Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church, Portland, Oregon

February 7, 1999

I don’t really believe that I am going to die. I realize from noting that others around me are dropping like flies—indeed that my parents and aunts and uncles are all dead—that other people die. But somehow I’ve always thought I would escape that fate. Others die, I don’t. Others—strangers, unlucky folks who get some dreaded disease or get hit by somebody running a red light. They die, not me. Of course, I know intellectually that I will die. It’s not a problem for me to read about death, to discuss death philosophically, even as a minister to help others prepare to die. But the existential understanding, the felt knowledge of my own death, my non-being—well now, that’s another thing.

In that realm, I’m rather like the woman who said to her husband, "Dear, if one of us should die first, I think I’ll go and live in Paris." Or like the philandering husband in the film Moonstruck. His wife says to him in exasperation, "Why do men have to chase after women?" He answers, "Because we’re going to die." Denial of death. I’m not the only one who indulges in it. Perhaps part of the reason is that death is generally hidden from us. Eighty per cent of people die in hospitals. They die, they are unhooked from the life-supporting tubes and devices, and they are taken away, out of sight. Mostly, we don’t have wakes, and even funerals are pretty rare. Usually it’s memorial services, and sometimes even those are not held. So we don’t actually see many dead people. Hard to believe they are dead. Gone maybe, but not dead. Hard to believe we will ever be dead.

I think back to the untimely death of Diana, Princess of Wales. That was a shocker. Many of us wept over her demise, and I for one didn’t fully understand exactly why I was weeping. But tears, you have to trust somehow. Some deep part of us was touched. Part of our sadness was rooted in her self-revelation: she had everything, one would think—but love and self-esteem, perhaps the only two things in life worth having. She was beautiful—startlingly beautiful—and yet she didn’t like what she saw in the mirror. But there was something more that made us weep. She was young, she was beautiful, she was famous, she was rich, she was in love, AND she did good deeds. She was a regular icon! How could somebody like this actually die? If money and position, beauty and fame can’t protect somebody from death, then what are my chances of getting out of this world alive? Not good. So it was, once again, thrown in our faces. I don’t care what you’re like, how much you know, how good you are: you are going to die. Just like everybody else. And guess what? You can’t decide the place and the means of your death. Remember John Lennon’s last song? "Life is what happens to you when you are busy making other plans." Life, and death. One minute Diana is alive, vibrant, kissing her sweetheart. Bam, the next minute, she is dead.

We can hardly imagine not being. I mean, if all we have is us—the only us we know, then how can we not be? What would it mean to not exist? Some people believe that we go to heaven or perhaps are reincarnated as another living thing, but nobody questions that this body, as we know it, becomes food for worms after we die. This too, too mortal flesh does in fact melt.

So our denial is understandable. But at the same time it’s harmful to us. It’s harmful in several ways. Sometimes folks fail to prepare for this inevitability. They don’t make a will, thinking superstitiously that making a will might tempt an early death. Let’s pretend I’m not going to die, and maybe I won’t. Then when they do die--unexpectedly, as we like to say--their estate goes into probate with the state. Their financial records may be known only to them, and so their heirs must spend weeks or months figuring things out. They may be quite ill, but refuse to sign a living will or an advance directive, giving their trusted caretakers and kin direction about decisions at the end of life.

But these practical matters, as important as they are, are less important than other considerations. One of these is that we use up an immense amount of psychic energy whenever we repress anything. We repress all kinds of things, of course—our anger, our sadness, our desire—and we always pay a price. I believe that fear of death underlies most other fears, and it exacts the greatest price of all. That price is sometimes called depression. It’s sometimes called addiction. It’s sometimes called ideology or religion. But it’s always an escape from reality, and insofar as it is, it removes us from the very sources that sustain life—removes us from joy, from sensual pleasure, from love.

Fear and the anxiety that accompanies fear will prevent the one quality that connects us to others, and that quality is presence. How often have you noticed yourself being with someone, but not really being there? There is so much noise in your head. So many unresolved feelings running amuck in your body. How often have you been to a lecture or to a musical performance, paid your money to get in, but then really missed it, because you actually didn’t have a self available to attend? In fact, how much of life do we really just miss entirely, because of our lack of ability to be alive in the present moment?

