Sermon:
September 14, 1997

Scripture:
II Corinthians 4:16 - 5:8

Just the other day, I received the gift of a wonderful new book, personally autographed by its author. Entitled The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade, it offers some well-seasoned reflections by Tom Lynch who, with his family, has been in the funeral business as long as most of us can remember. He begins:

Every year I bury a couple hundred of my townspeople. Another two or three dozen I take to the crematory to be burned. I sell caskets, burial vaults, and urns for the ashes, along with a sideline in headstones and monuments. I do flowers on commission.

Apart from the tangibles, I sell the use of my building: 11,000 square feet, furnished and fixtured with an abundance of pastels, chair rails and crown moldings. The whole lash-up is mortgaged and remortgaged, well into the next century. My rolling stock includes a hearse, two Fleetwoods, and a minivan with darkened windows (which our price list calls a "service vehicle" and which everyone else in town calls the "dead wagon").

Tom did not elect his profession, so much as he was born into it. He recalls pondering the meaning of his father's trade and the unique childhood problem of having to respond to the inquiries of his friends asking what his daddy did.

He's an undertaker, I would say. He takes people under. Get it? Under ground. Which would usually shut them up. Still, I was never as certain as I tried to sound. I wondered why my father wasn't an "underputter" ... you know, the one who "puts" people underground. "Taking them" seemed a bit excessive. I mean, if they were dead, they wouldn't need company on the way. Would they?

I suppose there is a certain morbidity to all of this, or else Tom wouldn't refer to it as "the dismal trade." But if so, it is a morbidity rooted in inevitability ... what with death being more certain, than even taxes. For some can dodge taxes. But even the most nimble footed can't dodge death. My friend, Emery Percell (who preaches in Rockford, Illinois), startled me this summer when he reminded me that everybody Jesus ever healed, died. Even Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the tomb, returned to it ... sooner or later. Which is a thought that can make you depressed ... or philosophical. But it can also make you appreciative ... for what is. Which is where Ralph Finch comes out (assuming that you have read the piece that graces the cover of Steeple Notes this morning). Having outlived every male in his family at the still-tender age of 57, he concludes:

As to who lives, how long, and why, I will leave those ponderous questions to greater minds. I am here and I don't know why. Why me? Why them? I'll keep my sanity, thank you, and not attempt to reason it out. I'll simply thank God for having had the luck of the draw 57 times. Maybe this year ... Still, the subject here is really life, not death. Once you accept and acknowledge death, you begin to appreciate life all the more. And I am greedy enough to want more.

I appreciate Ralph's words, given that I have lived Ralph's years. To the exact number. We are the same age. And, following Ralph's lead, this is the year I will outlive my father. What's been, has been good. But I'd like a whole lot more. Having spent an inordinate amount of the last three months burying people (along with bidding farewell to a princess and a saint), I find that it is not death that is rubbing off on me, but life. As death becomes more real, I find I would just as soon forestall it. Not avoid it. Not deny it. Not repress it. Just forestall it. I want to live.

But I am also growing older. In the initial draft of this morning's sermon, I wrote the line: "Most days I don't think about growing older." Then I crossed it out, because it isn't true. Most days I do think about it.

Just this week they wrote me a letter from the Albion Alumni Office. "This is your 35th reunion," they told me. "Come see your friends." Which I probably won't do, given that I need to put in an appearance at Vision 2000 in the morning, and marry a couple of nice kids in the afternoon. I trust my "friends" will understand. Ten years ago I did attend my 25th reunion. I also answered a request for a one-page letter for the members of my anniversary class. The letter was supposed to describe the most important things that happened in my first quarter century after graduation.

I wrote it. But it wasn't easy. How do you chronicle 25 years of import in one page of prose? Depending upon how the mood happened to strike, there were times when everything seemed important, and there were times when nothing did. In the last sentence of my first paragraph, I wrote: "It comes as a surprise to realize how unsurprising my life has been." Which I can't say anymore. And in the last sentence of the last paragraph I wrote: "All in all, life has not been without a certain sweetness." Which I stand by still.

And which is why I am willing to go for more ... life, that is. I am willing to chance additional surprises, given that I hunger after additional sweetness. What is hard to admit is that 35 years have now been tucked under my belt since I last saw the people with whom I graduated. The thought weighs heavy on me ... along with a lot of other stuff I carry under my belt.

Therefore, it has occurred to me that I should give some thought to future things, so I might better enjoy present things. There isn't a week goes by that someone doesn't call me up, send me a letter, or invite me to a seminar, in order that I might give serious thought to planning my later years. What they mean is "economic planning," of which I have done a fair amount. If I die tomorrow, you will not have to throw a benefit for me. And if I die tomorrow, nobody will suffer financially. Which also means that if I live tomorrow, I will not suffer financially. So much for economics.

