On Death and Dying

(Recently, I had the privilege of speaking at a conference sponserd by "Good Shepherd Hospice." The hospice chaplain (who attends our church) asked me to share a few thoughts from the Judeo-Christian tradition regarding care for the terminally ill. I decided to make my remarks personal, as it seemed a good time to re-visit my own father's struggle with cancer. Here is an edited version of my speech: )

Life is a farce. That's what my Dad told me after a particularly rough patch of chemo-therapy. Though there wasn't anything funny about the way my father suffered.

Dad was diagnosed with stage 4 esophageal cancer in April of 2003. He died ten months later. During this time he also contracted Lyme's disease. Not that it mattered much. Anyway, my father's passing struck me as gruesome and unfair. But that's the way it always is, right? No matter how we're forced to face our mortality.

Dad didn't smoke or drink. He was a decent, down-right debonair and still so vital sixty-two year old. He was always the voice of reason in our dysfunctional family, and I miss him.

I am grateful for the practical support a Hospice Agency in North Carolina offered my Dad (and Mom) during his final days. The various staff and volunteers lightened my parent's load and brightened their hours. Hospice care is a good and much needed work.

I should probably tell you that as a Christian pastor, I don't view death as a welcomed friend ---but as an enemy. I officiate at a lot of funerals (such is our demographic), and I have witnessed more than a few men and women draw their final breath. I don't like it. Death unnerves me. I see death as an aberration. God did not originally create mankind to die. But we all do. Everyone.

The Scriptures of the Old and New Testament never sugarcoat the painful reality of dying and death. However, in the Judeo-Christian tradition death isn't merely a biological inevitablity -- it is a spiritual event. And that's what motivates me as I try to minister to those who are in the process of transitioning from this life to the next.

When my Father was dying, I tried to be both a pastor and a son. It was easier being a pastor. I sought to answer Dad's questions, to help him accept his sitution and make peace with his past. I wanted him to find comfort in a relationship with God and embrace hope --- hope for some grand adventure yet to be. Here are some lessons learned. (By the way, I'm no expert --- just a middle-aged minister reluctant to contemplate my own eventual demise. And I'm not going to tell you anything you don’t already know.)

In the Judeo-Christian tradition suffering isn’t the worse thing that can happen to a person. Suffering can have value. Now that’s a hard pill to swallow, and more than a few folks have choked upon it. But God being God can use suffering to deepen our capacity to experience his presence, expand our perspective on life’s meaning, as well as sweeten our appreciation for every good gift that comes from above.

I realize that’s easy to say when you’re not the one slowly starving to death because a feeding tube is no longer a viable option. Job, of course, is the great Old Testament example of a patient sufferer. Job endured --- because he did find purpose and meaning in his pain.

In retrospect, I can honestly say that I’m glad my father didn’t die lickety-split in a car accident. He had time to think about his life, time to argue with God, time to put his affairs in order, and time to mend some broken relationships --- like the uneasiness that existed between us.

Dad and I had issues. I resented some things that had happened in the past. But Dad's illness opened the door to honest dialogue. And as we talked together, and prayed together, and recognized how very much alike we were, my Dad and I finally became the friends we always longed to be. Maybe that’s why his death seems so unfair.

I don’t wish to sound overly dramatic --- but in many ways my Dad’s death saved my life. I was about to make some decisions that could have adversely affected many people. However, as my respect for Dad grew so did my willingness to listen to his advice. The counsel of a dying man is not soon forgotten.

I’m reminded of Israel’s patriarchs. Isaac, and then Jacob (in Genesis 49) , made a point to say what needed to be said before they died. Jacob called his sons to himself and blessed them. He spoke his dying wish, imparted some hard won wisdom, and made preparations for the future. And he did so surrounded by family. The Judeo-Christian tradition emphasizes the importance of family in the dying process. Whether it’s your soul mate, your flesh and blood progeny, or that community of friends that brings joy into your life, we need people around us during that loneliest of all journeys. It’s been said thousands of times, but in the end it scarcely matters how much money you’ve made or how many times the paparazzi has snapped your picture ---- what matters is that you’ve loved and been loved.

