Cousin Marian was a lifelong fan of her Chicago Cubs. As she was dying, she asked her husband and children to invite us to distribute some of her ashes in paper cups so that we could sneak around Wrigley Field, shaking a bit of Marian along the edges of the green. Luckily for us, the powers that be gave permission to distribute her remains in a proper fashion. Turns out, she wasn't the only one with that wish, and every once in a great while, the Cubs grant it. I know Marian would have preferred the spill-by.
What things am I supposed to know that you don't, I wonder? The apostle Paul in his letter to the Hebrews 11:1-3 said "Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." But it is hard to minister in truth when all we want is assurance; even harder when we want conviction. I can offerin truth that there is hope, and there are things not seen and that life is worthwhile anyway.
Death is change. Physically it is less a matter of being and not being than being one thing and changing into another. Mountains turn into sand, lakes into valleys. Living things break down into nutrients and single-celled creatures that will help to grow new life. And so it goes. But we are aware; we are sentient. It is our knowing that we want to keep intact, and it may be unbearable not to know. Perhaps our sentience breaks down as well into nutrients that help grow new thoughts and emotions. I do not know. I can hope and I can imagine.
− Why do I have to hurt? Because it means you've loved, and because you've loved, the hurt will stop eventually.
− Why am I here on this earth when she is not? You are here to bear witness to her. She is still in your heart.
− Did my loved one ever love me? You loved and are loved and may love again, that is all that matters.
− Am I a good person? To figure that out, and to do what is necessary to figure that out, leads to peace.
− Is it okay for me to expect to live beyond the moment? Yes, it is not a betrayal, it is the nature of living.
− What happens when we die? − What will happen to me? Do I have to be afraid? − Will I continue, self-aware and conscious somehow? − If I don't, what was the point of being awake and knowing and living?
We ask these questions because we are alive. The ones who stop asking these questions are the ones whom death has overcome. They are starving. They are surrounded by violence. They are surrounded by certitude. They are sitting in front of the television, or keeping busy or anesthetized in the thousands of ways we can every hour of every day. To stop wondering is a kind of death of the mind and heart.
To be alive is not to have answers; it is to wake up; to make life bearable, meaningful – even more, joyous – in the face of death. To find out what was the point. Death gives life context, lurking around the edges as it always does. Death's perspective lends us a certain kind of urgency and clarity. Buddhists say that death is the greatest teacher, but why should you wait for days like today to feel the preciousness of life? As your minister, I say we can't be morbid all the time. We can't be constantly pressed in by death on all sides. Why should we have to be constantly aware of death to be able to appreciate life? We can and should expect to live beyond the moment. We can make a deep and rich and satisfying commitment to life in the present.
We are left behind by those we loved. They leave us behind as testament. We hold the memories; we hold the truth of them in our deepest marrow. I don't know what happens to us after life has ended. Maybe we're not supposed to have the answer. Maybe we're supposed to hope. Maybe we are supposed to speak the truth of those who left us behind. They leave us behind as testament.
Ask different questions for the living: − What will give us comfort? − What will hold us accountable to truth? − What will make us awake to beauty? − What will help us expect to live beyond the moment? − What will hold us accountable for the way we lead our lives?
behind. We need to plant something, to plant a garden of truths, a field of laughing stars, to mix our essence into the outfield.
Night after night, virtually no words are spoken. Each man seems to know his assignment. Not all bring sod. Some carry rakes, some hoes, some hoses, which, when joined together, snake across the infield and outfield, dispensing the blessing of water. Others, cradle in their arms bags of earth for building up the infield to meet the thick, living sod.
…Row by row, night by night we lay the little squares of sod, moist as chocolate cake with green icing….
What will the players think, as they straggle into the stadium and find the miracle we have created? The old-timers will raise their heads like ponies, as far away as the parking lot, when the thrill of the grass reaches their nostrils. And, as they dress, they'll recall sprawling in the lush outfields of childhood, the grass as cool as a mother's hand on a forehead.
"Goodbye, goodbye," we say at the gate, the smell of water, of sod, of sweat, small perfumes in the air. Our secrets are safe with each other. We go our separate ways.
Alone in the stadium in the last chill darkness before dawn, I drop to my hands and knees in the centre of the outfield. My palms are sodden. Water touches the skin between my spread fingers. I lower my face to the silvered grass, which, wonder of wonders, already has the ephemeral odours of baseball about it.
How will you comfort? How will you hold yourself to truth? How will you wake to beauty? What will you leave behind? You have the rest of your life to find out. May it be so.