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First UU Austin, TX
March 30, 2008
Sermons from the Third Act
Nathan L. Stone, Ph.D., minister
Invocation
Here we sit ————- waiting for what?
Waiting for some divine inspiration?
Waiting for a sense of calm to wash over us?
Waiting for church to be over so we can get on to lunch or watch Houston and San Antonio play basketball on television?
Here we sing ———– singing for what?
Singing for a moment of inspiration?
Singing because it’s good therapy?
Here we hope ———– hoping for what?
Hoping to learn some new thing that will make life easier?
Hoping that something magical will take away that resentment that is devouring us?
Hoping to find a key to that elusive happiness?
Hoping to make a connection and to find some genuine expression of love to carry us through another week?
Spirit of Life and Love?
Sit with us.
Sing with us.
Hope with us.
Amen.
Morning Prayer
And now we pray. Not because we must — but because we may.
We pray as a way of thinking out loud.
We pray as a way of organizing our thoughts.
We pray — hoping that something beyond us and other — just might be listening.
We pray — hoping that if enough people are thinking out loud at the same time and longing for the same things — maybe — some things could possibly begin to change for the better.
We pray — hoping that maybe such a bizarre ritual might make some changes inside of ME.
We pray — hoping that such an act might widen and stretch our worldview to make us visionaries of some sort.
We pray — having no clue as to why we’re doing it — in fact, feeling a bit foolish for doing it.
But — at least when we pray we’re not fighting or arguing or harming one another. At least when we pray we’re doing something together in harmony — and that IS a good thing.
Some of us refuse to pray — believing that prayer is an archaic practice of magical thinking and superstition.
Most of us pray — just to play it safe.
But whatever it is we’re doing — at least we’re trying.
AMEN.
The Sermon
In my time (over 40 years of parish ministry) — I’ve seen my share of dying. It goes with the job and it is never, ever easy to be with or to watch.
In an earlier and different life — when I was the senior pastor of the Manor Baptist Church in San Antonio . . . in a single year (1986) . . . I did 53 funerals. One per week. That’s when I decided to try being a full-time counselor for awhile . . . and take a sabbatical from being a parish minister. I had been the minister there for 13 years. I needed a break. Too much death.
When I was the chaplain for Family Hospice in Temple in 1996 all I did everyday was to help people to die. It was during that time that I began to realize that everybody needs to somehow learn how to die.
Believe it or not there is actually a book that describes what it’s like to die of a particular illness. Sherwin B. Nuland is the author of a book, ?How We Die: Reflections on Life’s Final Chapter? (Alfred A. Knopf: New York; 1993). Dr. Nuland, who teaches surgery and the history of medicine at Yale, explains the process of dying of heart disease, AIDS, stroke, drowning, suicide, and by euthanasia. Maybe more information than most people want!
What I want to talk about has nothing to do with Dr. Nuland’s approach. It is my contention that we learn how to die by learning how to live — and live well.
The same thing applies to getting old. I don’t think you learn how to be old. I am convinced that you get old just like you’re getting old. Grouchy people now are grouch-ier in the nursing home. People who are negative now are even more so in old age. Gentle, engaged, interested people now are gentle, engaging, and interesting even in the nursing home.
And, by the way, I know that sometimes dementia and Alzheimer’s can set in and literally change personalities, but that is a different story. That is always a sad and painful story. (Recommend ?Away From Her? – Canadian film: about a couple married for about 40 years as they deal with the progressive arrival of Alzheimer’s; a tender but powerful movie.)
You learn to be old by learning to live well when you’re younger.
You learn to die by learning how to live — and live well.
There’s a Hasidic story that explains this quite well. A rabbi is dying and his wife sits at his bedside crying. ?But why are you crying?? he says. ?My whole life was only that I might learn how to die. This is a time to applaud my good work!?
I could swear that the late, great, Johnny Cash sang these words but I can’t get the web or anybody else to confirm it for me. Doesn’t matter who sang or wrote it — the words are still so true: ?When I’m old enough to really live I’ll be old enough to die.?
It has been said that everybody ought to ask at least 3 questions when it’s time to die. Three questions that should be routinely asked as we move toward that inevitable adventure of dying.
[I am indebted to my UU colleague, Fred Muir, who has been the minister of the UU Church of Annapolis since 1984 — for introducing me to these 3 vital questions. (see Heretics’ Faith: Vocabulary for Religious Liberals; 2001; pp.46ff)]
Question #1 – Will people know what I meant by my life?
