just a sad time

We lost a very good friend this weekend in Ron. Many of you who have bowled in Western Massachusetts know the family well, and know how giving and welcoming they are. Like I've said many times before, going into the bowling center is a little like going into Cheers...where everybody knows your name. So, even if his death sends him on his journey to a much better place than this Earth, it's still difficult to deal with. It's final and unchangeable.

I grew up visiting funeral homes. Both of my parents were older (Dad was 60 and Mom was 40 when I was born) and Dad was the pastor of a larger church in town. He understood it as a corporal work of mercy to "honor the passed" which he interpreted as visiting the families of his flock immediately upon learning someone was deceased. As an active citizen of his church and community, he figured he was sure to know what to do and say to help at a difficult time. I always tagged along with my father, for the most part because I worshipped the ground he walked on. I wanted to be like him, in some way, and hopefully serve others exactly as he did.

But as I walked with my father, I learned from all of those childhood hours spent in the funeral homes and churches, etc. And I'm making a valiant attempt to put those lessons into play today.

Number 1: When someone you love dies, family and community are a great comfort. They remind us that we are not alone, that loss comes to everyone, and that life goes on.

I'll never forget what happened in my home town when a younger couple in town lost their only son. The community knew for weeks that this little boy was dying at home of a virulent brain tumor and by the early afternoon on the day of his death, houses began filling with foods of every sort. And the next evening every room of the funeral home--usually able to accommodate two separate viewings--was filled with people from the community who had come to help this young couple bear their grief. I've never seen anything like it. That show of support convinced me that even in the coldest of neighborhoods, sympathy and support grows out of tragedy.

Number 2: Every one's life has meaning and a legacy.

As a young adult, AIDS began to claim the lives, first of people I had seen, then of people with whom I was acquainted, and finally of dear friends. And I participated as our network of friends--sometimes even including the families--came together to celebrate and give voice to the meaning of lives cut short. There was a dreadful but purposeful time in my life many years ago when my friends and I united to create the rituals and forms--outside of established churches--through which we could grieve, share stories, and capture the meaning of the truncated lives of our companions.

Number 3: The experience of death in our lives is a gift--a special, sacred time.

For me, being present with a dying friend...cradling a friend's infant in the days before he died...or sitting with one of my father's parishioners through their loss...these have been the experiences that have called forth courage and compassion. And for me this is about the closest I have been able to get to the mystery of it all.

This brings me to the death of my friend this weekend. In talking with his sons, I keep asking myself, silently, "If God is good, how can there be suffering?” Yet, with a strong faith in God, the faithful can wrap their minds around the idea of good vs. evil and make something meaningful out of it. They can speculate on God’s reasons for having His creatures face pain and suffering. Perhaps there is a lesson in it; a test of faith; a coming to trust God more fully so that eventually the rewards in heaven are even greater. God’s judgment cannot be questioned, only accepted.

And, what happens when you die? God only knows! Most of us can only speculate.

Us free thinking liberals can understand that life and death are part of a natural cycle of existence. And, often, that is all that can be said about it. Having said that, we also see where the more we have; the more engaged we are in life; the more attached we are to hope; the more paradoxical is the fact of death.

I don’t know that having a lot of material things would make anyone think they are protected against death....but it sure is a distraction from an uncomfortable reality. And not just “AN uncomfortable reality;” death is the ultimate uncomfortable reality, surpassing all others in its ubiquitous inevitability. Sooner or later, quickly or for an extended time, for each one of us there will be the dying, and then that moment of mysterious transition: Death.

But, again irony upon irony, life is full of deaths; the smaller, less final deaths that serve to remind us of life’s ephemeral quality, of constant change and our having less control of anything than we would like to claim is ours. This is what makes up suffering. Suffering is the lingering experience of loss and pain that comes to body and soul. It is a dramatic reminder of what death will surely bring to each one of us someday: a final separation from all that we have known and loved and felt was “ours.”

Experiencing the loss of loved ones, seeing that all we have ever known is in constant change, that we are the stuff of history, how can we disregard death? Yet, the acknowledgement of impermanence holds within it the key to life itself. Our suffering is caused by holding on to how things might have been, should have been, could have been. Grief is part of our daily existence. Within us, constantly, quietly, is a pain in our heart that is a mourning for everything we have left behind.

There is a poem by Carl Sandburg that Dad included in some of his memorial services. He spoke the words as he extinguished the candle that was lit at the beginning of the service to bring the presence of the deceased into the consciousness of the mourners. I believe it also refers to all those little deaths we suffer in life as well, as we try to hold onto experiences and relationships, and as we learn to let go.

Gather the stars if you wish it so.

Gather the songs and keep them.

Gather the faces of loved ones.

Gather for keeping years and years.

And then...loosen your hands, let go and say goodbye.

Let the stars and the songs go.

Let the faces and years go.

Loosen your hands and say goodbye.

I find meaning through relationship with other human beings. No matter how long it lasts, the possibilities for caring authentic connection with another person, or another living creature, makes the passing moments precious beyond belief. I have given up the expectation of lasting moments of connection, or even predictable ones - whether in long term relationships, or new and passing ones. They come as pure grace and in spite of myself. That is when life has meaning for me, and death becomes less greedy, less frightening, and seems less empty.

We are always taming the terror. We create gods and heroes because gods conquer death, and heroes take risks for us. But, whatever myths we amateur, liberal religionists create, we know that beliefs about reality affect people’s real actions; they help introduce the new into the world. This is especially true for beliefs about humanity, human nature, and what we may yet become.
Few die in wholeness. Most struggle for a foothold, for some control over the incessant flow of change that exemplifies this plane of existence. Most live a life of partiality and confusion. Te lesson of death is always the quality of life. The lesson of death is always the gift of dear moments in our fleeting days. The lesson of death is to love yourself and to love others; to challenge yourself and to challenge others.

The lesson of life is to befriend death; to embrace its reality with as much as there is in you to embrace life.

Once again we know how death affects us. Once again we know how deeply our own eventual passing enters into all that we are and do. Our few days here have for long been described as like the grass of the fields in their brevity, but they also represent the flowering of some great cosmic urge that brings forth intelligence, a sense of law and order, of love and duty and responsibility, and a sense of creative beauty and song. Though days be brief they represent and reflect all time. Creation’s wonders are in us, creation’s tragedies, creations miracles and secrets. Our comings and goings are the pulsation of eternity.

I miss Ron..he reminded me of my own father in the way he spoke to me and the way he coached me (albeit as a bowling coach, not a life coach). But he hasn't died in vain. He has not lived for nothing. In the short time I knew him, his impact...along with that of his family...is great. I'm sure he's already enjoying his reward, looking down upon us and saying, "hey, did ya forget hit the headpin?!?"