or query, and individuals might meditate on one for an hour, a day, a week, or a year.
I’ve been studying Quaker advices and queries shared by meetings across the world for several years. Below I’ll share some of my favorites, which mostly come from the London, New York, and New England yearly meetings.
Apponegansett Meeting House, Jean Schnell
Advices:
Take heed to the promptings of love and truth in your heart.
Bring the whole of your life under the ordering of the spirit of Christ.
Seek to know an inward stillness, even amid the activities of daily life.
While respecting the experiences and opinions of others, do not be afraid to say what you have found and what you value.
Try to find a spiritual wholeness which encompasses suffering as well as thankfulness and joy.
Each of us has a particular experience of God and each must find the way to be true to it.
Listen patiently and seek the truth which other people’s opinions may contain for you.
Avoid hurtful criticism and provocative language.
Think it possible that you may be mistaken.
Try to make your home a place of loving friendship and enjoyment, where all who live or visit may find the peace and refreshment of God’s presence.
Let your life speak.
Responding to divine guidance, try to discern the right time to undertake or relinquish responsibilities without undue pride or guilt.
Search out whatever in your own way of life may contain the seeds of war.
Do not let the desire to be sociable, or the fear of seeming peculiar, determine your decisions.
Try to live simply.
Stand still, wait for divine guidance, then act.
Be grateful for the gifts you have. Neither be too proud of them nor value them too little. Do not waste time coveting the gifts of others.
Attend to what love requires of you.
Beacon Hill Meeting Room, Jean Schnell
Queries:
Are you open to the healing power of God’s love?
How does Jesus speak to you today? Are you following Jesus’ example of love in action? Are you learning from his life the reality and cost of obedience to God?
Do you respect that of God in everyone though it may be expressed in unfamiliar ways or be difficult to discern?
My mom died from cancer when I was 14. Although her death wasn’t unexpected, it stunned me nonetheless.
One particular moment in the days following my mom’s death stands out. The night before the funeral, there was a wake in which her dead body was laid in an open casket so mourners could say their final goodbyes. For various reasons, I did not want to see my mom’s body, and I awkwardly tried to avoid it. Our priest – a good friend of mine, as well as my mom’s – must have noticed. He slowly walked up to me and, tenderly, asked if I’d like to go with him to see my mom one last time. He took my hand into his and we made our way. I believed I was supposed to feel sad and maybe even angry, and I felt those emotions as well. But, more than anything, as I gazed at my mom’s dead body, what I most felt was awe.
Dacher Keltner’s recently released book “Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life” most surprised me with its’ discussion of how often death evokes awe. In a study of 2,600 narratives coming from 26 countries, as described in the book, stories of death and awe were common. In a surprising demonstration of this, Keltner – the pioneering Berkeley psychologist most responsible for leading the way for a new science of awe – tells a story in the book similar to my own. As his beloved brother, Rolf, lay dying of cancer in front of him and his family, Keltner recounts:
“I felt small. Quiet. Humble. Pure. The boundaries that separated me from the outside world faded. I felt surrounded by something vast and warm. My mind was open, curious, aware, wondering.”
Keltner defines “awe” as “the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your understanding of the world.” Given this definition, it’s easy to see why death so often evokes awe. When I stood in front of my mom’s dead body, for instance, I felt dumbfounded by questions such as “where did my mom go?,” “what does life mean?,” and “what is eternity?” These vast mysteries went well beyond anything my 14-year-old mind (or any mind) can comprehend, but my wondering led me to develop curiosities and eventually gain insights that have impacted the rest of my life. Of course, I wish my mom had lived much longer. At the same time, I wouldn’t be the person I am today – in a positive sense – if I hadn’t had to face her death like I did.
This connection between death and awe is, at least in part, why so many people become so fascinated by the morbid. For example, dark tourism may enable individuals to feel awed and to probe essential issues of life, death, sacredness, and meaning. I have led courses in the Psychology of the Holocaust, for instance, including trips to Holocaust sites in Europe, and rarely have I seen students so absorbed or impacted by phenomena being studied as when we directly encountered the overwhelming memorials of death we visited.