That is, when you die would people know how you would want to be remembered? And, of course, the answer to that is that you have to live what you mean. Albert Schweitzer said — make your life your argument: ?My life — my argument.?
For many, many years now — whenever I am asked to do a funeral — it is my custom (whether I know the dead person or not) — it is my custom to ask the family to write the eulogy. That is, write down how it is this person will be remembered. Tell me stories. Just write and I will edit. I like this because the eulogy then belongs to the family not the minister. It ends up being the center of what I do — funeral-wise. It is very real and very personal.
Usually I get more that I could ever use. People send pages and pages of information and inevitably there is one person who shoves about six pages in my face just at the moment of the service.
Occasionally I will get very little. One family wrote on a little shred of torn paper: ?Mama loved to party. It was nice that we were able to sneak in a Budweiser to her hospital room before she died!? ?Is there any more you’d like to say?? I asked. ?Nope! That says it all! That was mama!?
I had to get real creative with that eulogy talking about how mama really loved life and on and on.
Party on, Budweiser. If that’s what she meant by her life then that was a good life.
And maybe it was. Maybe that’s exactly what she meant by her life.
Isn’t it an odd thing to think that everyday you live and all that you do is a statement about the meaning of life for you?
Think of everyday as an entry into the diary of your life. And someday . . . somebody will read that diary out loud. Think of every day of your living as another entry into your own eulogy.
Wanna learn how to die? Then learn how to live your meaning.
Suicide is tough at any age. My stepson hung himself at age 19 — he would have been 21 earlier this month. And so — his suicide (on Mother’s Day!) haunts us with questions, not so much about the way he chose to die — but what, in fact, did he mean by his life? So we’re left scouring every word he wrote, every doodle he made, looking for any note he may have left in a book he was reading. What in the world did Alex mean by his life?
Question #2 – Did my life make a difference in this world?
Now I know that some will write books and some will build buildings, invent stuff, create some memorable piece of art or write a popular song. I think we all dream that somehow we might do some visible, lasting thing.
But the older I get and the more I watch people come and go and live and die the more I think that the real difference is made in the seemingly little and ordinary ways.
I know that I am always thinking that I will write a famous book or craft some incredible and unforgettable sermon. But some time ago I got a reality check. I was talking to a couple I was about to marry. She was 12-years-old when she first met me. I was a youth camp speaker. She said to me, ?I’ll never forget something you said.? And I was waiting to hear some great and profound thing that I had said. ?All the campers were watching a sunset in Colorado. And you got up to do the sermon. And, silently, you looked at the sunset with us for awhile and then you said . . . ?Wow!? And then you sat down. ?That was the sermon,? you told us later. ?Never compete with a sunset,? you told us later.
She went on to say that now she has twin girls who are 12-years-old. ?Recently,? she said, ?they were griping and arguing over something very trivial and I said to them, ?Do either of you guys know how to say ‘Wow!’ to a sunset??
?You taught me that, Nathan,? she said.
Tears came to my eyes. What a humbling moment that was for me.
I say it again. The older I get and the more I watch people come and go and live and die the more I think that the real difference is made in the seemingly little and ordinary ways.
I still love the saying that I have taped to the lamp on my desk. The more I read it the more right it sounds:
People won’t remember what you say.
They won’t even remember what you do.
They will remember how you made them feel.
Richard Sutton was only 4-years-old when he died. His liver was broken and no transplants were available. And when one finally came it was too little too late.
Did Richard Sutton make a difference? Oh man, you better believe it. He had a smile that wouldn’t quit . . . and incredible courage. Rarely do I see a 4-year-old but that I don’t think of Richard. Awhile back, I went to my four-year-old grandson’s birthday party and I thought of Richard. Did he make a difference? Absolutely. Just by being. And by being real. He lived only four short years but he persistently smiled his way into my heart . . . and brought his parents, Eric and Sharon, into my life. They are among my very best friends. Thanks, Richard!
Only 4 years to make a difference!
