Tag: death

Put it to death

by Rev. Deb Beloved Church

“Sometimes things need to be destroyed so that something new can be created.” So my spiritual director said to me on the first occasion of our meeting–a meeting I had sought as I desperately tried to make sense of my growing understanding that my marriage was coming to an end. 

I recently came upon that same idea in the book we’re discussing in our Sunday morning Adult Education class, [Where We Meet: A Lenten Study of Systems, Stories, and Hope, by Rachel Gilmore, Candace Lewis, Tyler Sit, and Matt Temple]: “Sometimes things must die so that something more in harmony with the (kin)dom of God can emerge.” (Where We Meet, p. 50)

Certainly, that idea is not new, nor is it limited to those two occurrences! Indeed, those statements encapsulate a central tenet of the Christian faith: that resurrection comes only after death. That new life comes only after something dies. That rebirth into a new way of being comes only after the old way of being is no more.

And while we might long for that resurrection while it’s still far off, and welcome that new life once it comes, and celebrate that new way of being once we’re in it–we generally do not like the prospect of “it” [the thing that needs to die, whatever it is] being no more; we’re typically quite resistant to the process of it dying; we’re quite uncomfortable with the reality of its death…

And yet…it is only through death that we get to resurrection. 

And so, in these remaining two weeks of Lent, I invite you to join me in considering, what is it that needs to die in our lives so that something new–and more in alignment with God’s desires for peace, for healing, for joy, for reconciliation, for wholeness, for justice, for abundance–and all of that for all of God’s creation!–might be born? 

Perhaps we need to put to death a grudge, or a desperately-held, long-harbored hurt. Or our certainty about what’s right and who’s right. Or a hurtful relationship or a self-destructive habit. 

Perhaps we need to put to death a diminished view of ourselves or others, or possibly, a grandiose view of ourselves or others. Or the lens through which we look, that judges others as less than–or more than–based on their education or ethnicity or religious affiliation or lack thereof. Or our blindness to our privilege or our secret and subtle self-righteousness. 

Perhaps we need to put to death our secret, soul-sucking excesses–alcohol, shopping, fault-finding, Facebook, working, gambling, people-pleasing, eating, or simply endlessly comparing ourselves to others. 

What would you add? What needs to die in our lives, both individually and collectively, right here and right now, so that something new and more in alignment with God’s desires for each of us and all of us and for all of God’s creation might be born? 

Where do we need death, so that we might prepare for and truly experience resurrection?? 

Peace and courage be with us all.

Pastor Deb

Comfort prayer for a friend

by Rev. Deb Church

Our Father who art in Heaven—
and who is with us, wherever we are…

…hallowed be thy name.
Your name, O God, is holy
and rests in our hearts
and on our tongues
sometimes like honey
sometimes like vinegar
sometimes a blessing
sometimes more like a curse
sometimes coming out in a song of praise
sometimes, escaping in a groan from the depths of our souls
But always, O God, holy is your name…

…Thy kingdom come—
in all the places
and in all the spaces
we are.
Come, healing and wholeness
Come, truth and justice
Come, forgiveness and belonging
Come, mercy and grace
Come, peace and hope
Come, love and Beloved
Come, Reality and Reign of God…

…Thy will be done—
as we trust in you
with hearts soaring
and hearts breaking
anxious and angry
grieving and confused,
as we place our loved ones
and our lives
in your strong and gentle hands,
letting go of control
holding on to hope
letting go of outcomes
holding on with trust
letting go of fear
holding on in Love…

…on earth as it is in heaven—
right here
in the middle of the muck
and mess
as we journey
from dust back to dust
embodied Spirit
walking around in
these bodies
clay pots
cracked
beautiful
broken
whole
Holiness
found right here
in the middle of the muck
and mess
of our world…

Give us this day—
today
now
in these moments
in this moment…

…our daily bread—
what will feed us
what will nourish us
what we need
in these moments
whether we
know it
recognize it
see it
feel it
or not…