But what about other things? How else might I prepare? I find myself captivated by these beautiful lines of Paul, written to the Corinthians: "So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature be wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed, day by day." I find myself waiting for that to happen. I find myself wanting to discover exactly how that happens. For I know I have less and less control over my "outer nature" which is wasting away. But there is still a lot I can do about my "inner nature," and the possibility of its day-by-day renewal. For if I can get my "inner nature" in better shape, I may even be able to slow down the degree to which my "outer nature" wastes away.

I have been around enough "vintage Christians" (how's that as a synonym for "elderly?") to know that what's "inside" has as much to do with the process of aging as what's "outside." It is never too early to go to work on one's "inner nature." The aging process only exaggerates the personality of our younger years, both as to our graces and our idiosyncrasies. In other words, the gracious ones become even more gracious. And the cranky ones ... you figure it out. Not so long ago, a few of us were discussing a lady who, in her dotage, complains about everything and everyone. Someone, overhearing our conversation, had known the lady for many years. Her comment was instructive. "Nothing's changed," was all she said. "Nothing's changed."

Therefore, there are some "inner nature" things I want to work on now, so that they might serve me later. For one thing, I want to work on my emotional independence. Don't get me wrong. I do not mean emotional distance, or emotional withdrawal. I mean freedom from emotional dependencies. I want to love and be loved, without feeling that loving me is somebody's obligation. I want to work on the issue of my own happiness, without falling into the trap of thinking it is somebody's job to make me happy. It isn't anybody's job to make me happy. It isn't my wife's job. It isn't my daughter's job. It isn't my church's job. It's my job. And while I am doing that job, I want to grow comfortable with my own company. Because if I do not like being with myself, how will I ever face the prospect of being alone?

But, even as I work on emotional independence, I want to cultivate more genuine friendships. Much of my life has been oriented toward tasks and goals. But it has not gone unnoticed by me, that the older people I admire most, often have friendships stretching over 50 years. Is it possible I could learn to live with fewer victories, if I had more companions? Which leads to the realization that, at this point in my life, the growing edge of marriage is friendship. My wife really is my best friend. And I have heard a lot of you say something similar about your spouse.

I have also set the goal of enhancing an adult relationship with my daughter. To be sure, I am very much her father. I will always be her father. I doubt that I will ever lose the title (or the responsibilities) that go with being her father. But if I'm never anything but Julie's parent, she will never be anything but my child. And when children become adults, they do not spend much time in the company of people who make them feel like children.

Moreover, I want to keep working at something important. I have a lot of friends who are taking early retirements. For the life of me, I can't fathom waking up tomorrow and not being able to go to work, doing what I do now. But that day will come ... someday. I hope to retire about six months before somebody asks me why I didn't. But, even then, I hope to keep going and growing. I realize that I will be less afraid of dying, to the degree that I minimize any regrets I may have had about living. So far, I am doing all right on that score. If I "checked out" tomorrow, I would mourn the unfinished canvas of my life. But I'd be willing to let the picture stand as it is.

Yet I keep working on the picture. Time doesn't stand still. Neither should I. Which means that I must learn to walk the line between making peace with my imperfections (and the imperfections of the world) without becoming completely resigned to them. Berthold Brecht says it well, when he writes:

There are people who struggle for a day, and they are good. There are others who struggle for many years, and they are very good. And there are those who struggle all their lives. They are the indispensable ones.

In that vein, I have discovered a rather strange correlation in my life. Every time I get overly comfortable with things, I become mildly depressed.

These are some of the "inner nature" things that need work. Having shared them, let me shift gears, so that I might speak about the very late years of my life. I call them the "very late years," because I don't have the faintest idea when I shall live them. Their "lateness" will have more to do with the date of my death, than with the number of my birthdays. Or, as I once said, the "late years" are those in which the shadow comes earlier and earlier in the day, blocking out more and more of the light. How do I wish to live the late years? What follows is both personal and preliminary. It does not need to fit you. In time, it may not fit me. Everybody needs a little space in the margin for a rewrite. Which is why the words "preliminary notes" are a part of my title.

First, as concerns location, it is my hope that I never become so wedded to real estate that I conclude my life is over if, and when, I am forced to move from some cherished place. I've enjoyed every place I have ever lived, and every house I have ever lived in. Having built a home of my own on Grand Traverse Bay, I understand the special feeling that develops around real estate. But life is more than location, and homes are more than houses. Having watched people bond to walls and furniture, so as to become inseparable from them, I will work to see that similar idolatries do not manifest themselves in me.

Second, again concerning location, I hope to live as long as possible in communities that welcome and incorporate people of all ages, interests and lifestyles. I can't imagine choosing to live, go to church, or associate with nothing but 57 year olds now. Why would I want to live, go to church, and associate with nothing but 80 year olds when I am 80?

Third, while it is my expectation to live as independently as possible ... for as long as is possible ... I recognize that my need for independence will, sooner or later, be compromised by my need for security. The day may come when security issues mandate some kind of assisted living or nursing home placement. I will be willing to go. For I know that one of the prime factors in having a good nursing home experience is the attitude of the one receiving the care. The quality of most nursing homes has as much to do with the people who live there as with the people who work there.

