How to Talk About Spiritual Encounters

Peter J. Adams

• Publisher: Palgrave Macmillan
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN:
  9783030452070
• eBook ISBN:
  9783030452087
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Psychotherapy Counselling
• Index: Social Sciences

This book develops a new and innovative way of understanding how language is used when people describe their spiritual and mystical encounters. Early chapters provide overviews of the nature of spiritual encounters, how commonly they occur, and the role of language. The book then develops a unique way of understanding the dynamics of talking about spirituality, using original research to support this perspective. In particular, Peter J. Adams explores how this characteristically vague way of speaking can be viewed as an intentional and not an incidental aspect of such communications because certain types of vagueness have the capacity to engage the imaginative participation of receptive listeners. This expressive vagueness is achieved by embedding missing bits, or "gaps," in the flow of what is described and these in turn provide sites for listeners to insert their own content. Later chapters focus on practical ways people (including helping professionals) can improve their skills in talking about their spiritual encounters. All content is situated in café conversations between four people each of whom is, in their own way, concerned with the challenges they face in converting the content of their encounters into words.

© The Author(s) 2020

P. J. AdamsHow to Talk About Spiritual Encountershttps://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-45208-7_1

Begin Abstract

1. Café Capri

Peter J. Adams¹

(1)

School of Population Health, The University of Auckland, Auckland, New Zealand

Peter J. Adams

Email: [email protected]

End Abstract

The café sat between a second-hand furniture store and a hairdresser in the shopping area of an older inner-city suburb. It had occupied this site for several decades and its ragged façade was showing the puckered nicks and marks that betray years of fluctuating care and maintenance. The café’s large awning stretched out over a wide concrete pavement and its frontage was lined by an untidy row of tables and chairs. A constant flow of pedestrians filed under the awning walking back and forth from a railway station five minutes away. A large “Café Capri” sign hung across the top of the awning and a faded mural of an Italian village decorated the wall in between its two large windows.

Entering inside the first impression was one of confusion. In the back areas dim lighting made it difficult to follow staff activities and in the front areas bright light streaming in from the windows dazzled the gaze when looking outwards. Small tables of varying styles were scattered haphazardly throughout the space, each surrounded by a random collection of steel and wooden chairs. Eight years ago, the café owners had leased the shop next door which had enabled them to knock a connecting archway between the two spaces and to fill the new area with additional tables. The differences in style and décor between the two areas further enhanced the café’s chaotic informality.

It was mid-morning when an old man carrying a battered leather satchel entered the café, waved to the woman behind the till and hobbled through the connecting arch to sit at the table in the far corner by the window of the “newer” part of the café. This was his usual place and it allowed him to both watch the goings and comings and to stare outside as the sunlight travelled across the walls of adjacent buildings. Regular customers understood this table as his table, and they would never consider occupying it themselves, especially in the mornings. Occasionally a casual visitor might have unknowingly sat at it but, when the old man arrived, unperturbed, he would sit at a nearby table patiently waiting for the invader to depart.

“Thank you,” he muttered as his coffee and a piece of cake were placed beside him.

“Just yell out if you need anything,” commented the young waitress.

Most mornings the old man was content to sit sipping his coffee and biding his time either staring out the window at the passing bustle or burying himself in the papers and books which he pulled out of his battered leather satchel. At other times one of the regular patrons might join him to speak about an issue or a worry. He would listen attentively, encourage them with reassurance and advice and sometimes assist them in devising solutions. While he enjoyed these discussions, he was equally content to sit alone, staring out the window or reading through his papers.

The old man, now in his late seventies, had been coming to Café Capri for over twelve years.¹ His morning routine started a decade earlier after he retired from his work as a physician at the local hospital. Since then his clothing had become progressively shabbier and his appearance more unkempt. Despite his scruffy appearance, other patrons still felt drawn to him, particularly when they noticed his warm smile and the flashes of intelligence and mischief in his eyes. He was a familiar and accepted sight. The café waiters knew automatically how he liked his coffee and which biscuit or cakes he preferred. They also knew when he was likely to arrive, and they made sure his table was clear well before his morning visit.

The old man’s main companion was an old Labrador-Boxer cross named Soren. He lay outside under the awning below the café window with his back against the warm stucco wall. From his table the old man could see the dog’s legs splayed out across the pavement and he could keep an eye on him in case of pestering from other dogs or children. He had loosely tied Soren’s leash to a rail but, whether tied or not, he knew Soren was content to lie there with little interest in wandering.

This Monday morning was the start of an unusually busy week for the old man. Besides his normal discussions with Monique and Dorothy, he was also about to meet someone new; someone who would engage him in intense discussions for some time to come.

Jarrod had stopped off for a coffee on his way to the library at the college where he was studying. He had been visiting the café regularly in the last few weeks for respite from study pressure. He was also charmed by its rambling familiarity and he liked observing the wide range of different people who came in. He strode confidently over to the counter and ordered a coffee. He was dressed in jeans and a black tee-shirt with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. As he carried his coffee through the connecting arch, his tall lean body moved effortlessly into the new part of the Café where he picked out an empty table on the dark side against the inside wall. He sat down and pulled out a textbook from his shoulder bag.