One habit I’ve sort of unintentionally fallen into in recent years is a year-end review. That is, I’ve been finding it interesting to take some time between Christmas and New Year’s every year to consider the highs and lows of the year, reflecting on what I can take from this year to build on for the next. With all the highs and lows that made up 2022, this poem I first heard on Parker Palmer and Carrie Newcomer’s podcast stands out:
Small Kindnesses, by Danusha Lameris
“I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs to let you by. Or how strangers still say ‘bless you’ when someone sneezes, a leftover from the Bubonic plague. ‘Don’t die,’ we are saying. And sometimes, when you spill lemons from your grocery bag, someone else will help you pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other. We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot, and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress to call us ‘honey’ when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder, and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass. We have so little of each other, now. So far from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these fleeting temples we make together when we say, ‘Here, have my seat,’ ‘Go ahead – you first,’ ‘I like your hat.’“
In particular, what gives me pause are lines that “we have so little of each other, now… only these brief moments of exchange.”
Like so many others,’ my life has changed during the past few years. COVID has meant I see students and colleagues far less often. My kids are getting older – one now in college – and they spend less time with us. The people I care for the most I don’t actually spend that much time with.
I resonate with the notion that the moments we have together may be “the true dwelling of the holy.” If I can remember to take one thing from this year into the next, it’s this: remember the sacredness of the times we have together – really appreciate them and make the most of them – for they are the essence of a good life.
One of the most basic – and yet for me, personally, one of the most confounding – aspects of Christian faith involves what it means to have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. I’ve always been confused by Christians who talk about their personal relationship with Jesus with total certainty, as if it was as obvious as their personal relationship with their spouse. To me, it hasn’t been obvious what it means to have a relationship with a Being I can’t directly perceive.
In light of this, I’ve been thinking a lot about a story that appears in the Gospel of Luke (Luke 24:13-35). For context, this occurs after Jesus was said to have been resurrected.
“… two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem. They were talking with each other about everything that had happened. As they talked and discussed these things with each other, Jesus himself came up and walked along with them, but they were kept from recognizing him.
He asked them, ‘What are you discussing together as you walk along?’
They stood still, their faces downcast. One of them, named Cleopas, asked him, ‘Are you only a visitor to Jerusalem and do you not know the things that have happened here in these days?’
‘What things?,’ he asked.”
They then proceeded to discuss Jesus, particularly his death and rumors of his resurrection. They talked about the Scriptures.
After this discussion, “as they approached the village to which they were going, Jesus continued on as if he were going farther. But they urged him strongly, ‘Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.’ So he went in to stay with them.
Later in the story, the two friends walking to Emmaus recognize Jesus (after which Jesus mysteriously disappears, raising other questions). But, at this point, the two friends don’t recognize him.
So, here’s my question: Even though they didn’t recognize him, were they in relationship with Jesus?
It would seem to me the only fair answer must be “yes.”
My wife and I have often told a pretty bleak story about the town in which we live. Common refrains include “there’s nothing to do here,” “it’s too conservative,” and “there’s nowhere good to eat.” Our kids have picked up on this. They share these sentiments with us and their friends as well, and actually have taken it a step further. They have sometimes wondered aloud: “Why do we live somewhere so flat? Why not live where there are mountains, or at least an ocean?”
Most of our friends live outside our town, and we have been gifted with some great ones. Some of our dear friends live in the city, others live outside the state, and some even live in different countries.
One of the ways we’ve learned to connect with our friends is to share photos of our everyday lives. In particular, after recently spending a week with some dear friends from Scotland, we started trading photos back-and-forth as a quick way of staying in touch. After all, a picture’s worth a thousand words.
We really enjoy these friends from Scotland, so much so that we’ve tried to convince them to visit us in our town. Of course, it’s hard to convince someone from another country to visit you in a town you portray so bleakly. So, as we’ve shared photos, we’ve started to make more of an effort to feature locations and happenings in our town we’re pleased with or even proud about.
As we do this, we’re slowly coming to a realization: being intentional about sharing photos of the lovely and the meaningful in our town is turning our attention from what we don’t have to gratitude for what we do.
There’s a small body of research exploring the effects of taking photos on personal well-being. Studies find that taking photos of the good increases positive emotions such as gratitude and overall life satisfaction. When these photos are shared with others, it tends to build connection. Other research shows that the task of taking photos increases engagement in the positive aspects of a situation. Furthermore, feeling grateful is tighly linked with overall happiness.