I also understand that others may sense my need for such a placement before I will. I hope I will welcome that conversation. But I also know that such a conversation will go better if I initiate it. I will also keep in mind that it is unfair to avoid such places, if it means asking other members of my family to take me into their homes. Should such an invitation come, I will receive it graciously, but ponder it cautiously. I do not feel it fair to ask anybody ... no matter how close to me ... to surrender a significant portion of their freedom, just so I might maintain mine. I will never hold anybody's future as a ransom against my death. Nobody will ever have to wait for me to die in order to get on with the next phase of their life.

Fourth, I will fight becoming a victim. I will not allow myself to feel that I have been singled out for unfair treatment by God or any of God's underlings ... including members of my family. I may, from time to time, feel that way. I may even slip and express such feelings out loud. But I will never allow those feelings to become my last word on the matter. For I know that the flip side of victimization is impotence ... meaning that the degree to which I blame my fate on others (human or divine), is the degree to which I will forfeit the opportunity to manage what little of my fate that I can.

Fifth, if the opportunity presents itself, I hope that somebody will tell me I am dying. Keeping that information from me will not be considered an act of kindness. Dying is an experience. And you have heard me say before that I prefer to go through life collecting experiences rather than possessions. Why, therefore, would I chicken out on that philosophy at the end?

And while I hope to live as fully as I can, for as many years as I can ... and while I would certainly not relish years of senility and suffering ... I would just as soon have some time to come to terms with my terminal condition, as die from a heart attack in my sleep. Every time somebody dies suddenly, someone else is sure to say: "What a wonderful way to go." Not for me, however. I would appreciate a little time for summing up, making amends and saying good-bye.

Sixth, I would rather be connected to people than machines. The saddest thing about many of the nursing homes I enter, is the way in which the residents withdraw from the world around them. Even those with the capacity to know better, sometimes allow their world to become smaller and smaller ... until it is no world at all. I abhor the thought. I trust that someone will fight to keep me in touch with who the president is, what the bishop is doing, and whether the Tigers are winning ... not to mention the situation of the man in the next bed, the lady across the table, or the aide who comes to take my tray. And if, pray tell, my conversation ever becomes reduced to an enumeration of my bodily functions ... how often I go ... how easily I go ... or my concerns about going ... I hope that someone will verbally slap me silly and tell me (even at that advanced stage of my existence) to "get a life."

So when the possibilities for "people connections" are gone, for God's sake ... and for my own ... don't keep me connected to anything mechanical. I do not find, anywhere in the Bible, where biological life is celebrated for its own sake. Biblically, the idea of creation means nothing apart from the idea of covenant. I take this to mean that life derives its primary meaning (and perhaps its only meaning) from relationships. Therefore, when connections with people slip away from me, with no likelihood of their return, please don't connect me to anything else, either.

* * * * *

I could say more. But I said that this was "preliminary." It is time to return you to the custody of the Apostle Paul. When last we left him, he was saying to the Corinthians: "So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature be wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed, day by day." I told you that I liked that. But I did not finish reading it. Listen to what Paul says next:

For this slight momentary affliction (can you believe that Paul is calling aging and dying a "slight momentary affliction?") is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison. Because we do not look to the things that are seen, but to the things that are unseen.

It is Paul's conviction that when we fold up our tents on earth, there is a house (not made with hands) prepared for us in the heavens. And it is toward this house which we "groan," as would a pregnant woman, waiting for a different kind of delivery.

Heaven, for Paul, is a vision of something yet to come. As a vision, it is murky, unclear, and (at best) half-formed. It does not stop the "wasting away." Nothing stops the "wasting," for very long. But the vision can stop the "despairing," occasioned by the "wasting." And it can also answer the fear that "wasting" may be the last experience we shall know.

Heaven's vision (about which we shall say more in the sermon that follows this one) is like a warm day in the midst of winter. Such a day is an exception to the chill. But such a day is also the hint of something yet to come, which makes further chill bearable. That's what Paul says about the resurrection. It is the hint of something yet to come, making the chill of our "wasting" bearable. Victor Hugo echoes Paul when he writes: "Why, pray tell, is my soul more luminous when my body fails? Winter is on my head, but eternal spring is in my heart."

I suppose that the promise of a heavenly resurrection bears something else in common with a thaw in winter. Most of us do not trust the thaw to last. Few of us change the clothing in our closets. Yet, without the thaw, there would be nothing but cabin fever and the fear that "we will never get out again."

And then Paul adds these remarkable lines: "Remember, to live in the body ... the very body that is `wasting away' ... is to be exiled from the Lord. But to be exiled from the body is to make our home with the Lord." I think Paul is saying that in death ... as well as in life ... Jesus is out there in front of us. And while, at this stage in my life, I spend precious little time "longing for heaven," I take comfort (as a follower of Jesus) that heaven is where the road goes.

So how does one find a faith to die by? Perhaps not, as the old hymn suggests, by leaning on Jesus. But by leaning toward him.