People often joke, and are flippant about so-called "trigger warnings." I'm not going to do that. In fact, I'm giving you one now. This post may be hard to read, for all manner of reasons. If you can't make it through, I understand.
I have had a lot of opportunities to reflect upon death the past few months. I think one of the more difficult aspects of death, besides losing a particular person whom you love, is being reminded of all the others you have lost. We can be told a thousand times, "It really wasn't your fault," and we know the right answer; we can even say it. And still we find ourselves saying, "Did I do enough so that they knew how much I loved them?" The fragility of life confronts us ironically with our complacency, the knowledge that in many ways, we take our days for granted, as though they will never end.
In another context, I identify strongly with Will Hunting, the brilliant, haunted, abused working-class kid from Boston, played on film by Matt Damon. There he is, talking with Robin Williams' character. The psychologist tells him repeatedly, "It's not your fault." "I know," he replies. But you see moments later, he understands, but he has nowhere to go with his grief. He goes into the therapist's arms, sobbing. It's not really an answer, but then, if he doesn't let go, he may well turn that grief in on himself.
In one way, it's absolutely absurd to say that religion helps us cope with death, and with the world as it is. My friend James from high school is still dead. Alive one day, and gone the next. It was 21 years ago, and I think of him most days. He was really hurting inside, but he was funny and kind. Always helpful. I never would have made it out of high school without him. I wish I'd known him better! Truthfully, I took him for granted. You look to the sky and say, "Am I going to be whole again? Will we get that back?" Every tear, every thought, says those words. And as you get closer into the circle of your loved ones, those words echo louder. There is a reason why people toss around the word, "senseless" all the time, because death truly is. There are gradations of tragedy and unfairness, but you don't have to look far to see or hear about something that, for all appearances, is completely outrageous.
I can't really blame folks for the question, "Where is the all-powerful, good God?" If we dare to answer, we can only say, "There is something better on the other side." I should hope so! Fathoming worse is sometimes difficult. My pious soul can't handle being angry at God, but there is something comforting about the person who does. When God answers from the whirlwind, the person might be humbled, but he will still be. My read of the Scriptures is surely a picture of an enigmatic God, with ways I don't begin to understand, but insofar as I'm able to know "goodness," He is that. On the other hand, He doesn't see fit to spare us this trouble and sadness. I don't need to make sense of it; I need to get through it. When people make a mistake, it's this one. A tough balance to strike, to be sure.
The death of my father was a huge moment in my life. In some ways, it's the event that defines me. I have found healing in odd places. Interstellar was a 2014 film that helped. The noble Matthew McConaughey plays "Coop," a retired astronaut, recently widowed, with 2 kids. He's especially close to his daughter "Murph" (Murphy) a tomboy scientist much like himself. Coop is pressed back into service in the hope of saving humanity. He knows he'll likely miss most of her life, even if he does return. In the course of relating to her wisdom gleaned from his dying wife, he says, "We're just here to be memories for our children." It's the emotional heart of the film, and it lands like an Ali knockout punch. I understand this. I know what it's like to be the child of a memory, to subsist in a sense on the love of a father I barely knew. There is no way Mr. McConaughey could know what that meant. As I simply shook in my seat at the end, I realized that grief and healing were co-mingled. Joy and suffering. It truly seemed like the words of wisdom could have been my father's words to me. There is no accounting for taste, and feel free to hate it, but I'm thankful every single day for that story, and all those who helped it to be told.
Love is stronger than death. It's a lesson we know, but often forget. Not sentiment, or at least, not only that, but some power of Being that refutes death itself. It must have been Love that raised Christ from the dead. Therefore, the Father is Love itself. To live and to touch someone in a positive way may not save your soul by itself, but it can get close, or so it seems. If we did what we know to do, we might all get closer to the purpose of our lives, without a big arduous philosophical to-do. What is kindness, but the seeds of enduring love?
It's too simple to say, "Cherish your loved ones, because you never know" though that is true. We have to live as though everything we are will become one moment. Heaven is an abiding eternal moment of enduring Love. The tears will not be wiped away here. Absolutely, they are not. The best we can do is reflect the love we have received. With any mercy, our sadness here will be a passing shadow or cloud, when Love swallows up this world we know. Or, we could live in the darkness of our wounds. We could share the darkness. We could decide to turn the sorrow into rage. Not only to shake our fist at the whirlwind, but to be a whirlwind that destroys all semblance of joy or peace to be found here. We have known those who have done this. We shouldn't allow ourselves to become like this. Let's grieve in hope, a hope that lives on our solidarity with one another.
I don't know Todd Rundgren, mind you. He wrote a song called, "Love Is The Answer" in or about 1977. It became an Adult Contemporary hit for the duo of England Dan and John Ford Coley in 1979. Frankly though, Rundgren's version with his band Utopia is the best one. Anyway, it's a song about death, meaning, and love. I know Rundgren has some Christian experience, though he's probably mixing it syncretistically with other things. I tell you, I'm encouraged every time I hear it.
There is something about suffering that testifies to wholeness. What is suffering, but an awareness of a lack that should not be? Therefore, to suffer is to bear witness to evil, whether physical or moral. To bear up under it is to be a living refutation of it. Joy does not erase the suffering, but we are a conduit of joy, when we refuse to be subsumed. I can't tell you exactly how this is accomplished, but to speak of our sorrows and our loves is one way to begin.
In this way, "celebrations of life" get a bad rap, though we should pray in the face of death. If sin were not real and a problem, we would not need forgiveness. We are not saints simply by existing. On the other hand, the most unhelpful, unloving person you know could probably coax a serviceable eulogy out of someone. That's a testimony to what we are, and what we're meant to be.