View of the Mississippi River, taken with my IPhone SE
Sharing photos of the lovely and the meaningful from our town has helped us remember why we chose to live in this town in the first place. Very few towns the size of ours have the trails we do, giving us access to three beautiful rivers. There’s a charming vineyard on the outskirts of town that produces the area’s best wine and that features sangria and jazz every Sunday during the summer. We live on a quiet and safe street where we can sit at the end of a long day, kick up our feet, and enjoy each other’s company. In the winter, we have access to some of the region’s best winter activitieis, such as skiing and snowshoeing. The list goes on and on.
But, we couldn’t appreciate these good things until we started being intentional about taking and sharing photos with our friends. We needed an intentional activity to break us out of our pessimism.
So, you might join us in this practice. Think about someone you wish you were closer with, someone with whom you’d like to stay more connected. Start sending them a photo when you become aware of something positive and meaningful in your everyday life, and see if you can get them to reciprocate. You very well might find this creates a new perspective in you as well.
For many people, being religious means being a religious fundamentalist. From the media, this is the impression often given. However, decades of thinking and research in the psychology of religion suggest there are multiple ways of being religious, with distinct pros and cons.
Let me elaborate with a few personal stories.
About 20 years ago, I happened to be visiting a conservative Christian college when I was somehow invited to a retirement party for a faculty member – I believe a Theology Professor – who had worked at this college for many years. At one point, this man took center stage and spoke about his long and distinguished career. The Professor’s speech started as you might expect – with references to the meaningfulness of his work, gratitude for colleagues, etc. – until he took a surprising turn and honestly reflected on some of his struggles. The Professor started crying. He had a difficult time finding his words. Eventually, though, he explained how he called himself an “Agnostic Christian,” someone who wasn’t certain about religious and spiritual truths but still felt like he knew enough to make a commitment to Jesus and his interpretation of a Christian lifestyle. He discussed how the juxtaposition of “Agnostic” and “Christian” was sometimes not welcomed by conservatives at this college, but how this self-understanding felt so important to him and to his identity that he was moved to tears in sharing it.
For me, the Professor’s presentation felt like a revelation, for a few reasons. First, and most importantly, this was the first time I had ever heard someone openly acknowledge how they were both deeply uncertain about religious and spiritual truths while still being deeply committed to a faith. There was a raw honesty in this confession, and the juxtaposition created a new way for me to start thinking about my own religious and spiritual identification as well. Second, the Professor demonstrated to me the importance of adjectives in the religious world. Apparently, some people don’t simply identify along the lines of “Christian;” some identify as “Conservative Christian,” “Agnostic Christian,” “Social Justice Christian,” or “Mystical Christian.” In these cases, which of the two words is the adjective and which is the noun also can be enlightening to consider.
Fast forward a few weeks, when I found myself in a large group discussion about religion and spirituality at my public college. People were sharing their diverse ideas about religion and spirituality, and I thought I would “float” the above story and how it fit with my own self-understanding. A few people I didn’t know had joined us from a conservative Christian student club on campus, and after I shared, they walked over to me. I will never forget what happened next. One of them bent down and whispered into my ear: “you can’t be Christian and not know.”
Many people do not seem to recognize there are different ways you can be religious.
It’s been another year for the books. Somehow, in the midst of everything, more and more people seem to be following this blog.
As a way to review the year, below are my most-read articles that I wrote during 2021. If you haven’t had a chance to read these articles yet, you may be interested in checking them out.
No matter how people feel about Christianity, I imagine most would aspire to the place St. Paul arrived at when he declared:
“I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.” (Philippians 4:11)
I don’t know about you, but I was hoping for a better 2021 than 2020. If anything, for me personally, 2021 brought more problems, not fewer. Family troubles intensified. Work conflict increased. And, though we have vaccines to mitigate the worst outcomes from COVID-19, the pandemic has not faded.
I wonder what Paul meant when he said he was content whatever the circumstances. Based on other things he wrote, I don’t believe he avoided or ignored the awful parts of life. After all, Paul was in prison at the time he wrote these words. In general, avoiding or ignoring difficult circumstances seems like a recipe for only increasing one’s problems in life long-term. So, the question I’m left with is: how can we honestly face life’s struggles and still be content?