…and forgive us our sins—
Forgive us, O God.
Forgive us
for our messiness
for our mistakes
Forgive us
for the hurt we inflict
without wanting to
and for hurt we long to inflict
that all comes from
the hurt we’ve received
Forgive us
for the hurt we cause
that we don’t know and
for the hurt we cause
because we don’t know
our woundedness
Forgive us, O God…

…as we forgive those who sin against us—
as we look with compassion
at those who hurt us
out of their hurt
as we look with tenderness
at those who hate us
having made us bearers
of the hate they feel
for themselves and cannot name
As we offer mercy
that we have received
to those who deserve it no more than we do
who deserve it no less than we do
Forgive us our sins, O God, with the same freedom
with which we forgive
or not
those who sin against us…

…and lead us not into temptation—
Keep us from going down
easy paths
of self-pity
well-worn paths
of shame and blame
familiar paths
of regret and guilt
paths that are so easy to follow
paths that take us
to no place good…

…but deliver us from evil—
and instead
into Hope
into Healing
into Peace
into Joy
into Love…

…for thine
is the kingdom
and the power
and the glory
forever—
And ever.
And ever.
And ever.
Always.
No matter what.
Amen.
And amen.

From Deb: Here’s something I wrote last night…as a prayer for a dear friend whose husband (who is also a dear friend) was near death. They are both members of my church, and I love them dearly. They’ve been in California for the last several months, while he was receiving treatment for his cancer. He died this morning… I hope and pray that something in this “fleshed out” version of the Lord’s Prayer gave his wife some bit of comfort last night, or perhaps will at some point in the future.

Remembering Our Saints

by Victoria S. Ubben

Halloween 2020, will be a Halloween like no other in the history of the USA. These really are frightening times for our nation and the world. We need not encourage our children and grandchildren to be “spooked” by ghosts and goblins and vampires and bats this year.

Our family knows personally of several people who have died recently from Coronavirus disease 2019 (COVID-19), and perhaps your family does, too. (Thankfully, we also know of some who have recovered from COVID-19.) Besides remembering lives lost by COVID-19, this is the time to remember other lives lost due to violence, accidents, or various illnesses and other conditions.

I offer you three ways that you might find comfort in your distress.

1. Music might help.  To help me remember all of the saints who have died this year, I recently to listened to a recorded version of Requiem in D minor, Op. D by Gabriel Faure’ (1845-1924) and I share with you a link to a video so that you can hear it also.

Here is an English translation of some of the Latin lyrics that are comforting and uplifting during what is a sad or frightening time to many people:

“May eternal light shine on them, O Lord,
with Thy saints forever,
because Thou are merciful.

Grant them eternal rest, O Lord,
and may perpetual light shine on them.”

2. Inspirational Prose might help. To help us remember all the saints who have died this year, find some prose or poetry with strong visual images. Here is one of my favorites:

Gone from My Sight by Henry Van Dyke (1852-1933)

I am standing upon the seashore.  A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.  She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

 Then someone at my side says, “There, she is gone!” 

“Gone where?”  Gone from my sight.  That is all.  She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear the load of living freight to her destined port. 

Her diminished size is in me, not her.  And just at the moment when someone at my side says: “There, she is gone!”  There are other eyes watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: “Here she comes!” 

And that is dying.

3. Biblical readings and liturgy might help. To help us remember all the saints who have died this year, turn to the ancient scripture, liturgy, and religious traditions. Try reading these aloud (either alone or 6 feet apart from others). Here is a benediction with which to close.

One Voice: With clean hands and pure hearts, hold fast to the faith of the saints who went before us.

Many Voices:  In our living and in our dying, we all belong to God.

One Voice: With hopeful hearts and expectant spirits, receive the blessing of Almighty God.

Many Voices: In our living and in our dying, we all belong to God.

One Voice:  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

Embracing and Overcoming Horror (Movies)

by Abigail Conley

Horror movies are one of my favorite indulgences. I’m simultaneously a horror movie snob and will see anything labeled a horror movie. Jordan Peele’s version of horror movies wins awards and is mind-boggling and I highly recommend his work. I take issue with the lack of a systematic theology framework in The Conjuring Universe. Should anyone want to spend a few hours comparing and contrasting the theology of The Exorcist movies, I’m game. 

