Death Be Not Proud

From earliest times human beings have noticed that at this time of year the days become shorter the leaves turn yellow, red and brown and fall from the trees; the bears retreat to their caves and the birds of summer disappear; the squirrels, too, having stored enough acorns are prepared to make it through the winter. Yet, also, from earliest times, human beings have understood that after the days grew shorter they would grow longer, the leaves would be reborn in the spring, flowers would color the hillside, and bears and squirrels and birds would return to roam the woods. So the death of autumn would, in due course, be followed by the rebirth of spring.

When human beings died perhaps they also would be reborn in the spring of the ages? Perhaps nothing ever really ceases to exist, but instead, simply sleeps and awaits the dawn. Not only did the evidence of nature seem to suggest that but when a loved one breathed no more he or she seemed to live still. We might feel their presence occasionally and even see them in our dreams.

Another world, another dimension of the universe, an invisible and mysterious realm that one could sense but not enter must have seemed to exist.

The pairing of the fall of the year with death was an opportune time for the opening of a door to that other realm. The holidays – “holy” days – November 1^st - All Saints Day - and November 2^nd – All Souls Day – mark that time.

And since death was (and is) the most mysterious of all human transformations, this time of year was, indeed is, the scariest. All Hallows Evening – the dark scary time before All Saints Day – became and has come down to us as the scariest of mysterious of nights. Halloween, the time when the dead return to the realm of the living, for one night, to finish the tasks that death has left undone.

But that is for children today, is it not? We dress them up as cartoon characters and ballerinas and bunny rabbits today more often than the skeletons and ghosts and headless horsemen of not long ago. It is but a joke today. An opportunity to have a fun party and accumulate a great bag of candy. We can't take it seriously today because – why? Because death is not scary and mysterious? Because we are too modern and too rational and scientific to believe in the dark, mysterious, underworld? Because ghosts and goblins are now seen as myths and only real to the superstitious and backward?

Perhaps, but death still commands our respect – and fear.

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."

The actual experience of being with someone who is dying is often less fearful than what our mind conjures up. In truth, we are not so much afraid of dying or even of having someone we love die as we are of the potential pain and suffering leading up to death on the one hand and the feeling of loss that follows on the other.

The first funeral that I remember attending was for a grand old lady who was 96 years old when she died. She had maintained her own small house alone until the day she died with only the occasional assistance of a kindly neighbor who would do her shopping for her, drive her to doctor appointments and look in on and after her. I admired her greatly. She had never married but in the early 1900s had earned a master's degree from a prestigious women's college and taught high school until she turned 65. She lived on her teacher's pension for the next 30 years. As I said, I had a great deal of respect for her and whenever I would visit her we would have a lively conversation about all topics from politics to gardening.

She was laid out in an open casket for her funeral and I was unnerved by it. Throughout the service my eye kept glancing over to the casket and all I could see of her was – her nose sticking up. It was, as I said, unnerving. She wasn't there but she was – and comically. And you see, she is still alive – in me. As I tell this story I can still see her nose sticking up – but I can also still remember the day she showed me around her yard and plucked blueberries to give to me. I can't remember any of our conversations but I still can feel her presence sitting across from me leaning over to hear better and giggling as we talked about the peccadilloes of various politicians. How can someone that alive be dead?

The poet Hugh Robert Orr expressed it this way:

They are not gone who pass

Beyond the clasp of hand,

Out from the strong embrace.

They are but come so close

We need not grope with hands,

Nor look to see, nor try

To catch the sound of feet.

They have put off their shoes

Softly to walk by day

Within our thoughts, to tread

At night our dream-led paths

Of sleep.

They are not lost who find

The sunset gate, the goal

Of all their faithful years.

The summit of their climb,

They peak above the clouds

And storms. They are not lost

Who find the light of sun and stars and God.

They are not dead who live

In hearts they leave behind.

In those whom they have blessed

They live a life again,

and shall live through the years

Eternal life, and grow

Each day more beautiful

As time declares their good,

Forgets the rest, and proves

Their immortality.

When someone dies they leave memories and feelings. But they take away with them the day to day relationships that are important parts of not only who they were but also who we are. The emotional impact of the loss of someone we hold near and dear can be enormous. My wife, Louise , lost her father almost two years ago and I don't think a day goes by that we aren't reminded of him by something that we see or hear or discuss. Louise 's mother has had a more difficult time of it, however. They were married for over sixty years. But added to that, Louise 's mother also lost her brother to death a few months later and then his wife died a few months after that. Louise 's mother's entire communication network left her in a five month's period of time. All of the memories and support, the day in and day out conversations that she had depended upon for her entire life, were gone in the blink of an eye. One thing that is important at such a time is for us to be reassured that there is a future for us even without the one that we lost.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh, who experienced the very public kidnapping and death of her young son wrote a poem in the form of a dialog with her son:

But how can I live without you? - she cried.

I left all world to you when I died:

Beauty of earth and air and sea;

Leap of a swallow or a tree;

Kiss of rain and wind's embrace;

Passion of storm and winter's face;

Touch of feather, flower, and stone;

Chiseled line of branch or bone;

Flight of stars, night's caravan;

Song of crickets - and of man -

All these I put in my testament,

all these I bequeathed when I went.

But how can I see them without your eyes

Or touch them without your hand?

How can I hear them without your ear,

Without your heart, understand?

These too, these too,

I leave you!