During several of Jarrod’s previous visits, while sipping his coffee and scanning the room, he had found his eyes drawn to this scruffily dressed old man in the corner by the window. He noticed how he sometimes had someone sitting with him and he had become increasingly curious about what they were discussing. At times he imagined the old man was a Marxist agitator and that his visitors were all part of his revolutionary cell. At other times he thought of them as relatives trying to convince him to move into a rest home; but that seemed unlikely given the quiet intensity of the conversations. On this morning, burning with inquisitiveness, Jarrod resolved to approach the old man and strike up a conversation and see if he could decipher more about him.

“Excuse me,” he remarked politely, “would you have the time please?”

The old man checked his watch. “Hmm… half eleven…” He lifted his gaze to look out the window. “Not a bad day out there.”

“No, I mean yes… It’s great; a great day to be out.”

“Ahh… out?” queries the old man as he looked back up at Jarrod. “What do you get up to in late summer when you’re ‘out’?”

“Oh, I like to get out of the city, into the forests or by the sea. That’s where I’d go on a day like this.”

“So why aren’t you there?”

“I’m stuck with the first assignments of my course, I’m afraid. I’ve got to study; got to keep focused. I come in here for a break.” Jarrod stood awkwardly by the table, unsure whether the conversation had run its course.

“You don’t have to keep standing there, young man. Sit down and tell me more about your studies.”

Without any further hesitation Jarrod pulled the chair out opposite and slid nimbly into position. “By the way, I’m Jarrod,” he declared with a shy smile.

“Good morning Jarrod, I’m Bernard.”

“So, what should I call you?”

“Oh, I don’t particularly mind what you call me. You can call me ‘old man’ or ‘old codger’ or ‘Old Bernard’ for all I care.”

“Bernard?” It had a nice ring to it. “Okay, Bernard… it’s good to meet you.” He felt slightly awkward talking this way to a stranger, particularly one much his senior.

Bernard spotted Jarrod’s embarrassment and, in response, a myriad of wrinkles spread across his face as he smiled benignly back and reached out to shake Jarrod’s hand.

Jarrod smiled back nervously unsure how to respond to Bernard’s off-hand references to youth and aging.

“So, Jarrod, fill me in on what you’re studying?”

“Oh, I’m in my third year of study for a communications degree at the College. This is my last semester; not long to go now, thank God.”

“What? Don’t you like what you’re studying?”

“No, I don’t mind it, but I want to move on. I want to get out and start doing things: earning a living, take on responsibilities, learning about the world… Study is all I’ve done so far.”

The conversation continued and Jarrod found Bernard an attentive listener. He soon lost himself in free and open disclosure of a wide range of aspects of his life. He spoke about how he was brought up with his family in a small mining town over a hundred miles from this city, how he’d escaped from there to enroll in a degree, how he was having problems with the three other students with whom he shared an apartment, how he’d met and started dating an attractive young women… He was surprised how easy it was to talk candidly with this old man. None of the older members of his family had ever listened to him so closely. It felt like sailing out from an enclosed harbor into the wide-open sea.

Then, suddenly, Jarrod paused and looked with horror at his watch. “Oh, drat, I’m late; I’ve missed my media lecture.” He frowned then in one athletic movement stood up, picked up his shoulder bag and turned to leave. Equally abruptly he halted and swiveled his head around. “Ah, Bernard, I’m sorry, I’m gonna have to take off now.”

“Don’t apologize. It was good to hear all about what’s going on. Take care, and maybe we’ll carry this on another time.”

Tuesday morning and Bernard had only just managed to settle at his table with a coffee and some papers when he glanced up to see the young man bounding directly toward him. “Ah, Jarrod, good to see you again.”

Jarrod responded with a preoccupied nod and sat down opposite him. “Look, I’m sorry. I ended our conversation so rudely yesterday. It’s been bothering me ever since. I just had to call in to apologize.”

“I understand,” stated Bernard as he took a first sip of his coffee. “It’s certainly not good to miss out on your classes.”

“But it’s more than that. I only talked about myself; I didn’t ask you anything!”

“No, truly, I was interested in what you had to say. My life’s so slow and boring compared to your’s.” Bernard beamed at him with a reassuring smile. “But, look, you ask me something, anything, and I’ll fill you in.”

“Well…” Jarrod glanced down at the table. “I couldn’t help noticing all the papers and books you’re working through,” commented Jarrod hesitantly. “It’s like you’re studying for an exam?”

“Oh no, I’m too old for that,” said Bernard, his chortle moving onto a raspy cough.

Jarrod waited for his coughing to subside. “So, what are you reading?”

“Well,” said Bernard leaning back and studying the young man carefully. “Well, it’s an important area for me.” He maintained a steady gaze. “Ever since I retired from work at the hospital, I’ve been pursuing a quest.”