Part of my prayer practice is to actively listen for God. Inspired by the Quakers, I set aside time regularly to be silent and see if any wisdom “bubbles up” or “reveals itself.” I also “listen for God” in other ways, such as in conversations I have with friends. Sometimes, if I can listen carefully enough (a big “if”), something does indeed “bubble up.” Sometimes, some of that “received wisdom” has stood the test of time.
I don’t know if any of this does a good job of answering my question – and I surely have a long way to go before I get to the place Paul was at – but when I consider how to honestly face life’s struggles and still be content, I find myself continually returning to four points of inspiration.
1. “Accept and expect irresolution.”
This is something my friend, the author and peace activist, John Noltner, likes to say. I clearly remember many years ago attending a small workshop with John when I first heard him emphasize this point. Years later, in silence, these words came back to me and they have stuck with me since.
I think part of what makes it so difficult to find contentment is we often look for final and complete resolution of our problems. Then, and only then, we believe, can we really reclaim our contentment.
I’m really honored to have Christian Century publish a brief essay of mine as a part of their ongoing series in honor of acclaimed spiritual writer Frederick Buechner. Once every two months, this series asks writers to submit a story including a particular word. This compilation focuses on the theme: quake.
You can read all essays on that theme, including mine, here.
My friend, Dr. Robert Fisch, often reflects on his life by remembering an old Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.” Dr. Fisch’s “curse” included living amid the “interesting times” of the Holocaust, Soviet oppression, and the clinical challenges of working as a pediatrician with children presenting with the devastating disease of phenylketonuria (PKU). However, part of Dr. Fisch’s story includes rising to these challenges of his time. He resisted the Holocaust and Soviet oppression, and he found a way to help treat PKU. In these ways, Dr. Fisch ultimately contributed to a more humane and just world.
Dr. Fisch with my family, December, 2011
The past two years have clearly been “interesting” and maybe feel “cursed” as well. COVID impacted every facet of our lives from early 2020 to Spring of 2021. Racial tensions became more evident with the murder of George Floyd and the racial reckoning that followed. Political polarization drove people apart and contributed to an insurrection on our democracy on January 6, 2021. And, now, within a matter of days, we’re learning we face a “different virus,” to quote Dr. Anthony Fauci, that has the potential to upend life again. Finally, we’ve faced a heat, drought, and regular bout of air quality alerts that awakens us, if we haven’t been awakened before, to the reality of climate change in my state of Minnesota.
These are historic challenges. I can imagine a day when my children or grandchildren may look back at these times we’re living in at this time as if they presented a set of forks in the road. “We the people” and we individuals each have choices to make about what futures we will create, the sides of history on which we will stand. As Dr. Fisch has said:
“Yesterday is past. Tomorrow is a wish. Today is the only time in which to do something.”
What do you do when you face a stressful life event? Strategies obviously vary, ranging from getting drunk to binging on Netflix to talking with a friend. Individuals differ in their habitual responses to stress, and these differences significantly impact well-being.
I’ve realized as of late how I often deal with stress by seeking a source of awe, something vast that stretches the sense of what’s possible in the moment. The experience of awe seems so distinct from the experience of stress, but reflecting on the intersection between my life experience and some new research just published by the American Psychological Association, I’m realizing how this response contributes to the ability to successfully cope with difficult times.
For instance, a few weeks ago, while a loved one underwent a long and intense surgery at one of the Mayo Clinic hospitals in Rochester, Minnesota, my wife and I decided to go for a walk. Whereas our feeling inside the hospital involved fear, agony, and dread, the simple act of getting into the sunlight and seeing the nearby trees brought us some calm. We eventually came across signs pointing us to the Plummer House – former home of Mayo partner and founder Dr. Henry Stanley Plummer – so we walked in that direction, ultimately finding the breathtaking English Tudor mansion. We explored the grounds but came to a stop, transfixed, at one of the most unusual buildings we’d ever seen – actually the old water tower for the mansion – but which my wife and I referred to as “Rapunzel’s Tower.” The architecture of the tower truly “blew our minds” for what was possible with a building, and we were lifted out of our troubles for just a moment. When our attention came back to ourselves and the situation at hand, we returned with greater clarity, strength, and connection to face the difficulties to come.