Harold Kushner tells this story that speaks volumes to me:
I was sitting on a beach one summer day, watching two children, a boy and a girl, playing in the sand. They were hard at work building an elaborate sand castle by the water’s edge, with gates and towers and moats and internal passages. Just when they had nearly finished their project, a big wave came along and knocked it down, reducing it to a heap of wet sand. I expected the children to burst into tears, devastated by what had happened to all their hard work. But they surprised me. Instead, they ran up the shore away from the water, laughing and holding hands, and sat down to build another castle. I realized that they had taught me an important lesson. All the things in our lives, all the complicated structures we spend so much time and energy creating, are built on sand. Only our relationships with other people endure. Sooner or later, the wave will come along and knock down what we have worked so hard to build up. When that happens, only the person who has somebody’s hand to hold will be able to laugh. (?When All You’ve Ever Wanted Isn’t Enough? in ?Heretics’ Faith? by F.J. Muir; p.48)
Really making a difference is about touching people and connecting with people: holding hands, laughing, crying, singing, drinking, eating, touching, and dancing together.
Making a difference is about being rich in people.
When my mother was actively dying in 1990 she made us laugh and she made us think. Hospice was giving her morphine to keep her comfortable which made her even more unpredictable. When she was alert she’d tell us — are you ready for this? — funeral jokes in her weak and scratchy voice. Think of it: the dying lady telling funeral jokes. ?Don’t you kids get it?? she would say. ?FUN as in funeral — get it?? she would say.
?Did you hear the one about the Jewish man that died and as he lay in his casket it was their family custom for people to place money in the casket as a sign of their love — money that would be buried with the loved one — a little something to get him started in the next life. Toward the end of the service when there was quite a bit of cash in place a stranger walked in and began to take the money, count it, and put it in his pockets. The funeral director was aghast and asked him what he was doing. ?All this money seems like so much trouble,? the man said. ?I’m getting ready to add a little bit and then write a check for the full amount!?
Oh she thought that was so funny.
?Why do you tell us that story, Mom?? we would say. ?Don’t you get it?? she said. ?Life is not about money. It’s about people. And she’d reach out and hold our hands. Then she’d nod off. And in a little while, in a weak voice she’d whisper, ?I’m poor in stuff — but I’m rich in people.?
Margaret Elizabeth Woolsey Stone lived a life that made a huge difference. And that made all the difference in her dying.
Question #3 – Did I leave things in order?
Of course part of that really does mean leaving clear instructions, an up-to-date will, estate arrangements, and burial requests. As a hospice chaplain and a minister I cannot begin to tell you how many people will die without any of this in place. For some dying persons and/or their families it’s like if they don’t make plans then death won’t happen or it’ll hold off until you get organized. Not a good way of thinking.
And, of course, it doesn’t work that way.
Here’s the deal — when people die it usually invites chaos — in the best of circumstances. And — worst of all — if there is any tension or unfinished business in the family . . . it all rears its ugly head when death comes. I swear I’ve seen more nastiness at funerals and weddings: a time and a place where everybody is forced to be together and all the closet skeletons come out and will walk around — and all the things you never wanted to talk about now get talked about.
As much as possible leave things in order: paperwork and legal stuff.
But more importantly — live your life in such a way that relationships and connections are clean and in order. AA and Al-Anon have it right. And, yes, I am a friend of Bill W.
Step 8 – ?Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.? Step 9 – ?Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.? Step 10 – ?Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.?
Keeping the slate clean!
Wanna die well? Live well by tending to unfinished business.
My father and I had a strained relationship at best. He was physically and emotionally abusive and I took it. Then I took it into myself and went off to college and seminary. And he took it and stayed in Hawaii . . . and then dropped dead at a young age in what appeared to be a very healthy body.
It took me many long years of therapy to repair our relationship. It takes that long when you’ve allowed resentment and fear and hatred to get into your bones. It takes even longer when that other person is dead.
Wanna die well? Live well by tending to unfinished business.
I encourage you and me and us to take a long walk in the woods and ask ourselves these three questions about life that will help us to die — well:
- Will people know what I meant by my life?
- Did my life make a difference in this world?
- Did I leave things in order?
Not long ago the computer gods or fairies (not sure who to blame!) sent me these perfect words that seem to say it all:
When you were born you were crying and everyone around you was smiling. Live your life so that when you die — you’re the one who is smiling and everyone around you is crying!
Or, I’d say — maybe even applauding for your good life!
Amen and may it be so.
Benediction
Hear now the benediction — the bene diction — the good word:
As you go back out into your world full of babies being born and obituaries.
As you go back out into your world full of love songs and reports of war.
May you and I be good students — open to learning to live AND learning to die.
AND — until the time comes when we really MUST die — may we cling to the words of that modern prophet, Woody Allen:
I don’t mind dying — I just don’t want to be there when it happens.
GO IN PEACE.
AMEN.