Recently I’ve been doing some sitting meditation, and I’ve become more aware of the kind of stuff that comes and goes through my mind. The deal when you sit is this. Very simple. Ha! Hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do. You just breathe and stay focused on your breath and notice the thoughts that drift through as you attempt to stay with your breath and your body. As for me, I plan. I judge. Sometimes I judge others who have recently crossed me. They are wrong--they are bad. I am right--I am good. I think about my failures. I should be more_____ whatever, you fill in the blank. Other times I think I’m great. And then I think I’m a jerk for thinking I’m great. I think about food. I think about all the work I can do as soon as I finish my meditation. I want to move on, move on, move on. I tell myself, go back to the breath, back to the breath.

I don’t like what I see in me when I meditate. That’s of course another judgment. I live with an enormous amount of fear and anxiety—more than I would ever care to admit to myself. That’s what the judgment is all about. And the planning. And the food. All forms of protection, all ways of escape. And at the base of all the fear, I believe is fear of death. Wanting control over others, wanting power, wanting money, wanting admiration: I believe all these very human wants are rooted in our fear of death. We know we are not safe, we know we are vulnerable. Well, how then can we find the peace, the security, we desire? In being present with what is. Fear prevents presence, and herein lies the problem.

Another problem when we deny death is that we end up living our lives as though we have all the time in the world. We’ll always have time to do what we really want to do, we think. Time to travel. Time for pleasure. Time to do the real work of our hearts. Time to spend with the people we love. Time to say all the things we haven’t said. Time to forgive and to be forgiven. So we postpone the very most crucial parts of living—and then one day, bam, it’s too late. That person we wanted to forgive is gone. Or the book never did get written, and gee now the doctor is saying I’ve got six months? If we understood that we really are going to die, and who knows when, then perhaps we would begin to ask ourselves the same questions that people ask themselves when they are told they have a terminal illness. Typically, they begin to simplify their lives and sort out the trivia. They ask, who are the people I care most about and want to spend time with? What work is my soul calling me to do? What pleasures have I been postponing because of my overbearing work ethic? Who are the people I need to make peace with, before it’s too late? We can all ask those questions right now. We can all act on the answers. Because—guess what? We are all terminal. And the time is always shorter than we think. Always. Whoosh! Like a flash.

Recently my sister Donna lost her former husband Gary. Gary was a big guy, 6’ 5", quiet, independent. He lived in the same town as my sister after their divorce, and he never remarried. They remained friends. A pharmacist by trade, Gary left work early one day because of chest pain and shortness of breath. His grown children urged him to see a doctor, but he refused. The distress continued over the next few days, and still he would not see a doctor. Then the next weekend, he drove to a near-by town to a family funeral. That night after the funeral, he could not sleep because of pain, and yet he still did not call anyone. He got up and slipped outside the family home and paced in the yard, until the pain became so great that he finally woke the family. They called 911 and rushed him to the hospital. He was dead an hour later, of massive heart failure, at age 51. I wondered, how could this happen? He was never one to tell others what he felt. Maybe he didn’t know what he felt. Maybe he couldn’t imagine dying at 51. Maybe he couldn’t admit fear until death stared him in the face. I don’t know. I do know I’ll miss him.

His finances were pretty much in shambles, there was no will. His two grown sons went through his house clearing it out, preparing it for sale. One of the things they found was a letter addressed to my sister, written years before, but never mailed. The letter told of his love for her, of his appreciation for all she had meant to him. Maybe, he thought, I’ll mail this one day. Maybe I’ll tell her, though our lives have gone their separate ways, I love her and I always will. I know that she loved him. She didn’t want to be married to him, but she loved him. She went to the hospital as soon as Gary’s family called her, and she spent some time with his body. She said her goodbyes then to this kind, good man, who could never share his feelings with her. The moral of this story? It’s simple, my friends. Speak of your pain. Speak of your fear. Speak of your love, before it’s too late.

I’m going to tell you two more stories now. True stories. One is a sad story, a modern morality tale. The other is a triumph. What they have in common is that the main characters are told they are going to die. And the stories unfold from that dramatic point.