Watertower at Plummer House, Rochester, Minnesota
In a recent article, six studies demonstrated how awe experiences diminish feelings of stress. For instance, in one study, participants were brought to the top of a 200-foot clock tower on the campus of the University of California at Berkeley. Half were randomly assigned to the awe condition, which involved gazing out the tower upon the Bay, San Francisco, and the Golden Gate Bridge; the other half were randomly assigned to a control condition, which involved gazing upon the inside of the tower. Although both groups experienced less stress associated with the hassles they reported having than before being brought to the tower (consistent with research showing the stress benefits of taking a walk outside), individuals in the awe condition, in particular, experienced greater reductions in stress, compared with individuals in the control condition. In part because of this, participants in the awe condition also reported higher satisfaction with their lives.
Why does awe decrease stress? Based on their results, the researchers suggested that:
As my wife and I walked from the front doors to the worship center of the exponentially growing church we used to attend in the mid-1990s, we often remarked how much relational tension filled the hallways. Young couples frequently walked together in silence, their faces sometimes providing brief glimpses of the irritation they felt toward each other. Moms and dads regularly yelled at kids to get them to Sunday school. Friends and acquaintances mostly kept to themselves.
People had good reason for waking up early on a Sunday morning to pack the auditorium. The young preacher challenged us with mind-stretching insights that directly applied to our lives. The band led us into worship experiences that connected us with God in ways that melted our selves into something larger.
During these times of shared praise, in particular, emotion poured out of many. I often cried during songs, for example, tears pouring down my face. Sometimes, I’d be unable to continue singing, in fact, feeling so “choked up.” There were even a few times when I felt so overwhelmed I had to physically brace myself with the chair in front of me because I was literally “weak in the knees.”
When we left the worship space, my wife and I frequently commented how those around us seemed palpably different than when they arrived. Not everything was perfect, of course, but tension had lifted. Young couples looked more in love, holding hands on their way out the door. Families played. Others welcomed conversation over coffee and donuts.
If this had been a one-time occurrence, I may not have thought much of it. But, it was so predictable, it was almost comical. Pretty much every week, the same basic story unfolded: people were being transformed.
Maybe the most notable observation we made, though, at least in retrospect, occurred when we left the church building and walked back to our car. The parking lot typically was much fuller than when we arrived, and we often were struck by the range of political bumper stickers. Frequently, we’d see people part ways in the parking lot with a handshake or hug, only to enter cars with stickers suggesting different political affiliations.
As a young Ph.D. student studying Psychology at the University of Minnesota at the time, I wondered: what might help account for the powerful positive effects we were observing? Nothing in psychological science seemed capable of providing a good explanation.
“The source of all sorrow is the illusion that of ourselves we are anything but dust.” (Thomas Merton)
On this Ash Wednesday – in the middle of a pandemic, where COVID deaths in the United States now easily surpass the number of American deaths in World War II – Merton’s words ring particulalry true. I don’t remember a year where my soul has been more ready for the 40+ day season of intentional contemplation that is Lent.
Remembering today that I am made of dust – and to dust I shall return – reminds me how often I cling to earthy attachments, and how this brings with it great suffering. The admonition of St. Ignatius to “hold things lightly” also comes to mind.
My tendency is to skip past Ash Wednesday, to quickly divert myself to my longing for more, for hope, for Easter. This year, I’d rather learn to sit in the tension, in the reality of hardship, to not push these feelings away, and to realize this is a vital part of being human as well.
Before this year, from December to March, I spent most of my adult life inside. During these months in Minnesota, where I live, high temperatures typically remain below freezing, and it’s not uncommon to wake up to a reading of below 0 degrees Fahrenheit, not counting “wind chill.”
Although I intentionally exercised several times per week, much of this time in previous years was passed in my gym where I watched old episodes of Friends while artificially bounding on an elliptical machine. This felt easier. When I considered going outside, images came to mind of my whole body shivering uncontrollably, my face becoming numb, my fingers and toes feeling like they might be seriously frostbitten, my nostril hairs freezing as I breathed in the cold, dry air.
With COVID-19 cases surging as we entered the winter months this year, I faced a clear choice: (1) continue the comfortable routine of previous years by working out inside my gym, knowing this would mean I would more likely contract and spread the virus, or (2) extend my summer and fall habits of exercising in the great outdoors. Favoring public health, I decided on the latter: I put my gym membership on temporary hold, and with some trepidation, I planned for a winter of outdoor adventure.