We can't make a meaning out of this sorrow and death, but we might be able to find it, with God's help. Or to make a start, through the tears.
I have had a lot of opportunities to reflect upon death the past few months. I think one of the more difficult aspects of death, besides losing a particular person whom you love, is being reminded of all the others you have lost. We can be told a thousand times, "It really wasn't your fault," and we know the right answer; we can even say it. And still we find ourselves saying, "Did I do enough so that they knew how much I loved them?" The fragility of life confronts us ironically with our complacency, the knowledge that in many ways, we take our days for granted, as though they will never end.
In another context, I identify strongly with Will Hunting, the brilliant, haunted, abused working-class kid from Boston, played on film by Matt Damon. There he is, talking with Robin Williams' character. The psychologist tells him repeatedly, "It's not your fault." "I know," he replies. But you see moments later, he understands, but he has nowhere to go with his grief. He goes into the therapist's arms, sobbing. It's not really an answer, but then, if he doesn't let go, he may well turn that grief in on himself.
In one way, it's absolutely absurd to say that religion helps us cope with death, and with the world as it is. My friend James from high school is still dead. Alive one day, and gone the next. It was 21 years ago, and I think of him most days. He was really hurting inside, but he was funny and kind. Always helpful. I never would have made it out of high school without him. I wish I'd known him better! Truthfully, I took him for granted. You look to the sky and say, "Am I going to be whole again? Will we get that back?" Every tear, every thought, says those words. And as you get closer into the circle of your loved ones, those words echo louder. There is a reason why people toss around the word, "senseless" all the time, because death truly is. There are gradations of tragedy and unfairness, but you don't have to look far to see or hear about something that, for all appearances, is completely outrageous.
I can't really blame folks for the question, "Where is the all-powerful, good God?" If we dare to answer, we can only say, "There is something better on the other side." I should hope so! Fathoming worse is sometimes difficult. My pious soul can't handle being angry at God, but there is something comforting about the person who does. When God answers from the whirlwind, the person might be humbled, but he will still be. My read of the Scriptures is surely a picture of an enigmatic God, with ways I don't begin to understand, but insofar as I'm able to know "goodness," He is that. On the other hand, He doesn't see fit to spare us this trouble and sadness. I don't need to make sense of it; I need to get through it. When people make a mistake, it's this one. A tough balance to strike, to be sure.
The death of my father was a huge moment in my life. In some ways, it's the event that defines me. I have found healing in odd places. Interstellar was a 2014 film that helped. The noble Matthew McConaughey plays "Coop," a retired astronaut, recently widowed, with 2 kids. He's especially close to his daughter "Murph" (Murphy) a tomboy scientist much like himself. Coop is pressed back into service in the hope of saving humanity. He knows he'll likely miss most of her life, even if he does return. In the course of relating to her wisdom gleaned from his dying wife, he says, "We're just here to be memories for our children." It's the emotional heart of the film, and it lands like an Ali knockout punch. I understand this. I know what it's like to be the child of a memory, to subsist in a sense on the love of a father I barely knew. There is no way Mr. McConaughey could know what that meant. As I simply shook in my seat at the end, I realized that grief and healing were co-mingled. Joy and suffering. It truly seemed like the words of wisdom could have been my father's words to me. There is no accounting for taste, and feel free to hate it, but I'm thankful every single day for that story, and all those who helped it to be told.
Love is stronger than death. It's a lesson we know, but often forget. Not sentiment, or at least, not only that, but some power of Being that refutes death itself. It must have been Love that raised Christ from the dead. Therefore, the Father is Love itself. To live and to touch someone in a positive way may not save your soul by itself, but it can get close, or so it seems. If we did what we know to do, we might all get closer to the purpose of our lives, without a big arduous philosophical to-do. What is kindness, but the seeds of enduring love?
It's too simple to say, "Cherish your loved ones, because you never know" though that is true. We have to live as though everything we are will become one moment. Heaven is an abiding eternal moment of enduring Love. The tears will not be wiped away here. Absolutely, they are not. The best we can do is reflect the love we have received. With any mercy, our sadness here will be a passing shadow or cloud, when Love swallows up this world we know. Or, we could live in the darkness of our wounds. We could share the darkness. We could decide to turn the sorrow into rage. Not only to shake our fist at the whirlwind, but to be a whirlwind that destroys all semblance of joy or peace to be found here. We have known those who have done this. We shouldn't allow ourselves to become like this. Let's grieve in hope, a hope that lives on our solidarity with one another.
I don't know Todd Rundgren, mind you. He wrote a song called, "Love Is The Answer" in or about 1977. It became an Adult Contemporary hit for the duo of England Dan and John Ford Coley in 1979. Frankly though, Rundgren's version with his band Utopia is the best one. Anyway, it's a song about death, meaning, and love. I know Rundgren has some Christian experience, though he's probably mixing it syncretistically with other things. I tell you, I'm encouraged every time I hear it.
There is something about suffering that testifies to wholeness. What is suffering, but an awareness of a lack that should not be? Therefore, to suffer is to bear witness to evil, whether physical or moral. To bear up under it is to be a living refutation of it. Joy does not erase the suffering, but we are a conduit of joy, when we refuse to be subsumed. I can't tell you exactly how this is accomplished, but to speak of our sorrows and our loves is one way to begin.
In this way, "celebrations of life" get a bad rap, though we should pray in the face of death. If sin were not real and a problem, we would not need forgiveness. We are not saints simply by existing. On the other hand, the most unhelpful, unloving person you know could probably coax a serviceable eulogy out of someone. That's a testimony to what we are, and what we're meant to be.
We can't make a meaning out of this sorrow and death, but we might be able to find it, with God's help. Or to make a start, through the tears.
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