by Rev. Terry Davis
Delivered at Northwest Unitarian Universalist Congregation
on October 27, 2013
Timbuktu. If you are like me, it’s one of those places you’ve heard mentioned – and may have referred to it yourself in a figure of speech – but have never actually been there. You may not even know where Timbuktu is, but that’s beside the point.
Timbuktu is the exotic-sounding name of a place that is far away and likely unfamiliar to many. When we want to make sure someone knows we’re talking about a place that is nearly at the edge of civilization, saying something like “he lives practically in Timbuktu” provides a certain colorful emphasis that you just can’t get by saying “He lives practically in Ft. Wayne, Indiana” or some other place that’s also far away from here, but might sound more ordinary.
For me, Timbuktu sounds more intriguing and like it might have much better weather than some of those other far-away places that get used as figures of speech . . . places like the moon, the North Pole or – my mother’s favorite – East Hell. For Mr. Bones, the canine companion to the homeless man Willy in our reading this morning, Timbuktu was more than a far-away place. It was the final destination after this life was over, where he and Willy would live forever more.
For Willy, Timbuktu was, of course, shorthand for heaven. And, because Willy had failed to provide Mr. Bones with anything but abstract descriptions of the place, Mr. Bones found himself frantically trying to fill in the details about what exactly Timbuktu was like when he thought that Willy might finally be on his way there.
Rather than wonder whether Timbuktu was a place with an endless supply of Milk Bones or where he might be able to chase cats to his heart’s content, we learn from the reading that Mr. Bones’s chief concern about Timbuktu was whether he would be able to join Willy there. In that perceived moment between life and death, Mr. Bones wasn’t worried about whether the next life had anything for him to eat or drink or smell. He wasn’t concerned about his creature comforts. Instead, Mr. Bones was worried about losing someone he loved. He was deeply concerned that he might not ever see Willy again.
It’s probably safe to assume that everyone here has had an experience of death, whether it is the death of a relative or friend, a pet or a plant. And, yet, as ubiquitous as death is, it seems that we may still be a society that is largely uncomfortable with talking about it. As an example, we’ve developed a vocabulary that allows us to avoid the word altogether. We say things like “she has passed away,” “he went to sleep and is never waking up,” or “she’s gone to the next life” – expressions that we all understand to mean someone is dead without ever saying it.
Professor Malcolm Parker at the University of Queensland in Australia speculates that the reason we don’t talk about death is because we have lost faith in transcendent life. We don’t believe, as Willy does, that Timbuktu really exists. Parker writes, “Somewhere deep down we know that death is really the end of existence –who wants to face that?”
On All Hallow’s Eve, which is in just a few days, many of us will be passing out candy to neighborhood Trick-or-Treaters. Today, however, I would like to invite us to examine the meaning of this Celtic pagan and Christian tradition of honoring the dead, as well as consider how we each might prepare ourselves for what we might call “a good death.”
By “a good death,” I don’t mean to suggest that there’s a way to avoid the emotional and sometimes physical pain of death. Many of us here have had the experience of losing someone we love to illness, suicide, or accidental deaths, and there is no doubt that they are unimaginably difficult to bear. Rather, when I suggest we can each prepare for our own “good death,” what I mean is that I believe it’s possible to live life in a way that will result in few regrets, as well as a deep appreciation for the here and now. Living our lives with these outcomes in mind may, in fact, provide us with the simple framework we need to experience everyday spirituality and peace.
First, as you may know, All Hallow’s Eve, or Halloween, was established by the Christian church as the first day of a three-day celebration, which included All Saints Day on the second day and All Souls Day on the third. Some scholars assert that the dates of these Christian holidays were set in the 8th century to intentionally coincide with the Celtic pagan holiday of Samhain, which marks the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter.
On All Hallow’s Eve, it was traditionally believed that the veil between the material world and the afterlife thinned, and that persons needed to wear masks or costumes to prevent being recognized by the souls of the departed who were wandering the earth and might be seeking vengeance on their enemies. Dressing up for Halloween may be fun now, but it was a serious life-or-death matter back in medieval Europe.
The religious holidays that follow Halloween – All Saints Day on Nov. 1 and All Souls Day on Nov. 2 – were intended to honor Christian martyrs, saints and the souls of all the departed. In the Catholic tradition in which I was raised, All Saints Day was a holy day of obligation, which meant we had to attend church that day or risk our chances of getting into heaven later. Going to mass in the evening after school added to the mystery and other-world quality I associated with this holiday.
As Unitarian Universalists, we descend from the side of the Protestant Reformation that doesn’t adhere to a liturgical calendar . . . meaning that annual holy days and their rituals such as All Saints or All Souls Day are not in our religious DNA.
