On Love, Courage, and Wisdom: Reflections on the Wizard of Oz

Editorial note: I wrote and delivered this talk at a hospice volunteer appreciation dinner on April 10, 2019. The theme was the Wizard of Oz.

Opening remarks

Greetings!

I am the wonderful, most powerful, Wizard of Oz. And I know why you’ve come. You’ve come seeking the coveted prizes of love, courage, and wisdom.

You seek deep insights into these qualities so that you can live happier, more productive, and more successful lives. You hope to have big hearts, even bigger brains, and unstoppable courage.

You desire to gain perfect knowledge of the universe, be admired by many, and loved by all.

I have every intention of granting you all these on one condition. You must first bring me the broom of the wicked witch of the west and everything you desire will be yours!

Well? What are you waiting for? The great Oz has spoken! Pay no attention to that bald man standing in front of you.

Ok, ok, you got me. I’m not the wonderful Wizard of Oz. I’m a mere human being who was asked to stand before you to speak on love, courage, and wisdom, based on the beloved classic. But I am doubtful that anything I have to say will be revolutionary.

In fact, I had to borrow the DVD to re-familiarize myself with the story of Oz. I must tell you that I am neither an expert on the Wizard of Oz nor the wonderful qualities we call love, courage and wisdom.

So, instead of trying to impress you with my pearls of wisdom, I will draw on the wisdom of others. And I will speak from my heart based on my limited experiences as chaplain with hospice.

On Love

Speaking of which, have you ever wondered how love came to be associated with the heart? And what is this mysterious thing called love anyway?

I tried looking up the history of heart symbolism and it was a bit convoluted. But essentially, way back when, in the time of the Greeks, it was thought that the heart was the center of human reason and emotion. This was also true in biblical times. In the Bible, the heart additionally served as the seat of moral judgement and character.

Back then, the heart was the center of the anatomical universe. Even though the brain has supplanted the heart in modern times, the powerful symbolism of the heart as the center of emotions, especially love, remains.

Further, there’s exciting research showing that the Greeks may have been on to something since it’s been discovered that the heart has neurons like the brain and can even make decisions independent of the brain.

Little wonder Tim Woodsman desired a heart. He no longer wanted to be hollow. He wanted to be more “tender, gentle, and awfully sentimental.” He was warned against his desire because of the well-known fact that hearts break.

But he persisted. Who knows why because we all know what a broken heart feels like. It sucks.

I suspect that more than a few of us in this room have fantasized about having unbreakable hearts. Hearts that were, in the words of the Wizard, more “practical.” Hearts that were invulnerable to cruelty, hatred, suffering, or loss.

But I also suspect that we come to our senses quickly because of that mysterious quality called love. Because as painful as it is to have a broken heart, it’s even more painful to have a heart of stone.

And what is love?

Is it pleasurable feelings? Romantic leanings? Or sappy poetry?

Jesuit priest Anthony DeMello gives a compelling definition when he said:

“[Love] means to see a person, a situation, a thing as it really is, not as you imagine it to be. And to give it the response it deserves.”

In other words, it simply means showing up and doing what is required of you. In my humble opinion, the caregivers to the patients we serve have become my personal heroes.

Many of them are first timers, thrust into the role of caregiver by a life-changing diagnosis that rolls in, uninvited like a tornado on the Kansas plains. Many of them have never seen death this close up. They have no idea how to navigate the end-of-life journey.

They often beat themselves up for not doing the right things, saying the right things, or giving the right dosage of medication.

They’re ashamed of themselves when they express exhaustion or anger. They often feel isolated when other family members aren’t willing to help (but are more than willing to offer their opinions and advice). And don’t forget that these people don’t have the option of pushing pause on their own lives—many battling with their own health concerns.

Being a caregiver is impossibly hard. But they keep showing up, day after day, their hearts breaking as they do.

Could this be love?

Could it be that a heart can truly love only when it’s breaking?

Here, I must draw on the writings of Parker Palmer to make an important distinction. He says that there are two ways hearts break. They can break apart, like shattered glass, often leads to bitterness, cynicism, and hardened anger.

But hearts can also be broken open. Parker beautifully describes the process here:

“Imagine that small, clenched fist of a heart “broken open” into largeness of life, into greater capacity to hold one’s own and the world’s pain and joy.

We know that heartbreak can become a source of compassion and grace because we have seen it happen with our own eyes as people enlarge their capacity for empathy and their ability to attend to the suffering of others.”

When we suffer significant loss, it’s understandable that hearts may shatter. But if instead of avoiding our suffering, we allow it to soften our hearts, they break open instead, allowing grace and mercy to pour in and change us from the inside out.

