Sermon:
This year, as a religious community, we are asking and struggling with some of the Big Questions of Life. Rev. Gelbein and I are presenting a Big Question sermon once a month, and then the entire congregation has an opportunity to discuss that question, to share their wisdom, insights and experience and perhaps even an answer or two.
This morning, the Big Question will be, "How Do We Face Death?". I invite you to join in the conversation. For it is only by listening and speaking from the heart, by sharing who we are and what we believe, that we grow in spirit and wisdom.
So, how do we face death? Is that a big enough question for you? Perhaps the biggest of all questions since death is intertwined in every part of our lives.
Or even more to the point, how are we facing death now, in this moment, in this place - because how we face death in the present is probably how we will face death when our end is imminent.
I appreciate Michael Milano's I Believe statement this morning, especially his insights on paradox. As the great Chinese religious poet, Lao Tzu, wrote, "The words of truth are always paradoxical."
Paradox is one of the blessings of our Unitarian Universalist faith. We do not believe in literal truth, but instead that truth comes wrapped in layers of paradox and mystery, and our calling is to use our insight and wisdom to unwrap it as best we can, with the understanding that we will never fully comprehend.
Humor is one of my favorite ways of playing with paradox and trifling with truth. For instance, these are causes of death from actual state files:
"Went to bed feeling well, but woke up dead."
"Died suddenly. Nothing serious."
"Don't know the cause. Died without the aid of a physician."
"Blow on the head with an axe. Contributory cause: another man's wife."
"Had never been fatally ill before."
This morning I would like to present three paradoxes that will hopefully help us to face the reality of death. The first paradox is that we need courage when death knocks, but we also need our fear.
It was Mark Twain who said, "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear ? not absence of fear." Too often we attempt to be courageous by denying our fear, and yet the fear we feel enables us to be courageous.
To be courageous about death, we must first recognize and accept that each and every one of us is fearful. We are afraid that we will die, and that our loved ones will die. We are afraid that we will suffer and that we will not be ready when death comes. And we are afraid of what comes after death - if anything.
There is nothing wrong with being afraid of death, as long as we face those fears. That is courage: the ability to face what we fear instead of denying it.
Rachel Naomi Remen, a physician and therapist, tells in her book, Kitchen Table Wisdom, of visiting her dying godfather when she was three years old.
"He smiled at me, a beautiful smile, and said, 'I've been waiting for you.'"
"...My godfather's eyes and his smile were full of a great love and appreciation. For the first time I felt a deep sense of being welcome, of mattering to someone. His hands were resting on the covers and, still smiling, he slid one a little toward me. Then he closed his eyes. After a short while he sighed deeply and was still again. I continued to sit there remembering his smile until my mother came back. She looked closely at my godfather and then snatched me up from the bed and ran with me from the room. My godfather had died.
"My parents were deeply distressed about my being alone with my godfather when he died. It was the forties and they consulted a child psychologist to help me over the 'trauma' of it. Yet my own experience had been quite different. It was many years before I could tell my parents what had really happened and how important it had been to me."That may have been the forties, but there is still much fear of death in our society. Fear is certainly natural, but fear also comes from what we don't understand and cannot control.
Instead of facing our fears, many people attempt to protect themselves from death with technology and theology. We fantasize that technology will eliminate the pain and perhaps even death itself, while at the same time it entertains us so we will not have to contemplate our demise.
Theology has been used throughout history as a way of insulating ourselves from the reality of death by promoting a fantasy Disneyland style afterlife.
On September 11th, every one of us was forced to face the reality of death in a horrifying way. When we gazed at the fiery Trade Center and Pentagon, we couldn't help but see our own reflection and ponder our own end.
Since September 11th, my wife and I finally got around to having our will done, and I even went in for my not-so-annual physical. I've also struggled with my own dying and what I will leave behind when I am gone. The increased numbers of people attending religious services is indicative that many others are reflecting on their death and thus the meaning of their lives.
The fear of death will only dissipate when we become aware that dying is as natural as living. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross even suggested that we prepare for dying as we would prepare for a birth, with excitement and a sense of expectation.
And the environmentalist, John Muir, said: "On no subject are our ideas more warped and pitiable than on death... Let children walk with nature, let them see the beautiful blendings and communions of death and life, their joyous inseparable unity, as taught in woods and meadows, plains and mountains and streams of our blessed star, and they will learn that death is stingless indeed, and as beautiful as life, and that the grave has no victory, for it never fights. All is divine harmony."
When we truly comprehend John Muir's words, then our courage will rise and our fear will fall, and we will find peace in our living and peace in our dying.
The second paradox is that to face death we need to open ourselves to life and to love as well as let go of life and those we love.
The poet, Mary Oliver, has written these words that I often use in memorial services:
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:To love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;And, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.This is the paradox of living: we are called to love those who are a part of our lives and to love life itself, with passion and purpose -- and yet we do this knowing that we must eventually let go of it all. How can we manage to love and also to let go?
One of the most painful and yet fulfilling roles of my ministry is presiding at memorial services. Our memorial services are appreciated by many because they are a personal celebration of the individual's life rather than a denial of their death.
A vital part of the process is for the minister to meet with the family to learn about the person's life. I find this gathering to also be vital therapy for the family. They are able to tell the story of the person they loved and in doing so the tears flow.