Even though separated by several states, we managed to visit my father a few times during his last months. We celebrated his birthday, as well as our last Thanksgiving and Christmas together. My whole family (wife, children, mom, brother, sister, nieces, nephews) grew close during this time. Grief can heighten inherent family stuggle, but it can also strengthen exisiting bonds.

The Judea-Christian tradition recognizes that human creatures need to grieve. The Bible never downplays loss or the rawness of human emotion. In the Old and New Testament grieving becomes an art form. The Hebrews set aside a certain period of time (70 days after the death of Jacob) to honor the dead, to reflect upon the past, to contemplate the future --- to find healing and bring a much needed sense of closure to their situation.

When I first heard about my Dad’s diagnosis I burst into tears. I sobbed for about two minutes. Since then --- nothing. I’m a fairly demonstrative man, so I expected more emotion. I keep waiting for some cathartic reaction, but then again everyone grieves differently. I have seen new widows barely skip a step on their way to the next thing. But that doesn’t mean that aren’t hurting. And I’ve seen folks immobilized beneath a mountain of anguish.

I’m not overly familiar with the psychological stages of grief, but I know I can see myself in David’s reaction to the impending death of his infant son (2 Samuel 12). The King barters with God, he fasts, and he grows depressed. Yet when the child dies, David accepts the fact. He commits his son's soul to God, wipes away the tears, and re-focuses his attention on comforting the infant’s mother. Certainly you can build a theology of bereavement by studying both the Hebrew and Christian tradition.

On our last trip up to see Dad , my seven year old climbed into his grandpa’s bed and snuggled beside him for one whole afternoon. I didn’t know he could be still that long. No one else could bring themselves to do the same. The disease had altered my once handsome father’s appearance, and the stench from the bile Dad had to frequently spit up was impossibly, horrendously, breath-takingly vile. But my little boy seemed oblivious to everything but his Grandpa’s need.

That simple show of love ministered to my Dad, body and soul, more effectively than a thousand sermons. The Judeo-Christian makes it clear that men and women --- fearfully and wonderfully made after the image of God --- more than the beasts but less than the angels in our make-up --- possess both a body and a soul. God created us body and soul. God cares for us body and soul. God redeems us body and soul. And when we minister to our fellow man we should do so body and soul. In other words, wiping drool from a dying man’s lip is as intrinsically spiritual as reciting a psalm.

I’ve been taught to believe God my Savior wears resurrected human flesh for all of eternity. That truth encourages beyond words. But for now our body is just a tent, a temporary dwelling that wears out and rots away. However, the Judeo- Christian tradition maintains that the soul is eternal. God made us for something more than this brief stay upon Planet Earth. Our Creator placed eternity in our hearts. I believe he has prepared a home for us where the essence of who we really are will find unending fulfillment.

As a pastor I try to help those struggling with terminal illness find peace. Peace is good. But hope is better. Israel’s patriarchs placed their hope in the promises of God. Jacob longed to have his body returned to Canaan from Egypt. He wanted to be buried with his forefathers --- because Jacob believed that his people would inherit the promise land. Kind David believed that he would see his dead son again. And the disciples of Jesus are encouraged to look forward to a better country, a promised land that lies beyond the veil of time and space --- call it heaven --- and you’ll have to forgive me because I’m a preacher at heart and used to saying things like Jesus said, "I go to be prepare a place for you." Paul said "to be absent from the body is to be present with the LORD." The Scripture proclaims, "Eye has not seen, ear has not heard nor mind conceived what God has prepared for those who love him." Again, the apostle says that if our hope only applied to this world, "then we should be pitied" --- because life would be a farce.

But it isn’t. My father recanted his earler statement. But I would have understood if he hadn’t. Nobody faces death, no matter how strong you may be in whatever faith you have, without feelings of uncertainty and anxiety. But I believe that we can find, and help others find, meaning in their suffering. I believe we can minister God’s love to the whole person, body and soul. I believe we can find healing through the grieving process. I believe families and friends can grow stronger as they come together in support of their dying loved one. I believe that hope will never disappoint us. And I’m grateful that in some measure my own father experienced such during his final days.