And, yeah, I’ll also watch the terribly predictable movie that starts with teenagers making out where all but one person inevitably ends up dead. I’ll roll my eyes more, but I’ll watch it. Discretion is not really one of my gifts when it comes to this. 

As a result of my indiscretion when it comes to horror movies, I recently went to see Midsommar. It’s one of those movies that gets great critical review and has the audience scratching their heads. There are major spoilers coming, so stop reading if you’re anticipating this movie. 

The plot: a student from Sweden studying in the United States takes his new friends back home to rural Sweden for a festival. They’re aware he grew up in a rural area, somewhat of a commune, and go willingly for a week of celebration, including lots of hallucinogenic drugs. The drugs, at least, are supplies beyond their wildest dreams. It turns out that they’ve landed in the middle of a pagan cult and are sacrifices for this celebration that happens every ninety years. 

Again, sometimes my indiscretion bites me in the butt, especially when it comes to horror movies. 

The reason I like the horror genre in general is that they often name our deepest fears and worries. The writers of this genre understand humanity in a profound way. I’m not talking slasher movies; I am talking Pet Sematary, and our fear of death, afterlife, and losing loved ones. Horror movies that hit in the gut recognize that there are things far scarier than what goes bump in the night. 

And so, in the middle of a slow-moving trippy movie that has left me scratching my head, there was a gem. One friend would survive the ordeal and join the commune. The guy who brought them all there said to her, “When my parents died, this community held me. Do you feel held?” 

Full disclosure, I’m pretty the guy’s parents were sacrificed in some other cultic ceremony. (Seriously, skip this movie.) But I keep thinking about that concept. Do you feel held? 

Do you feel held? 

That question explores our deepest hopes and needs for connection. That question points out our vulnerability. That question causes my stomach to do something a little weird. 

All of the stories in the Bible that I immediately think of in response to that question are points of deep vulnerability. In every case, they are the absence of the feeling of being held, supported, cared for. Mary and Martha mourn with Jesus at the death of Lazarus. Jesus goes into the garden to pray and his disciples fall asleep. On the cross, Jesus asks John to care for his mother. 

Do you feel held? 

The intimacy of church is one of the things that most often freaks out my friends who don’t do church. The comfort of church with aging and death definitely freaked out my friends when we were in our twenties. But not too long ago, I was with one of our church’s beloved saints in the days before his death. His wife was there with him. She asked for specific people from the church to come, and they all showed up as she requested. 

On the night he died, I was there, along with people all gathered from the church. We told stories and assured his wife she would be cared for. We chose a funeral home that night, and laughed and cried. The people gathered with her had memories reaching farther back than mine, and so they comforted in a way I could not. I watched her come alive in a way I had not seen before as they talked in the difficult hours. I waited with her that night until his body was taken to the funeral home, asked the nurse to give her something to help her sleep, then went to my home at the end of a long few days. 

That night remains a profound experience of Church, and watching the Church hold someone—deeply, tightly, lovingly, enduringly. They had shared the good times, but they stayed through the worst, and would do it again. Held. 

One of the deep fears that plays out time and again in horror movies is fear of being alone. That’s the terrifying part of slasher movies and apocalypse movies. Alone. No one else. Loneliness, it turns out, is one of the health crises bubbling to the surface right now. We are a people in need of each other. 

But when I remember that scene, that question, “Do you feel held?” I am amazed by how deeply the church holds—with mountains of food and lock-ins and awkward conversations and showing up. The church holds with baptisms and women’s groups that pastors skirt and cleaning out that one closet yet again amidst laughter and stories. The church holds and keeps holding when no one else will. 

It turns out, we brave the greatest fears because we choose to hold. Let us cherish this gift. 

Still

by Davin Franklin-Hicks

There’s a quiet that comes over me lately. It’s not something I am used to as, until recently, I likely only experienced it a few times in my 38 years of life.