In Newsweek recently there was a special section called “My Turn” in which readers were asked to tell their own stories. One woman told of the recent death of her mother. In planning the memorial service the three grown daughters were hard pressed to come up with anything about their mother. It is true that she was a devoted mother, a faithful wife and a generous neighbor, but she had rarely traveled and had little education past high school. In short, she was dearly loved, but far from extraordinary. Then one afternoon, while cleaning up their mother’s basement, the three sisters came across several homemade pies in the back of the basement freezer. Each pie had been labeled as to its flavor and the individual for whom the pie had been baked. All agreed that their mother’s distinguished legacy was the most delicious pies in the world.

It reminded me of the funeral for my own grandmother. When my grandmother died I was already a UU minister and had already officiated at a number of memorial services but did not want to do so for someone so close to me. I preferred to be a mourner rather than an officiant. The one chosen by the funeral home since my grandmother did not attend any religious institution regularly, was a retired rabbi. He had a beautiful deep voice and a pleasant pulpit presence. My grandmother had died the week before Mother's Day and so the Rabbi naturally spoke about mothers and motherhood and how the loss of a mother and grandmother was such a difficult event. He obviously had not only not met my grandmother but had also not talked to anyone to find out anything about her. As a mother and grandmother she had left much to be desired. Motherhood was not her strong suit. That is not to say that she did not have good points, however. She was a very generous woman, readily contributing to any good cause that showed up. And she was funny. She probably could have been a stand-up comedian if the opportunity had arisen. She was very childlike in many ways and was often the life of the party. She was loved and would be missed by many. But as a mother and grandmother she could have improved.

Elizabeth , a friend of mine, asked for my assistance at the funeral of her father. I had met him only briefly but had been with the family at the hospital when he died. The family had gone to the same small rural church for many years and the funeral was to be held there with that church's minister officiating. I met with the minister and we agreed on what parts of the funeral we each would be responsible for. He began with his usual funeral readings from the Bible and then wove in some personal observations from the decades that he had known Elizabeth 's father. When my time came I contributed some of the thoughts that I had for the occasion and then told the congregation what I had discovered from talking with Elizabeth and her mother about Elizabeth 's father. After the funeral a number of family members came up to me and asked me how long I had known him. When I said that I had met him only briefly they were amazed that I seemed to have known him better than his own minister who had known him for years.

As a minister I often feel frustrated that I cannot be of greater assistance to people who have lost those closest to them. For many people the traditions and symbols and prayers that they grew up with bring solace and comfort. Yet, platitudes and false complements, Biblical allusions and comparisons, while too frequent at funerals, often miss that essence of why such events are held. We don't want to be converted to the preacher’s religion or even his or her perspective. No, we want to focus on the loss that we feel at a time like this. Life is dear and the death of one close to us is a death in us. We need healing, we need soothing and we need to be reminded that there are those who still live whom we need and who need us. In fact death can bring us closer to life. Things that we take for granted are often brought to the surface. Our need for each other is held up for us to see and attend to.

The poet Helen Hoyt tells us that:

Since I have felt the sense of death,

Since I have borne its dread, its fear -

Oh, how my life has grown more dear

Since I have felt the sense of death!

Sorrows are good, and cares are small,

since I have known the loss of all.

Since I have felt the sense of

Since I have felt the sense off death,

and death forever at my side -

Oh, how the world has opened wide

Since I have felt the sense of death,

My hours are jewels that I spend,

For I have seen the hours end.

Since I have felt the sense of death,

Since I have looked on blackest night -

My inmost brain is fierce with light

Since I have felt the sense of death.

O dark, that made my eyes to see!

O death, that gave my life to me.

When one is struck with a grave illness there is often a resignation about death after the denial and bargaining and prayer and anger have not changed the reality of the situation. Yet, if after all, one steps out onto the precipice and is, remarkably pulled back, the resurrection often makes them appreciate life much more than ever they did before. I have not had the experience of being near death but did have the experience of anticipating the possibility being an invalid for life. The return to health changed my life. It reminded me that life is dear, that it is all too brief and fragile. It taught me to cherish what I have of life and to try to make the life that I do have as meaningful as possible, something of value to others as well as myself. Death leads to life just as life leads to death.

Louise and I have brought with us to Muskegon an old rocking chair that is falling apart. We need to get it restored some day. It is the chair that Louise 's grandmother bought at a used furniture store ninety years ago to sit in to nurse Louise 's father. Every day, several times a day, when we pass by the chair we remember both Louise 's father and her grandmother and then her grandfather as well.

UU minster and poet Richard Gilbert understands the gentle sorrow of time gone by that can be revealed in something as ordinary and commonplace as a chair:

There is something about an empty chair

That reminds us of our ultimate loneliness,

Evoking memories of those we have loved and lost.

No longer will they occupy that chair,

However much their image is etched in our memory.

Chairs know the comings and goings of people,

the assault of young bodies

and the gentler weight of old ones.

They know the passing of the years;

they absorb all in well-worn wood.

There is something in us

That doesn't like an empty chair,

that wants it occupied

By the ones we love and loved.

Its presence haunts us with memories that fade

But do not die.

We reach out across empty space,

Encircling nothing but a memory.

Our fingers caress the well-known cracks and grooves,

As familiar to us as the body that filled them,

Our eyes create the image of a former time

When loved ones brought a chair to life

And endeared it to us.

Now there is little to do but sit,

Supported by the strength of years,

Occupying beloved space for a time,

Rejoicing in times gone by, never to return.

People, like chairs, are full of memories,

Memories that sustain our coming in and our going out

From this day forward.

Many of you have memories that you cherish of someone who is no longer part of your daily lives. Remembering brings its own reward. I invite you now to make the memory more solid by speaking the name of the person whose memory you cherish.

If you would like to light a candle to honor that person, feel free to come forward as the meditative music brings us healing and comfort.