by Rev. Terry Davis
Delivered at Northwest Unitarian Universalist Congregation
on October 11, 2015
When I attended Emory University as a seminary student, the Pitts Theological Library was located in the oldest building on the campus. And, I have to confess, its ancient and dusty condition felt a little like the pits.
Built in 1915, the building was a massive, sprawling structure that originally housed the university chapel and the theology school. Its shelves were filled with hundreds of thousands of musty-smelling books and old manuscripts – some dating back to the mid-1500s and the Protestant Reformation. Perhaps to lend it a more modern air, its dark corridors were cheerfully painted here and there an unusual Pepto-Bismol pink.
Entering the library through the back door, as I often did, was a bit like entering one of those Gerbil habitats. The back stairwell wound past the archives and restrooms, up and around some administrative offices, and eventually dumped one out onto the main floor. There, a large, dark wooden front desk was staffed by employees and students, who would check your backpacks for food and beverages (which weren’t allowed) and check out your books.
Like the main floor, the back entrance had a desk, too. Except that it was a tiny, metal affair with an ancient computer sitting on top of it. Behind the desk sat a pleasant, middle-aged woman named Lorraine Murray. Lorraine cheerfully greeted us library back-entrance users, checking our backpacks for illegal paraphernalia.
Whenever I came by, Lorraine always seemed to be working away on some paper of her own on that old computer. So I initially assumed that she was someone like me, returning to school after many years to work towards a new degree and a new chapter in her life.
I soon discovered, however, that Lorraine was not a student. She was (and is still) a journalist with The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Lorraine writes a regular Saturday column called “Grace Notes” where she reflects on the ordinary aspects of her life and the ongoing invitation to her spirituality that it presents her.
A photo of Lorraine’s smiling face is featured next to her weekly column, and it was this postage stamp-sized image with her name next to it that helped me make the connection.
Lorraine is Catholic. And her weekly articles about her life and her understanding of how God is present in it remind me that my own Catholic past and Unitarian Universalist present have helped me find God, too. In many ways, the God of my understanding doesn’t resemble hers. But, like Lorraine’s God, mine is something sacred, powerful and compassionate. And, like Lorraine’s God, I believe that my God is ever-present in the ordinary and extraordinary aspects of my everyday living.
If you read Lorraine’s column on Saturday mornings, you know that she has recently suffered a tragic loss. This past August, after 35 years of companionship, Lorraine’s husband Jef died suddenly at the age of 58. Lorraine wrote poignantly of the day she learned about Jef’s death and the conversations they had had about life in her column, which include these words:
At the hospital, a social worker met me at the door — and I expected
him to lead me to Jef, who would eagerly fill me in on his adventure.
Instead, I ended up in the family-consultation room where a young
chaplain sat waiting for me . . . Then the doctor arrived with the news
that shattered my heart into a million pieces.
How often had we talked about a future date when a tragedy might
part us? I usually initiated the conversation because I was terrified of
losing him even though he was younger.
“You’re becoming an old codger,” I’d tease him when I noticed more
gray hair.
“That’s my goal,” he’d chuckle.
I still wait for my fuzzy guy to walk in the door — and still expect
someone to shake me and say it’s all a nightmare. I keep collecting
funny stories to share with him, and then realize he’s not here to enjoy them.
How often do we talk about – or think about – a future date when tragedy might part us from the ones we love . . . and from this precious life? Can anything really prepare us for that moment of loss? And, while it’s others who are left behind with their feelings when it’s our turn to die, what can we do to ensure that our anticipation of our own death is not filled with fear and regrets?
This morning’s sermon topic is “A Good Life, A Good Death.” I think it’s safe to say that many of us here have our own ideas of what a good life may look and feel like. Having good health and close friendships . . . appreciating the beauty of the natural world and human creativity . . . finding purpose and satisfaction in meaningful work and activities . . . these are some of the priorities that I have frequently heard shared by others.
I imagine that if our lives are filled with these things, then we might say that we have a good life . . . even a great life. And, yet, I also imagine that we recognize that it’s impossible to live life without encountering pain and loss. If our hearts and minds are truly engaged in life, then there’s really no way to avoid these things.
And, so where does that leave us? Is it still possible to have a good life as we deal with suffering . . . and as we deal with death?
In our Story Wisdom, Freddie the Leaf loved his life. And, he was afraid of dying.
His friend Daniel reminded him of all the good things he had experienced in his lifetime – the moon, the beauty of the seasons, the pleasure he had received by providing shade for others.
Daniel reminded him of all of these experiences, and then he asked “Isn’t that enough, Freddie?”
I wonder about that question: “Isn’t that enough, Freddie?” How might I answer it? How might you answer it? Has my life – has your life – been enough? Have there been enough walks in the woods? Have you spent enough time with your significant other, your family, and your friends? Have you listened to enough beautiful music? Have you given enough of yourself to make the lives of others a little better?