The first time I experienced it I was in 1991 as a kid at camp. I did not want to go to camp, it was my first year of trying it out. I anticipated two things: I would be rejected constantly and/or murdered in the woods. The fear of rejection came from seemingly endless lived experiences of rejection. The fear of murder came in equal parts having viewed Psycho and Sleep Away Camp.

I was neither murdered or rejected. Yay!

Camp was one of the experiences I cherished the most in my life. It was safe and wonderful. We sang by campfires, for the love of endorphins! The night was chilly so we huddled up and just enjoyed the way our voices sounded with other voices. My voice had never felt more full than when it was joined with the person next to me as we experienced the belief that love does exist and it is ours to have, it is ours to give.

That stillness was a result of action. We were very brave to go to camp when we didn’t know if it was safe enough. The opening of our hearts and willingness to risk was met with wonderful connection and peace.

I have chased that feeling to no end.

Yet, that stillness is with me a lot lately. I was going to tell you that the stillness is not a result of action, but I am rethinking that as I write.

The stillness comes for me on the heels of moments in which I was not attempting to invoke it.

It just arrives in moments that I really need it. What I am recognizing in this moment, though, is it has a lot to do with a decision I make regularly to turn toward life rather than away.

Life. I have a friend who says this to me when I ask how he is: “Oh, you know, livin’ life on life’s terms.” I hear that in some recovery work I do. He says that with a lot of honesty. He is one of the people that taught me about the vigilance needed to remain sober. He truly lives life on life’s terms in a visible way. That’s the turning to life rather than away from life.

I’ve been away from you a bit. I had a pretty steady flow of participating in life through writing and sharing with you for the last couple of years. I recently, though, have a lot less words for life, especially when my life has moments of feeling unrecognizable.

Here are some words to put to it and we’ll see where we go from here.

Headaches
Bone Pain
Exhaustion
Fractures
Fear
Insecurity
Cancer
Laid off
Loss
Brokenness

Anyone feeling the desire to turn to these words? I haven’t been. And yet… need overwhelms wish, so would you mind turning toward these words with me? It’s much easier for me to turn toward life on life’s terms when I see you are with me and when I see I get to be with you. I wonder if that might be the same for you, too.

Since June 2016, I had been having headaches. Headaches were a part of life for me since I was little so that wasn’t new. Migraines were especially bad after a traumatic brain injury I recovered from in 2003.

These were different, though.

I had been adjusting to having a chronic health condition I learned of in February 2016 and, as many readers know, I was also recovering from some pretty awful trauma as well. I chalked these headaches up to that.

Then came the bone pain and that was severe. I noticed it when my wife gently touched my shin and I about came unglued. I felt like she had hit me with a hammer. My body felt brittle and breaking. It actually was breaking with these tiny fractures in cluster areas. I was more exhausted than I had ever been in my life and it felt like it was worsening.

While I denied this being something to worry about, my doctor didn’t. She had an inkling. She followed that inkling and then the news of cancer, specifically Multiple Myeloma.

What?!
Nope!
Ridiculous!

Winter 2016 we added the word cancer to the list of “What the heck is happening?!?!”

My first thought was that I was going to go through yet another name change and call myself Job because, I was clearly living someone else’s story.

Worry.
Self-pity.
Deep sadness.
Isolation.
Incredible fury.
Loss of self.
Loss of function.

Yet, still a call to turn toward life and not away.

Speaking of Job (well, in a homograph sense, anyway), I lost my job in January 2017. Laid off after 16 years of work was astounding and hard. I was too sick to know what to do.

That level of insecurity makes the body and bed at odds so sleep becomes impossible. As the bed invited rest, my body refused and the tossing and turning of unrest took over in nearly every part of me. With some help and support, I was able to secure another position in the company I love. People showed up. We developed a plan to be able to live within significantly decreased means we are still implementing.

What is turning toward life for me?

Answering my phone when I feel isolated and scared.
Answering a text from someone when loves me and who I love.
Answering an offer to heap love onto us.
Answering my wife when she says “What are you thinking?”

That’s what turning to life is, allowing life to continue and my participation in it is necessary.