But what's amazing is the laughter. A kind of resurrection occurs as the family tells the stories of the past bringing the deceased into our midst. And as he or she becomes present, most families are able to laugh freely at the failures and foibles of the past. Usually the memorial services themselves are punctuated with laughter because the humor helps us deal with the paradox of loving the individual but needing to let go.
Sometimes I use the words of a colleague of mine at memorial services. Mark DeWolfe was a young UU minister in Toronto when he died of AIDS a little more than ten years ago. While he was dying, Mark wrote these words:
"Know that the love which blooms inside you is stronger than fear, for people who love find strength they don't know they had. Know that the love inside you is stronger than illness, for people who love hang in when physical health is gone. And know that love is indeed stronger than death, for people who love are like stones tossed into a pool. The circles of love radiate out and echo back long after the stone has come to rest at the bottom."
Mark's words bridge the paradox of needing to love and needing as well to let go. It's only through love that we are able to live life fully as well as to find meaning in our dying. It's true that we do not just have relationships; in a real sense, we are our relationships. Even in death we continue to live through our relationships. Our lives live on through everyone we ever touched.
The third paradox that helps us to face death is that we need to be both present to life and present to death.
A skydiving instructor was going through the question and answer period with his new students when one of them asked the usual question always asked, "If our chute doesn't open; and the reserve doesn't open, how long do we have until we hit the ground?" The jump instructor answered, "The rest of your life."
That's a good way to look at life and death. We always have the rest of our lives before us.
So, how can we be both fully present to life and to death? This is not an easy challenge for anyone. In the marvelous book, "Tuesdays With Morrie," by Mitch Albom, Morrie, who is dying, passes on his wisdom to the author.
"'Everyone knows they're going to die,' he said..., 'but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently... There's a better approach. To know you're going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time. That's better. That way you can actually be more involved in your life while you're living.'"
The question we must ask ourselves is how can we keep this awareness of death while at the same time living life fully? First of all, we need to realize that life and death are not different realities but actually two sides of the same mountain.
The ancient Chinese religion of Taoism teaches us that life and death are not great cosmic forces that struggle against each other but instead they are in rhythmic harmony, each giving balance to the other.
In the same spirit a Japanese Zen Buddhist wrote, "If [we] were never to fade away like the dews of Adashino, never to vanish like the smoke over Toribeyama, but lingered on forever in the world, how things would lose their power to move us! The most precious thing in life is its uncertainty."
I love that: "The most precious thing in life is its uncertainty." I also love the spiritual sung by our choir this morning, "I'll Fly Away." But I'm suspicious of the theology embedded in that beautiful tune. Flying away certainly sounds appealing, but I believe we did not come into this world and will not leave it.
Instead, in the words of Barbara Hollerorth, "we come out of (the world), in the same way that a leaf comes out of the tree or a baby from its mother's body. We emerge from deep within its range of possibilities, and when we die, we do not so much stop living as our living takes on a different form. So the leaf does not fall out of the world when it leaves the tree. It has a different way and place to be within it."
I certainly do not know if there is an afterlife or not. I live with that uncertainty. Death is the greatest of all mysteries, beyond our ability to even imagine. But I do feel certain that whether there is or isn't is beside the point. It's in our living and loving that we create both a life and an afterlife. And it doesn't come easily.
It's usually in times of uncertainty, when we undergo great pain or grief or loneliness or when we fear the end of our lives, that we become aware of the deeper levels of meaning. Kathleen A. Brehony in her book, After The Darkest Hour: How Suffering Begins the Journey to Wisdom, writes that "The pain that life will deliver in the form of loss, illness, or death can wake us up and deliver us to a state of consciousness in which we can make each moment count and find meaning in our existence." (By the way, Kathleen Brehony will be the featured presenter at the UUCA Labyrinth Conference in November).
In a recent article in the Washington Post on "A Flirtation With Death," Adrienne Dern, an administrator at a Washington nonprofit association, speaks of her flirtation with death last year with a diagnosis of ovarian and uterine cancer.
"Despite 'some small degree of fear' with which she now lives each day - after chemotherapy, her prognosis is good - in many ways the illness 'has been a gift,' she says. 'There has been a continual deepening of my appreciation for life, particularly for people. It opened me up. You get in touch with the deeper meanings to lots of things and try not to sweat the small stuff."
It's true that many people who become aware of their mortality find that they've gained the freedom to live. They are blessed with an appreciation for the present: every day is precious; every day is cherished; every day is lived fully. They spend more time with the people they love, doing what they really want to do, and less time with people and pastimes that don't offer joy or love.
What we need to ask ourselves is shouldn't we all spend our lives like this? Shouldn't we all bring that awareness into our lives now, before we are told that we have six months to live? Shouldn't we all make the choice to live as fully, as joyfully, as lovingly as we possibly can every single day - because every day could be our last day?
When we can live fully in the present, then and only then can we be fully present to our dying and our death. And then and only then will we find the deeper meaning in life itself.
This then is how we can begin to face death:
o in seeking our courage by becoming more aware of our fears.
o by loving what is mortal, and, when the time comes to let it go.
o and by being present and mindful of every moment of life as well as our impending death.In this way, we can live in the spirit of the poet, May Sarton, who wrote:
...I am not ready to die,
But I am learning to trust death
As I have trusted life.
I am moving
Toward a new freedom
Born of detachment,
And a sweeter grace--
Learning to let go.
Amen.
