Proper 8 / Ordinary Time 13 / Pentecost 3
Preaching
Lectionary Preaching Workbook
Series VII, Cycle C
Theme For The Day
The transitions in life, the cracks in the sidewalk, are fearsome places -- but often they are also the places where God is most powerfully present.
Old Testament Lesson
2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14
Elijah Passes The Prophetic Mantle To Elisha, And Ascends Into Heaven
This is a story of both supernatural power and deep human emotion. For some time, Elisha has been training under the tutelage of Elijah. Now, the time has come for the master to depart and commit the prophetic vocation into the hands of his younger protege. As the twice-repeated exchange in verses 3 and 5 (omitted from the lectionary selection) between Elisha and the company of prophets makes clear, the younger prophet is none too eager to see this happen. Standing beside the Jordan beside Elisha, Elijah rolls up his mantle and strikes the water with it. The waters part, and the two of them cross over to the other side (v. 8). This, of course, recalls Joshua's parting of the Jordan as the people of Israel crossed into the promised land, as well as the earlier parting of the Red Sea. Elijah asks Elisha what he can do for him before he departs, and Elisha responds that he would like a double share of his master's spirit (v. 9). Elijah replies that this is "a hard thing," but if the younger man can still see him as he is being taken up by God, then he will know the request is granted. Elisha can indeed see Elijah, as fiery chariots and horses separate the two of them, and he is carried up into heaven in a whirlwind (v. 11). Elisha rends his clothing in grief, then picks up his mentor's discarded mantle, using it to part the waters so he can return back to the other side of the Jordan -- thus indicating to the watching company of prophets that the prophetic succession has taken place (vv. 12-14).
New Testament Lesson
Galatians 5:1, 13-25
Christian Freedom
"For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery" (v. 1). The lectionary uses this isolated verse as a sort of prologue for verses 13-25. In the intervening verses, Paul argues against those who are preaching that Christian male converts must go back and receive the Jewish rite of circumcision. He concludes by wishing his opponents would castrate themselves (v. 12). To the relief of lectionary preachers everywhere, this line is not included in this week's selection! The very next verse is, however, and in it we hear Paul issuing a "call to freedom." In the context of the larger discussion, what he has in mind is freedom from circumcision, and all the oppressive use of the law that goes along with it. Yet it goes far beyond that. "Do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence," he warns, "but through love become slaves to one another" (v. 13). There is deep paradox here. Echoing Jesus himself, he reminds his readers that the whole law is summed up in the command, "love your neighbor as yourself" (v. 14). In the next two sections, Paul contrasts "the works of the flesh" with "the fruit of the Spirit." Each of these lists (vv. 19-21 and 22-23) are fruitful ground for word studies.
The Gospel
Luke 9:51-62
The Cost Of Discipleship
Verse 51 is the great turning point in the Gospel of Luke, when Jesus "sets his face to go to Jerusalem." For the next ten chapters or so, Jesus will move slowly but steadily toward Jerusalem, where a cross awaits. Most of what takes place in these ten chapters comes either from the "Q" source that Matthew and Luke share in common, or from material unique to Luke. The first episode of this section is a disheartening one, as a village of Samaritans refuses to receive him, "because his face was set toward Jerusalem" (v. 53). James and John ask for permission to call down fire from heaven and consume the haughty village, but Jesus turns and rebukes them instead (v. 55). The disciples obviously misunderstand what Jesus is all about. The misunderstandings continue as they converse together along the road. "I will follow you wherever you go," says one impetuous disciple. Jesus responds with an enigmatic saying about foxes and birds having their homes, but the son of man having nowhere to lay his head (v. 58). Jesus asks another to follow him, and the man demurs, saying that he must first go and bury his father (not an unreasonable objection, for according to Jewish law this would have been among the most solemn of obligations). "Leave the dead to bury their own dead," says Jesus, a statement that would have indeed sounded harsh to Jewish ears (v. 60). Finally, another man says, "I will follow you, Lord, but let me first say farewell to those at my home." Jesus' reply: "No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God" (v. 62). Experienced farmers of course know it is impossible to plow a straight furrow unless they keep their eyes fixed on a reference point straight ahead; turning to look back is disastrous. As Jesus and the disciples begin their journey to Jerusalem, he wants them to have no illusions about the hard road that lies ahead, and the sort of absolute obedience that will be required.
Preaching Possibilities
"Don't step on the cracks, or you'll break your mother's back." The cracks in a sidewalk mark the transition from one slab of pavement to another. Even the lore of children recognizes that transitions are hazardous places. The "cracks" -- the times of transition -- in our individual lives bring out strong emotion:
• putting the kindergartner on the school bus,
• watching the graduate march down the aisle in cap and gown,
• the mother crying at a wedding,
• the once-healthy person suddenly become a patient,
• and then there is the greatest transition of all, the transition between death and new life in Christ.
Fearsome ... emotion-laden ... beautiful at times ... always accompanied by anxiety: such are times of transition. The singer and poet Leonard Cohen has written words to a song called "Anthem" stating that nothing is perfect, that everything has cracks ... and that is how the light gets in.
The cracks in our lives -- the times of transition -- are disturbing, but they're often the times when the light gets in. Today's passage from 2 Kings describe a time of transition: a transition in leadership between the prophet Elijah and his young protege, Elisha.
Elijah and Elisha are walking along the road. Both of them know a terrible transition is near: Elijah's going to die. Who will carry on his prophetic work? Elisha would seem to be the obvious choice.