The first has to do with Kirk, a hard-driving venture capitalist who had contacted kidney cancer. The cancer had spread to his liver, bones, and lungs. He had been to the best specialists in the nation, and no one had given him any hope. As a last resort, he brought his 96 pages of medical records to Jerome Groopman, head of a program in experimental medicine. If nothing else, Kirk was a fighter. He said to Groopman, "I am tough as nails. In business and most other matters. My whole life I haven’t really depended on anyone but myself. <My wife> can tell you. I’m a real pain. Filled with piss and vinegar. But my mind is made up to go for it." Dr. Groopman, too, thought Kirk was too sick to treat, but then he noted Kirk’s square jaw, his determined face, and took him on as a patient. And things actually went well. After months of painful treatment, his cancer went into remission.

But Kirk seemed to be a changed man. His old aggressive manner seemed to disappear. And he was no longer interested in reading the newspapers. Groopman thought he was depressed. But Kirk said no, that he just wasn’t interested in the information in the newspapers anymore. Groopman continued seeing Kirk for check-ups every couple of weeks, and then after four months, the cancer returned. This time there would be no remission. Groopman told Kirk, "I’m sorry the miracle didn’t work." And Kirk responded, "You shouldn’t feel sorry. There was no reason to live anyway." Groopman thought, "What happened to the Kirk Bains that so desperately wanted to live?"

"You read newspapers?" Kirk continued. Groopman nodded, wondering where this conversation was going. "I don’t read newspapers anymore. I don’t know how to. Or why I should. Newspapers were a gold mine for me. . . . . A blizzard in the Midwest, the immigration debate in California, the problems of West Germany absorbing East Germany. For you, those articles are about the lives or fortunes of individuals and nations. For me, they mean nothing beyond information for deals and commodity trading. I never really cared about the world’s events or its people." Kirk grimaced in pain. "How do you like my great epiphany? No voice of God . . . , but a newspaper left unread in its wrapper."

Groopman asked about Kirk’s wife Cathy and their children. Hadn’t he enjoyed his years with them? Kirk just said, "They’ll be fine without me." Groopman was at a loss for words, because he felt that Kirk might be right. Groopman suggested to his patient that he still had time to speak, to tell Cathy and his two children what he learned, what he regretted. And Kirk responded, "Why? So they can hear what they already know? That I was a self-absorbed, uncaring <jerk>? That’s really going to be a comforting deathbed interchange."

"Kirk," said Groopman, "you can’t relive your life. There is no time. But <Cathy and the kids> can learn from you. And when you’re gone, the memory of your words may help . . . them." From Groopman’s account, we never know whether those words were spoken. Perhaps Kirk did find some peace at the end. Perhaps not. How tragic it is for someone to wait until just before he dies to examine the values he lives by. How sad it is to go to one’s death not being able to respect one’s self. At the end of his tale, Groopman reflects upon the words of Kierkegaard: "It is perfectly true, as philosophers say, that life must be understood backwards. But they forget the other proposition, that it must be lived forwards."

The second story I have to tell you is from one of our congregants, Floyd Sklaver, who is very much alive, though he thought he would not be, at this point. You see, Floyd has AIDS. The following is his story, in his words: "The realization that I was going to die was thrust upon me unwillingly. For 10 years I had known that I had HIV and had tried to pretend that I wouldn’t succumb to it. Then, in 1994, I began having health problems and becoming weaker and weaker. When I finally sought medical attention, I knew within a week the news that I had dreaded and tried to avoid. I had full-blown AIDS, and my immune system was severely limited.

"I felt as if I had walked into a wall: visions of frailty, helplessness, and incontinence flooded my thoughts. And then the finality of death hit me. ‘Oh, my God,’ I thought. ‘This is what I have been running from. This is going to be the end of my life and what do I have to show for it?’ I felt so sorry for myself. Here I was, only 37 years old, and I wasn’t going to live much longer. I wasn’t going to do any of the things I had dreamed of doing. I wasn’t going to be the person I had always dreamed of being. I cried unceasingly. Huge racking sobs would suddenly overcome me. ‘What is going to happen to me?’ I wondered. ‘And where was I going to go <after I died>?’

"One of my overriding thoughts concerned my funeral. Would anyone show up? Oh, sure, my immediate family would. But they would have to. They were obligated. My small circle of close friends would come—I hoped. I pictured a vast sanctuary and imagined only a dozen people alone among the cold marble. Was that really it? Had I touched no one else’s life?

