Fragile

thoughts on death

I’ve been thinking about death and how we talk about death, and how we try to make sense of death and avoid some of the realities that death – I think – should remind us of.

As a pastor, I’ve participated in a lot more weddings than the average person. I’ve also participated in an even larger number of funerals than the average person will in their lifetime. I’ve led funerals for adults who died in their 80s and 90s and I’ve led services for babies who never reached their first birthday. Some funerals have been celebratory of a life well-lived and some have been heart-breaking for the tragic nature of the person’s death or the unexpected nature of their death or a family’s unresolved turmoil and hard feelings with the deceased.

The Old and New Testaments in the Bible both try to make sense of the loss of people we love, especially when it’s the untimely death of someone we have loved deeply and who has been a welcome part of our lives.

We don’t like to believe that life is as fragile as life actually is. Human beings seem wired to create narratives to insulate ourselves from the simple truth that makes life so rare and precious…it is short and can randomly be shortened for all of us.

In the book of Isaiah, the writer tries to make sense of death of a young person by suggesting that their premature death kept them from troubled times ahead.

A premature death, the writer suggests, is God doing us a favor.

Saving us from worse things to come.

Yay.

Thanks God.

People, especially Christians, often say nonsensical things in the face of someone’s grief. We want people to feel better. We want to say something that helps lift the weight of grief. And we often want to assure ourselves that our lives don’t end by chance but rather our deaths are always part of some greater plan.

“God will be glorified in your loss.” Is the kind of thing we say without wondering what we’re telling each other about God. It sounds like we’re suggesting that God’s approval rating was down so he took your son or daughter’s life to razzle and dazzle people with God’s ability to create some warm fuzzy moments or establish a scholarship or boost church attendance. It’s terrifying to think that God’s glory can dip and even more terrifying to think that the consequences of that dip will be a child or adult or even a kitten would be made to die.

In the days of Jesus, the genius religious leaders speculated in their public theology that a sudden death was God paying people back for their bad behavior or bad choices.

You better watch out, you better not pout – or God will take your life.

This theology works if you see yourself as generally better than most people. As long as you’re in the majority, you can relax as God picks people off one by one or in larger groups. Essentially, we are telling people that a premature death only happens to those who deserve it. If we behave ourselves we’ll be safe. You can see how this way of thinking about God and life and death can be used to control people. But Jesus directly addresses this theology within the gospels and says, “no, that’s not how God treats us. That’s not the nature of a loving God. It’s simple. Stuff happens. And we’re all as vulnerable as that.”

Author, A. Manette Ansay writes, “..and it occurs to me how fragile our lives are, how at any moment the sky can open and drown us, the earth can open and swallow us. I think of all the intricate ways our bodies can betray us, the accidents and the atrocities, the missteps and the misunderstandings.” I’ve buried some really amazing people – many of whom we’re way better at being human than I am – who have died for random causes, sudden accidents and diseases that were no respecter of persons.

I remember one of my very first hospital visits as a ministry intern at my home church. The other intern and I went to visit a member of the church who was in the ICU of one of the local hospitals in our city. Our clergy badges gave us access to see her. Passing through a series of doorways until we finally stood beside her bed in a very small, glass enclosed room, I thought of the Holy of Holies in the Jewish Temple. Hooked up to an uncountable number of wires and tubes a young wife and mother acknowledged our presence from her bed and asked us one simple question, “Why would God take my life when I have so many reasons to live?”

At Bible college I learned several ways to answer her question. In that small room I had no theology, all I could offer was sympathy and empathy and a simple prayer.

Three days later, she died.

In the Bible, the poetry book we call, Job, offers us the same honest but uncomfortable take: Sometimes terrible things happen for no discernable reason.

The big question of Job’s epic poem: why is there suffering in the world? Whether from natural disasters, or physical disease, or from one another? Job’s story doesn’t try to dazzle us with a clever moral or philosophical reason, Job simply observes that we live in an incredibly complex, amazing world that at this stage at least, is not designed to prevent suffering.

The late Frederick Buechner wrote something I think is good and true. Buechner wrote, “The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us.”

We create bedtime stories to make ourselves feel brave enough or safe enough or comfortable enough to face the inevitable night. God simply offers us his presence – you’re o.k., I am with you, no one and nothing can pull you away from Love.

The grace of God is that we all had the chance to live in a time when we can be a part of each others lives. We might never have been, but we are and our lives are all better because of we have people with whom we can share this life. The party wouldn’t have been complete without you and me, the song wouldn’t have been complete without the part we bring to the music. There are no words or explanations good enough to justify losing someone we love.

Faced with the unexpected death of a friend, Jesus didn’t offer the people around him any clever reasons or justifications, the Story tells us simply this: “Jesus wept.”

Someone once wrote, “Grief is not a disorder, a disease, or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, spiritual and physical necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.” Grief is a manifestation of love and like other manifestations of love, it’s best shared with others. One of my favorite authors, John Green said this, “We all want to do something to mitigate the pain of loss or to turn grief into something positive, to find a silver lining in the clouds. But I believe there is real value in just standing there, being still, being sad.”

Do you remember watching A Christmas Carole and coming to the visit from the last ghost, the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come? The Spirit slow walks Scrooge through scenes associated with Scrooge’s own death. After overhearing conversations of people that were lacking sadness and grief at his passing, Ebenezer pleads, “If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion caused by this man’s death…show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you.” Later, searching for hearts that demonstrated love by grieving loss, the Spirit takes Scrooge to the home of the Cratchit family, broken hearted over the death of their beloved, Tim.

Dickens writes,

Peter answered, shutting up his book. “But I think he’s walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother.”

They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:

“I have known him walk with -- I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.”

“And so have I,” cried Peter. “Often.”

“And so have I,” exclaimed another. So had all.

“But he was very light to carry,” she resumed, intent upon her work, “and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble -- no trouble. And there is your father at the door!”

She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter -- he had need of it, poor fellow -- came in. His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a little cheek, against his face, as if they said, “Don’t mind it, father. Don’t be grieved.”

Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs Cratchit and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said.

“Sunday. You went to-day, then, Robert?” said his wife.

“Yes, my dear,” returned Bob. “I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child!” cried Bob. “My little child!”

He broke down all at once. He couldn’t help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart perhaps than they were.

St. Bruce of the Cockburns once described us as having “These fragile bodies of touch and taste…” As I approach my 62^nd birthday, I have never felt – personally – this acutely how fragile life is. My wife and I lost a baby once. We’ve lost great friends. We’ve lost parents. I can feel this body of mine ticking down. Isaiah 53:3, in a passage the early church felt described Jesus, says he was, “a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief.” Of all the things this might mean, surely one thing is that to be fully human means to know sorrow and to embrace grief. Surely it means our capacity to grieve connects us to one another in an important way. To acknowledge our fragility might be a path to a more peaceful life, a more mindful existence, a way of being that rearranges our priorities and values and the speed at which we live. Maybe, in the face of tragic loss, it will save us from empty platitudes and thin theology in favor of manifesting love together through tears and sorrow and finding hope to carry on, not in our words but in our faithful presence.