“A quest?” queried Jarrod with mind exploding with possibilities.

“Yes, I’m on a quest to understand something better. I’ve wanted for some time to know what people are doing when they talk about spiritual encounters.”

Jarrod paused. He had not expected this from the old man. The phrase ‘spiritual encounters’ buzzed around in his mind triggering off a wild range of associations. “Ah, I…” He was unclear as to how to respond.

Bernard locked into his gaze and could see anxiety and uncertainty flickering across the young man’s face. “No, go on, say what you’re going to say.”

“Hmm…. well, I’ve really no idea what you mean by ‘spiritual encounters’.”

“Um, I understand them as small or large events when people feel they have formed some sort of connection with something bigger and more meaningful than their own individual lives.”

Jarrod paused again. He was feeling himself sliding on a slippery slope in a direction he did not wish to proceed. “A ‘connection’?”

“Yes, a sense people have of being part of a wider spiritual or religious realm.”

“Ah, look… I don’t mean to be rude, but… But don’t you think spiritual encounters are just ordinary explainable events which people have somehow persuaded themselves involve extra or special meanings?”

“Maybe; maybe from the outside they don’t mean much, but inside, for people who have them, a spiritual encounter can be the most important event in their lives.”

“But I can have important dreams or important ideas, or even important hallucinations. This doesn’t make them any more real.”²

Bernard cast a quizzical glance across the table. He was surprised by how frank this young man could be so early in their acquaintance. He seemed to have very strong views on this topic. Perhaps he needed to approach him from a different angle. “Before retiring, I worked as a doctor in the hospital specializing in helping people with terminal illnesses.” He took a long sip from his coffee. “So, for me, the focus was much more on caring than curing; we had no solutions except empathic listening and pain relief. This meant much more of our energy was focused on the mind and the soul. And, you know, over time, what impressed me the most was how important discussions of spirituality could be during this last period of life.”

Jarrod shifted awkwardly in his seat and fiddled with a teaspoon.

Bernard continued, “It didn’t matter whether they talked about spirituality in terms of God or the universe or nature or love, or even angels. Some had difficulty finding ways to speak. Some had never talked this way before. For others it was mixed up with sadness, grief and fear.” He stared intensely across at Jarrod. “But it seemed to me nearly everyone wanted to venture into this territory in some form or other… And what’s more, their talking had an effect. The more experience I had, the more I talking with them about spirituality, the more I saw it helping them find places of calm and meaning.”

“But you have…”

“Now, hold on,” interrupted Bernard softly. “Maybe the spirituality they talk of isn’t ‘real’ in the sense you were meaning. Maybe it’s made up; a reassuring fantasy or a comforting delusion… who knows. But I’m damn sure of one thing, in their situation, facing their ultimate removal from this world, their talk of spirituality had a real impact; a realer impact than any of the pills and therapies we could offer.”

“Okay, I see all that,” said Jarrod in a matching soft voice; “but your argument is unfair because you’ve focused on an extreme situation. Of course, things are different when you’re dying. But in everyday life, for most people, I don’t think spirituality matters that much.”

“Hmm, since leaving the hospital and thinking more about this, I see it differently. I think our spiritual connections and our spiritual encounters are very important. And it concerns me deeply how seldom and how few opportunities people have to access that side of themselves.”

Jarrod looked across at Bernard and could see the intensity burning in his eyes. He recognized this was not a good time to carry on disagreeing with this earnest old man. Perhaps there will be other times to argue it through. “Ah, well Bernard, all I can say is I beg to differ.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Look, I only meant to pop in briefly to apologize. Maybe we can continue this discussion another time?”

On Wednesday morning Bernard was sitting at his table half expecting Jarrod to reappear. He was genuinely interested in what the young man had to say because his life seemed full of many of the same issues and dilemmas that he grappled with at a similar age. He sensed someone’s presence and looked up to see the slim, fit figure of Monique standing over him.

Monique, a woman in her mid-thirties, had first met Bernard about three months earlier. They had struck up a conversation after her eight-year-old daughter had taken an interest in the old man who kept smiling at her as she ran around the tables. Since then she had made a point of call...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Front Matter
• 1. Café Capri
• 2. Describing Encounters
• 3. Trouble Talking
• 4. Making it Happen?
• 5. Collecting Specimens
• 6. The Rhetorical Turn
• 7. Big Devices, Little Devices
• 8. Expressive Vagueness
• 9. Provocative Gaps
• 10. Gaps by Missing Content
• 11. Gaps by Grammatical Shifts
• 12. Gaps by Metaphor
• 13. Gaps by Marking
• 14. Counting Exercises
• 15. Are They Unique?
• 16. God-Talk
• 17. Reducing Reluctance
• 18. Device Play
• 19. Creating a Description
• 20. Practitioner Opportunities
• 21. Fostering Gap-Talk
• 22. Postscript
• Back Matter