"Then, surprise! I was not going to die, after all. At least not right away. New treatments were discovered for AIDS that allowed it to be contained and treated as a chronic illness. How has that news affected my life? Now, I’m not one of those people who came back after an illness determined to slow down and smell the roses. Ironically, it’s quite the opposite. I came back, recognized that I wasn’t satisfied with my life and said, "Let’s kick into gear." So I started a business and have been working 60-70 hours per week.

"In so many ways I am not the same person I was before I became sick. Most of the changes stem from the fact that I am no longer afraid. Of anything! Oh, I’m not reckless, and I still think bungee jumping is for the insane, but I’m not afraid of so many things that used to cause me such anxiety. I’m not afraid of getting sick, and I’m not even afraid of dying. My quest for the answers to what happens when we die led me to believe that eternal peace awaits us. Of course, being Unitarian and raised Jewish helps. Not believing in Hell, I feel as if I have a one-way ticket up.

"Even more than being unafraid of death, though, I am also unafraid of living. In my business I am unafraid to call people who, in the past, would have intimidated me. I am unafraid to spend money and am no longer worried that there won’t be enough. And I am no longer afraid to catch someone’s eye on the street and nod hello. This may not seem like a victory, but I am a former New Yorker, after all.

"Another critical way in which I have changed is that I am more compassionate, a lot more understanding and forgiving. I can ignore someone who cuts me off on the highway. I can recognize that the rude clerk at Kinko’s is just having a bad day. Somehow, because of my experience I recognize that we are all just trying to cope, just trying to get through the day the best way we know how.

"In short, I’m not trying to hold on as tightly or as desperately as I was. I move with the flow more easily and more willingly. I have tried to become the person I always dreamed of being. I have to. You see, I made a bargain with God. I told God that if I could live, I would become kind, compassionate, and loving. God’s part of the bargain has been kept, and so I must keep mine."

Instead of seeing death as a fearsome thing, is there a way we can befriend death? Could we see our own mortality, the limitation of our days, as an invitation to consider the really significant questions of living: how do I want to spend my time? And, with whom? What are the qualities of character that I want to develop? What are the gifts I will leave behind when I am gone?

One of the most widely used forms of meditation among Buddhist monks is "the recollection of death." In some traditions, practitioners actually seat themselves in graveyards or crematoria and reflect upon the ashes of the bodies or the decaying corpses. Short of that, practitioners are often advised to imagine their own deaths, their own decay, step by step, until only bones or ashes remain. The goal of this practice is to obtain perfect freedom from the illusion that we and the objects of our pleasure will endure. From this insight, we lose our desire to control the world according to our will, and instead can be more fully present in the world as it is.

The dying often seize control of their lives in surprising and unexpected ways. This past Friday I saw a wonderful film entitled Playing by Heart, which portrays a number of couples who are trying to love, in spite of all the barriers to their love. One pair is a young man dying of AIDS and his mother. She has been called to his bedside when he has just days remaining. Before this time, she had not known that he was gay nor that he had AIDS. When she arrives at his side, he tells her he is dying, and she begins to deny it, saying, "No, no—" and he responds in anger, "Look, Mother, I don’t have time for the family pattern of denial. We have to find a new way. I just don’t have time."

The truth is that none of us has time. Death is, truly, just around the corner. We will die poor, for we can take nothing of this earth with us. We will die in solidarity with all other persons, of whatever race or class, for privilege will not save us. We don’t have time. We don’t have time for the trivial. For empty conversations. For work we hate. For relationships that suck us dry. We have so little life to live. Let’s make every day, every hour, every moment count. Let’s walk this earth in pleasure, in thanksgiving, and in true presence.

So be it. Amen.

PRAYER

Giver of Life, may we learn to cherish our days as gifts. Death will come for us, yes, and when that day comes may we know no regrets. May we know that we have lived according to our most cherished values and may we, at the end, find ourselves all used up, given over to your purposes in the world, and ready to cross the line into the next. So be it. Amen.

BENEDICTION

May you see life as a gift, and may you be present every day of your living.

OPENING WORDS

Praise God for His mercies,

For His austere demands,

For His light

And for His Darkness.

--May Sarton

Copyright 1999, Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell. All rights reserved.