Dear ones, I am so tired. I have never known this level of exhaustion in any other aspect of my living. It’s beyond measure. We have to create so much room now for rest that it can feel isolating. Rest, though, is a turning to life. I just have to keep standing back up after it.

I think about death a lot more than I ever have. I was very aware of mortality before all of this. I had a belief when I was younger that I would suddenly just die and I expected that to happen when I was young. I would just be dead.

As I healed and grew into who I am today, I just figured I would be alive until I am 92. I never thought I would be sick. It never entered my mind.

Sickness and death has become an intermittent pre-occupation for me this last year. I am afraid of dying. I am afraid of my wife experiencing that loss, of my precious son losing another parent (that alone infuriates me more than anything else). It comes and goes, my pre-occupation with it. When it goes, it leaves behind that stillness I was telling you about.

You can likely see why I am rethinking my original thought that the stillness that rises in me and washes over me happening without action on my part. It does take action. It just isn’t immediate.

The stillness comes from choosing to turn toward life when life is really not palatable. The frequent, often difficult, turning to means we get to experience a stillness that cannot be crafted. That stillness comes from the absolute refusal to believe the pain of life is more true and more available than the absolute love and nurture of life.

The stillness.

I want to take your hands and show you, pass it to you.
It’s like your hands and feet thawing in front of a fire when you come in from the chill to the bone cold.
It’s the covering up with your coziest blanket knowing the moment you are in is for rest with nothing else you have to do.
It’s like feeling utter exhaustion and realizing how amazing it is to truly rest.
It’s warmth when all your body can do is respond to cold.
It’s comfort when you forgot how good it feels to truly just be.
It’s your best nap. It’s the best book you read. It’s the song that expresses that thing you just didn’t have the words for.
It’s living life on life’s terms and realizing that was the best thing you could have ever done with your sacred life and heart.
In the stillness, clarity comes.

If I can share anything that would be true for me since all of this pain flooded into my life, it would be this:

We do not have to do anything to die. Dying needs no assistance at all; it will come when it comes. Death has a 100% success rate. It’s got this — it really knows what to do with zero coaching.

Life, though, must be nurtured, loved, grown, tended, guarded, celebrated, wanted, welcomed, received, given.

Death comes unbidden. Life comes only by invitation.

And I really love life. Still.

Checking My Pulse

by Davin Franklin-Hicks

I’ve been quiet.

That’s likely not a big deal to you, but for those who know me, I am rarely quiet. It’s an aspect of myself that I sometimes judge, that I sometimes embrace, that I sometimes just observe. There are many rooftop shouters and I happen to be one on a lot of occasions. I’ve come to accept that about myself and let it be.

Yet… I find myself quiet in all the ways I normally echo through the halls of my life. This quiet is because I cannot figure out the first word to the next sentence that would make sense of the loss of life in these endless mass shootings.

I have been reading the words of others and watching us collectively attempt that tried-and-true five-part model of coming to terms with grief as offered by Kubler-Ross. The problem is, once we get past that first stage of denial, entering into anger, we have yet another mass killing that brings us back to that denial. We only get to two-step our way through something that requires so much more to navigate.

“What? Another one? How can this be? I blame [fill in the blank]” and we never get to that elusive next step of bargaining then depression then acceptance.

Denial. Anger. Denial. Anger. Repeat.

My first memory of participating in a collective shared grief was when I was 8 and made to attend an elementary school assembly. We were gathered because the Challenger space shuttle exploded shortly after liftoff and people died. I didn’t fully understand this gathering we were doing. This silence they wanted us to sit with made very little sense to me.

My fellow elementary school peers and I tried to sit quietly, but we were fidgeting and coughing, because we had no idea why we had to suddenly be quiet together. I remember looking around and wishing we could talk again. I wasn’t bored, just completely confused by the whole deal and wanting to get back to whatever we would be doing if this hadn’t happened. As I looked around I noticed that the teachers were crying. Then, the slow dawning of the devastation settled on me.

The space shuttle had a teacher on it. The teacher was going to space, literally doing something out of this world, and that teacher died. Wait, could my teacher die? I remember looking for Mrs. Likes, my favorite teacher, seeing her crying and thinking “That teacher was like Mrs. Likes! Mrs. Likes could die!”