Or, stated another way, do you have any regrets about the way your life is unfolding? Is there something you could do – I could do – differently? What might it be . . . and what might be holding us back?
In Glenn’s reflection, he cites President Jimmy Carter’s peaceful acceptance of his cancer and mortality as the outcome of someone who has lived a very good life – an exemplary life – and is now prepared to let it go. I imagine if I were to ask President Carter if his life has been enough, he might say yes. At age 91, I can imagine that a “yes” response might be easier to come by than if he were 58 like Lorraine Murray’s husband.
And, yet, it also seems that older age isn’t necessarily the determining factor when it comes to gracefully accepting the eventuality of death. My guess is that many of us here have known persons of all ages who have had to cope with the news that he or she may be dying soon . . . and, yet, they were able to move forward with a sense of peace.
Dr. Andrew Kneier, a psychologist and author, has worked with numerous cancer patients who had a poor prognosis, but were not yet in a terminal stage. Still, Kneier says, these patients had begun to think about the meaning of their lives, their religious or spiritual beliefs, and what might comfort them as death approached.
In his book Finding Your Way Through Cancer, Kneier writes that he and his research team found six factors mentioned by at least 50 percent of his patients that helped them feel less bad about their prognosis. They included:
- Gratitude for the number of years the person had lived and for the positive life experiences they had enjoyed;
- A sense of pride in one’s accomplishments or in the inner qualities the person had developed over the years;
- Religious faith or spirituality;
- Making changes (in response to their cancer) in themselves or relationships to feel more fulfilled or at peace when death came;
- Taking stock of one’s legacy, especially the positive contribution they had made in the lives of others; and
- Loving and being loved.
Kneier says that he’s not advocating that everyone should be as philosophical as his patients – or that we should advocate these factors to people you know or work with who are facing a life-threatening disease. Rather, he notes that this small sample of patients had been thinking of these things privately because they did not feel permitted or supported in saying these things out loud.
Kneier writes, “It’s a sad commentary on our culture, I believe. And it’s something that can be changed, especially as we support people in facing up to things the way they are, which takes real courage, and in acknowledging that we are all meaning-creating creatures, even unto death.”
In thinking about Kneier’s research, it seems that my eventual good death can be determined only by my own perception of my current life. That is, I have the opportunity every step of the way to interpret the events of my life and determine if they are contributing to the eventual obituary of someone that I know to be her best self.
And, if through this ongoing, meaning-creating process, I see – we see – that our priorities and actions are not creating a life story that we feel good about, I believe it’s up to us to change it. I believe that the answer to Glenn’s question is “No. No, it’s not too late. It’s not too late to work on that.”
It’s not too late to create a life that will leave us feeling grateful, proud, fulfilled, and more spiritually connected. It’s not too late to live a life that has the potential to leave a lasting legacy of love.
And, so, it seems that we begin thinking about our death by looking at our life.
If we can’t find the beauty and the joy in it, if our pain and suffering seem to be too great, then we might turn to our faith and those relationships and activities that renew us and give us a sense of hope.
In her article yesterday, Lorraine Murray suggested that we might remember that God is as close to us as our own hearts. Said another way, I think an important aspect of being “prepared” for a good death, as Glenn put it, is to keep ourselves open to the possibility that lovely and holy moments are always available and with us, even as we are suffering.
Lorraine writes:
Years ago, I confided to my husband that I feared someday dying
alone. No friends to hold my hand, no relatives to fluff up the pillow,
no nurse to press a cold cloth to my brow. It was a pathetic vision of a
person’s final days, but my vivid imagination at times churns out
decidedly bleak images.
“Even if no one else is there, you’ll always have God with you,”
my husband replied, quickly banishing whatever demons were
whispering in my ear.
Still, his words were hard to fathom because sometimes God seemed
uncomfortably far away – and my prayers felt like long-winded,
one-sided conversations . . .
But here I sit now in a still room, listening to crickets chirping
and the steady heartbeat of the clock. Every so often, the hamster
attacks a peanut in the shell, which adds a crunching sound to the
room. Admittedly, I’ve endured spells of heart-shattering loneliness
and crying, but also times of peace – because, you see, my husband
had it exactly right all those years ago.
Whoever or whatever the god of your understanding is, my hope is that it is the lovely and holy thing that you turn to again and again to renew your strength and ease your loneliness and despair.
My hope is that whatever it is that gives you faith is also the thing that helps you see that your life is a good life . . . that the moon, the beauty of the changing seasons, loving family and friends, and the pleasant shade of a leafy tree are not only the elements that make a good life possible . . . they are enough to make a good death possible, too.
They are enough.
May it be so, for you and for me. Amen.
(Photo credit: Hands of Time by Victoria Bjorkman)