And, yet, I think it may be safe to assume that, as human beings who experience life’s seasons and cycles, there is something in our DNA that needs to mark certain times of the year and of our lives. Unitarian Universalist Minister Max Coots reminded us of this in his opening words:
When anniversaries arrive by calendar or consciousness,
When seasons come, as seasons do, old and known,
but somehow new,
When something sacred’s sensed in soil or sky,
Mark the time.
For all of these are holy things we will not,
cannot, find again.[ref]Max Coots, #489 “When Love is felt or fear is known” Singing the Living Tradition (Boston, MA, Unitarian Universalist Association of Congregations: 1993).[/ref]
The ritual we will participate in later today of remembering the dead is perhaps our own way or responding to our sense that, with each passing year, memories of those we loved may be cherished more – not less – and that those we have lost are never forgotten.
As we reflect on our thoughts and feelings concerning the deaths of others today, I think it may also be important to take some time to consider our own eventual death. None of us can be certain when exactly our death will occur any more than Mr. Bones perhaps could be certain that he would accompany Willy to Timbuktu.
And so, while we may not live each day with the conscious thought of our impending death, I wonder if our lives might be dramatically different if we were to do just that – live each day knowing that they are precious and numbered.
We are all probably familiar with the poems and songs that invite us to “Sha, la, la, la, la, la, live for today.” These live-in-the-moment messages tell us that the only thing we can know for sure is this life . . . this community, these trees, this moment, our own breath.
A good death, it seems to me, is reaching the end of one’s life with this awareness of life’s sacredness. It is, in the words of Transcendentalist and Unitarian Henry David Thoreau, is “learn[ing] what life has to teach, and not, when I come to die, discover that I have not lived.”[ref]Henry David Thoreau, #660 “To Live Deliberately” (Singing the Living Tradition (Boston, MA, Unitarian Universalist Association of Congregations: 1993).[/ref]
Some questions we might ask ourselves this morning and in the days ahead: How am I preparing for my own good death? How do I take time to appreciate the here and now? What am I doing or not doing in my life that may cause me regrets later?
As many of you know, I served as a student chaplain at Wesley Woods Geriatric Center here in Atlanta when I was in seminary and later after graduation when I was completing a one-year chaplaincy residency. As you might imagine, death and dying was a frequent occurrence there.
Many of the residents were keenly aware that they were in the very last chapter of their lives. And they expressed to me their feelings about it . . . feelings ranging from sorrow to anger to resignation to peace.
There was a gentleman that I’ll call Mr. Bailey, who bitterly referred to Wesley Woods as “the place where you go to die” and wished his son had never found him after he fell at home in his bathroom and broke his hip.
There was Mr. Shepherd, 91 years old and a World War II vet, who worried about the state of American politics more than he worried about the destiny of his own soul. Shep, as he liked to be called, thought it was high time for a female president and planned on voting for Hillary Clinton. Shep thought our Congress was crazy for authorizing the use of military force in Iraq. He also wept openly about his wife who had died eight years prior and wondered why, if there was a God, why did God let so much pain and suffering exist in the world.
There was Mrs. Wilkes who, at 100 years old, was content just sitting quietly in her wheelchair in the hallway. She also liked reminiscing about her days as a bookkeeper for Atlanta’s Richs Department Stores. She would tell me about the times when she and the other office workers would take their lunch break on the rooftop of the downtown store and play a game of lawn bowling, often with Mr. Rich himself.
And, there was Ms. Perry, a school teacher who never married and was deep into dementia when I met her. Every time I entered her room, I was someone else to her. And, yet I was always warmly greeted.
One afternoon, I encountered Ms. Perry’s niece and her husband, who were putting what few possessions of hers remained into a cardboard box.
“My Aunt Margaret was a wonderful woman,” her niece said tearfully. “And, she had a beautiful singing voice, right up to the end. We loved singing songs with her whenever we visited.” It seems that Ms. Perry was still able to find joy in her final days, including welcoming strangers like long-lost friends and singing songs she loved with people who loved her.
The residents of Wesley Woods gave me insights on how to live a life that will end in a good death. I learned it means having family and friends you love and who love you. It means having a job you really enjoy or a pastime that can keep you company for many days, such as the ability to sing sweetly even when your mind and body are failing. It means never stop caring about the world, even if the conditions disturb you. And, it means never stop wondering about the very meaning of life, even if the questions perplex you.
As we take time today to remember the persons we loved and admired, let’s be grateful for the memories they leave behind and the ways that their lives have helped shape our own. And, as we remember them, may we also be mindful of how we might live our lives today in ways that leave us with few regrets and a deeper appreciation for the beauty and joy that is right in front of us.
May we strive for our own good death by making decisions that reflect our understanding that today is all any of us can ever really know.\
Because Timbuktu is far away . . . and who knows if human beings are allowed in anyhow?
Amen and Blessed Be.