And this was the most tragic thing my new-to-this-world brain could imagine. I was so sad and I cried so hard as I imagined my Mrs. Likes blowing up in a space shuttle.

When we see ourselves or those we love in the death what follows is such a devastation to the soul. This life that we have been taught to nurture could just go away. Just like that. And in violent, murders, someone makes it go away.

“What? Another one? But how can this be?”

I’m trans. I’m queer. I love so many people who are trans and who are queer. This makes relating to the Pulse massacre in Orlando all the more real to me. I was able to cast myself as a dancer on that dance floor without even knowing I was doing the casting. Images came to me with no provocation, like laying my body over my wife’s body because there would be no way on earth I would let her be exposed to death without trying every defense within me.

I have loved ones who are police officers. I could cast them very easily into the badges and uniforms in Dallas, imagining their last breath. I have loved ones who have darker skin than mine and they run a greater risk to die violently and prematurely every single day just because of the bias, prejudice and fear our society has endorsed since the start of our country.

Once we see ourselves and our loved ones in the rampant hate, victimization, and debilitating disparities we can never “un-see” it. And we will often do anything we can to stop it.

Denial. Anger. Denial. Anger. Repeat.

The versions of me, the versions of you, the versions of all those we love are the ones that have their pulse taken from them in places that often had served as sanctuary.

Our souls cry out in denial: “No! Not again! No!”

Our souls grapple with the anger that is oh so appropriate for this loss, “I will stop them! They will not harm me!”

Our souls begin to well up with tears as the bargaining begins, “Please…”

We only can utter the single word of bargaining as it is interrupted by yet another shooting, another body crumpling to the floor. We return to the desperate denial chorus “No! Not again! No!”

Denial.
Anger.
Denial.
Anger.
Repeat.

Then the slow dawning settles on me with an unshakable truth:
That could have been my pulse that slowed and then stopped.
That could have been your pulse that slowed and then stopped.
That could have been the pulse of every single person that we know, every single person we love, that slowed and then stopped.

I’ve been very quiet, stunned into emotional muteness, a seemingly endless moment of silence as I find a new use for my hands that once fidgeted during that assembly thirty years ago. I use those hands now to check my pulse, to feel that life force pumping through my being, to witness the miracle that keeps me breathing and to acknowledge my pulse continues where so many others have ended.

As we go through the dark brokenness that has become the norm, let us never forget how rich, how powerful, how mighty and how unyielding that stubborn flow of life within is in the face of all that attempts to end it. The true grit of the heart keeps on going.

That pulse within you is ancient. That pulse has been giving a rhythm to life in this world since the dawn of time. That pulse is what unites us. That pulse that lives in you speaks to the one that lives in me. The radical act of intentional living in the face of all the destruction is the very thing that steady pulse within has been calling us to all along. And it changes our options, it changes our paths when we invite in the flow of life.

Denial.
It says Look.
Anger.
It says Be.
Bargaining.
It says Please.
Depression.
It says Love.
Acceptance.
It says Live.

A Candle Gone Out and Our Time to Shine

by Kenneth McIntosh

I awake this morning feeling sad. Not because of a dream that I had, or worries about the day; nor because of anything that I am cognitively aware of. My subconscious mind has an amazing awareness of the date—February the 23rd.

Grieve it tells me.

This is the anniversary of my father’s death.

Recognizing this day’s significance, the latest episode of Downton Abbey comes to mind. To non-fans, Downton Abbey is an Edwardian soap opera; but to devotees, the Crawley family and their servants are like family. Last Sunday lady Mary Crawley viciously betrayed her sister Edith by gossiping to Edith’s suitor and thus ruining Edith’s hopes for marriage. Later in the same show, Mary is about to be wedded and Edith shows up unexpectedly for the celebration. Explaining this seemingly impossible act of forgiveness, Edith tells Mary “In the end, you’re my sister, and one day, only we will remember Sybil (their deceased sister) Or Mama or Papa … Or Granny or Carson or any of the others who have peopled our youth. Until at last, our shared memories will mean more than our mutual dislike.”