We as chaplains, RNs, social workers, and volunteers can be instruments of grace. Our compassionate presence can help soften the blow and allow families to bear their suffering. We can’t carry their load, but we can walk alongside them in love.

On Courage

Cowardly Lion: “All right, I’ll go in there for Dorothy. Wicked Witch or no Wicked Witch, guards or no guards, I’ll tear them apart. I may not come out alive, but I’m going in there. There’s only one thing I want you fellows to do.”
Tinman, Scarecrow: “What’s that?”
Cowardly Lion: “Talk me out of it!”

I love Cowardly Lion because, once he drops his macho act, he reveals a sincerity and candor that is, well, courageous.

He understands what life requires of him in the moment, but he’s also not afraid to admit that he’s afraid. In our culture today, we understand courage to mean heroism and bravery in the face of danger.

But Brené Brown points out that the original meaning of courage had more to do with the heart than with brawn.

She shares:

“Courage is a heart word. The root of the word courage is cor – the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage meant ‘To speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.’”

She continues to say that our typical notion of courage:

“fails to recognize the inner strength and level of commitment required for us to actually speak honestly and openly about who we are and about our experiences — good and bad. Speaking from our hearts is what I think of as “ordinary courage” from I Thought it Was Just Me.

Turns out that courage, not love, is the original heart word.

I see courage every day in patients who open up about their hopes, dreams, fears, and regrets. But courage is not just limited to speaking with heart, but listening with heart.

It takes courage to listen to another person’s pain. It takes courage to resist the temptation to deflect or avoid such moments.

When we allow hearts to speak to one another in love, when we allow ourselves to see and be seen, we grow in our courage.

A courage that allows us to get out of bed even when there’s no reason to.

A courage that allows us to greet adversity with a warm gaze.

A courage that prevents us from fleeing difficult conversations.

A courage that allows us to forgive those who hurt us most.

When our broken hearts are in need of healing, a good dose of courage goes a long way.

On Wisdom

Now, ever mindful of the Scarecrow’s keen observation that some people without brains do an awful lot of talking, I hope you won’t think poorly of me if I go on just a little bit longer.

Because when it comes to being wise, we brainy beings should take a clue from his words.

We often confuse wisdom with intellectual knowledge. We prize having the right answers. We’re willing to fight to the death over our deeply held positions. And never will we be caught saying the three most dreaded words in the English language:

I don’t know.

Sitting with the dying can be a terrifying experience. What do you say? How do you say it? Do I say anything at all? Will I say something inappropriate or offensive?

Often in these situations, we default to babbling. Kinda like when Peter, upon witnessing the transfigured Jesus hanging out with Moses and Elijah, said:

“Master, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.”

The scriptures add, “He did not know what he was saying.”

Facepalm.

Do you ever feel pressured to say wise things when you sit with the dying? Do you feel crushed under the weight of wanting to do and say all the right things that will allow someone to be at perfect peace.

Of course we do. Otherwise, what would be the point?

But Socrates probably got it right when he said:

“I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing.”

The wisdom of Socrates can only be gained in the classroom of life. The more we live, the more we learn, the more we realize we don’t know.

Sometimes, the wisest thing to do in the presence of unspeakable pain, is to stop speaking. Instead, place a hand on a shoulder. Offer a warm hug. Listen attentively. Let them know by the posture of your body that you are fully there with them. That you are fully present.

And even when you babble, let your words come from a brain that is fully connected to your heart. Most people will forgive our stumbling when we stay connected and grounded within ourselves. Because when we do this, our imperfect offerings will become graced with a wisdom beyond our own understanding.

As priest Ronald Rolheiser writes:

“…any one of us who visits a sick or dying person, regardless of how inadequate and stuttering our actual words might be, anoints that person, just as a priest does in the sacrament of the sick. To touch a sick person’s hand or to speak words of affection or consolation to a dying person, in its own way, does what the woman at Bethany did for Jesus and what Helen Prejean did for Patrick Sonnier. It anoints them for their impending death.”

The ordinary becomes extraordinary

When Toto exposed the Wizard for who he really was, he also exposed us.

We can finally drop the act.

We can stop pretending to be impenetrable to heartbreak. We can stop pretending to be strong and brave all the time. We can stop pretending to be know-it-alls.

We can just be who we are: ordinary human beings capable of extraordinary things, because we have within us the capacity for love, courage, and wisdom.

And when the storms of life take you to places you’d rather not go, know that, like Dorothy, you will always have the capacity to find your way home.