I’m now a few months into this new lifestyle. Some days, I walk or hike on paths near my home, aided by the most marvelous invention I never knew to keep myself from falling on the snow and ice: Yaktrax. Other days, when I have more flexibility in my schedule, I practice my classic ski technique at a local park or snowshoe along the pine tree-lined trails of my favorite local nature center. Weekends provide opportunities for more extended travel or adventure, such as half-day trips to formerly unexplored or underexplored Minnesota State Parks.
A few insights have been essential to making this work. First, I have new appreciation for the Scandinavian saying: “there’s no such thing as bad temperature, only bad clothing.” Although it was an investment, purchasing high-quality outdoor clothing from REI has been well worth it in terms of comfort in the cold. (There is a point where I “draw the line,” though, and for me that’s 0 degrees Fahrenheit, below which I move my body inside.) Most importantly, I’ve needed to shift my attitude toward winter. Inspired by recent psychological research by University of California – San Francisco researcher Virginia Sturm and colleagues – showing increased positive emotions and decreased emotional distress when individuals engage in regular “awe walks” – I’ve changed my focus from efficiency in exercise to getting lost in wonder as I look for what is vast, unexpected, and unique outside. If the conditions are right, I’ll also sometimes bring my camera to see if I can photograph some of the beauty around me.
Sometimes, after dinner, the dishes washed and the kitchen reasonably cleaned, a window of time opens. My family disperses into their various corners of our home, allowing me to settle into the living room. I switch into comfortable clothing and I wrap myself in the soft, oversized blanket my wife gave me for Christmas.
Tonight, I look outside, into the darkness, where the only light comes from the faint glow off the newly fallen snow. I listen to the breeze shaking the trees, rattling the house, causing the chimney to whistle.
Unsplash | Takemaru Hirai
During an awful pandemic that mostly restricts, in the midst of a Minnesota January, freedom can sometimes be found. There are options for what to do I don’t remember always having.
There are times when I light a fire in the fireplace and drink some herbal tea before settling into some pleasure reading, writing, or Netflix. Occasionally, a family member joins me for a game of Yahtzee or Quirkle. Some nights I go upstairs and settle into my tub, surrounded by candles, smells of lavender, and classical music played by Alexa.
In the past, I probably would have interpreted these unstructured, unplanned, unexciting nights as “boring.” However, I’m now finding power in reframing them as opportunities to “settle.”
One of the fresh perspectives I’ve appreciated this year is that of Sikh activist, best-selling author, and popular TED talk speaker, Valarie Kaur. A few months ago, on Twitter, Kaur asked:
“Over the course of [this year], what have you discovered is most essential to YOU?”
I posed this question (virtually) last week to a group of students I help lead through a Christian student club on my campus, and their responses were thoughtful. “Time outside in nature,” one said. “Being able to easily and physically spend time with family and friends,” said another. “Or just brief interactions with strangers at the store,” I added. “Hugs,” someone said, before following up by saying “and things to do outside the house.” “Moving my body,” added someone else. “Knowing that I am not in control and that I need a source I can ultimately trust,” reflected another.
Sometimes, what is most essential is what we have long taken for granted.
Unsplash | Ben White
As Frederick Buechner once said:
“Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”
The year 2020 was not a wasted year. It was a year ripe for listening to our life experience. May we learn from our life and intentionally create something new and better – for ourselves and our communities – in 2021.
It’s been quite a year. With all the losses of 2020, one plus has been more time for me to write. Many new people started reading and following the blog this year, and for the first time, I’ve published several excellent guest blogger’s posts. Along with everyone else, the COVID pandemic was top of mind for me, and that was reflected in the themes of my writing.
As a way to review this year, below are the top posts of 2020 on this blog. If you haven’t had a chance to read these articles yet, this might be an interesting time to do so.
This is a personal confession with some of my struggles with church and religion, in light of new research published this year on people who are “done.”
This was, by far, the most popular post on the blog this year. It revisits themes of posts I wrote years ago, but seemed to find new popularity – particularly in South Africa – in light of students made to learn at home.
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Unsplash | Immo Wegmann
Reviewing this year in writing like this makes me wonder about what themes and developments will arise in 2021. Hopefully one of hope!
The Quest for a Good Life 