Shared memories of our loved ones are immensely valuable for surviving family members. The generation of my parents’ friends has entirely passed away, and my children barely knew them. So my surviving extended family and our older children are now the only people who can talk about my father and mother with vivid recollections.

There’s a passage in the Old Testament that is probably no one’s favorite Bible verse: “There is no eternal memory of the wise any more than the foolish, because everyone is forgotten before long” (Ecclesiastes 2:16, CEB). It’s hardly inspiring, but profoundly true. To those of us who knew him, my father was extraordinary; a scientist and a polymath, he helped Heparin—an essential medicine—to become more easily available. He built his own sailboat, and radio, and camera, and airplane. And yet, less than a decade after his death, only a handful of people think or talk about him. Ecclesiastes nailed it, everyone is forgotten before long.

This thinking at first appears only negative, but its truth can be redeemed. Skylight publishes a great little book by Rabbi Rami Shapiro titled Ecclesiastes: Annotated & Explained. In this book, Rabbi Shapiro discusses the Hebrew word yitron, “usually translated as ‘profit’ in the sense of something being left over after all is said and done.” He then shares this illustration, “what profit, in the sense of something left over, is there in burning a candle in the dark? None if we expect that something of value remains when the candle burns down and the flame sputters out. But this doesn’t mean there was no value when the candle was aflame. While nothing has permanent profit, many things can profit us in the moment.”

We immediately recognize the truth of this as regards literal candles; we ignite tea-lite or votive candles which provide a lovely sense of atmosphere and we never think “this is a lousy candle, because it will only burn for a finite amount of time.” No, we appreciate the candle while it is lit. The worth of a candle is not in its durability, but in its ability to illumine while lit.

Is the same not true of our lives, and the lives of our loved ones? As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us “It is not how long you live, but how well you do it.” Even if I created an immense marble edifice for my father’s ashes, that structure would decay over time and its meaning would be forgotten. My father’s memories will vaporize after my generation of the family passes—but that’s not a tragedy. It’s the only way this world exists; unless your name is Elvis, everyone is forgotten before long. What does ‘profit’ us is to live fully whilst alive, to be recklessly engaged in this moment’s enactment of God’s justice and peace. A good candle glows while lit, and if the tapers of our lives are healthy we will strive to be illumined and to illuminate.

Problems come when we become focused on longevity, on out-lasting our time to burn. We can expend crazy amounts of effort trying to memorialize the dead and even crazier energies attempting to gain some sort of personal immortality. Yet these misguided efforts detract from our burning brightly in the now.

Churches face the same exact problem, the temptation to focus on longevity rather than illumination. I serve as Church Growth Coordinator for the Southwest Conference, and when congregations contact me they are usually wishing to talk about survival. Conversations boil down to “How do we make our church last longer?” The more valuable question for churches is: How much light can we shine in the now? Without too much thought of the morrow, churches need to ask: whose lives can we bless and transform as who we are, where we are, in the present moment?

Ironically, churches that put their energies into blessing others in the present moment tend to be more attractive churches—and the paradoxical result of shining brighter in the now is a possible renewal of the church, an unexpected second life. Could the same thing, perhaps, be said for individual souls? The book that follows Ecclesiastes in canonical order, The Song of Songs, tells us “love is as strong as death…Its darts are…divine flame!” (Song of Songs 8:6, CEB). That great Christian novelist and apologist C.S. Lewis, in his novel The Great Divorce, puts these words into the sainted mouth of his mentor George McDonald, “Every natural love will rise again and live forever in this country (heaven) but none will rise again until it has been buried.” My father spoke little of spiritual matters, but he did once tell me, late in his life, that he expected to continue existing after death on another dimensional plane, and that he expected to be re-united with his wife, who would be on the same dimensional apogee.

So today I remember my father’s candle, after it has gone out. I reaffirm my intention to burn brightly in my time. And if the things that our Scriptures and traditions point to are true, then the love we light now may blaze on into an unforeseeable eternity.