Yet, Elijah doesn't make it easy for him. Three times he tells his young friend, "Stay here." But Elisha says, "As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you." Finally, the two of them arrive at the Jordan River. Fifty members of the company of prophets are with them. Elijah takes off his mantle (his cloak), rolls it into a tight cylinder, and strikes the water with it, as though it were a staff. Immediately the waters part, and Elijah and Elisha cross over the river with dry feet.
The symbolism, here, could not have been lost on those who first heard this tale. Their minds would have raced immediately to two scenes in the Exodus story: First, when Moses struck a large rock with his staff, causing water to gush forth; and, second, when Moses touched his staff to the waters of the Red Sea, parting the waves so the Israelites could escape dry-shod to the other side. Clearly, the people are meant to draw a comparison between Elijah and Moses.
When they've crossed over, Elijah asks Elisha what he can do for him. It's a final offer, before he goes on his way. Elisha asks for only one thing: a double share of the prophetic spirit that has empowered Elijah throughout his long career as prophet, as the Lord's spokesperson on earth.
Not even the mighty Elijah can grant this request. "You have asked a hard thing," he tells his young protege. That will be up to God, and God alone.
Just then, Elisha experiences an ecstatic vision. A chariot of fire, drawn by horses of fire, appears, and carries Elijah off into heaven. Elisha watches his master grow smaller and smaller, until he can no longer see him. Then he falls to his knees, dissolves in tears, and tears his clothing into two pieces -- that ancient, symbolic act of inconsolable grief.
One might think his reaction would have been different. His mentor Elijah has lived a full life, after all, and the amazing cosmic sign Elisha has just witnessed -- this chariot and its horses of fire -- is so clearly a sign of God at work, there's no question where this great prophet is going. Elisha has waited years for the day when he'd finally begin to live into the promise of his prophetic calling. Now the day is here -- and all he can do is weep.
No surprise, here. It's a time of transition -- a hinge between that which has been, and that which is yet to be. The times of transition in our lives can be profoundly disorienting.
The next thing Elisha does is bend down and pick up his master's discarded mantle. He throws it over his own shoulders, which is where we get the expression, "passing on the mantle of leadership." The transition is complete, and by this symbolic act, Elisha shows he is ready to move on.
Anyone who's involved in the work of counseling knows that most of the counseling process is helping people to realize truths they've known all along. Counselors don't give to their clients much that is truly new; rather, they help them discover and water the seeds of new life that are already planted within them. The counseling process is one of self-discovery, rather than invention. It's one of overcoming obstacles to growth, rather than making the growth itself happen. It's as the Apostle Paul wrote, describing his work among the Corinthian Christians: "I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth" (1 Corinthians 3:6).
Most counseling is challenging people to perceive something already present as an option in their lives, a possibility they have failed to perceive. In a time of transition, they are afraid to see and acknowledge such a possibility because: 1) it may require them to change, and they feel helpless to change; 2) it may require them to trust, and their capacity to trust may be wounded beyond repair; or 3) it may require them to let go of something familiar -- for even though the familiar is killing them, it's still familiar.
Living through life's transitional times is never easy. Feelings of grief for that which is lost, or about to be lost, can seem overwhelming. Sometimes there is a feeling of being stuck between the has-been and the not-yet -- and that experience of stuck-ness seems to go on and on. No wonder children are afraid to step on the cracks in the sidewalk: They know, intuitively, that transitions are dangerous places.
Whenever we must say good-bye to the old and embrace the new -- however fearsome and unfamiliar the new may seem -- there may appear for a time to be no way forward. Yet faith reveals to us that there is such a way, it just hasn't been revealed yet.
Prayer For The Day
O God,
to turn from you is to fall,
to turn to you is to rise,
and to abide in you is to stand fast forever. Amen.
-- Saint Augustine of Hippo
To Illustrate
Nothing is more surprising than the rise of the new within ourselves. We do not foresee or observe its growth. We do not try to produce it by the strength of our will, by the power of our emotion, or by the clarity of our intellect. On the contrary, we feel that by trying to produce it we prevent its coming ... The new being is born in us, just when we least believe in it. It appears in remote corners of our souls which we have neglected for a long time. It opens up deep levels of our personality which had been shut out by old decisions and old exclusions. It shows a way where there was no way before.
-- Paul Tillich, "I Am Doing a New Thing," in The Shaking of the Foundations (New York: Scribner's, 1948), p. 182
***
There is a scene in the movie, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when the intrepid archaeologist/adventurer is fleeing one enemy or another, and comes to the edge of a huge and yawning chasm. He stops his forward progress just in the nick of time, and teeters there, about to fall in. Then he rights himself, and surveys his situation.
He can't go back; danger lurks there. Yet it seems just as impossible to go forward, for that would mean certain death. Then, Jones reaches down and picks up a handful of gravel. He throws it out ahead of him, over the cliff. The falling stones don't travel far. Just a few inches below the level of his boots, they land on an invisible footbridge he never knew was there.
That's not a bad image for the transitional times of life: the passages from one stage to another. Where there seems to be no discernible road ahead, God reveals one.
***
J. Barrie Shepherd observes, in Praying the Psalms, that when Psalm 23 begins, beside the quiet waters and in green pastures, it's written in the third person. Yet, when the setting changes to the valley of the shadow of death, suddenly the language shifts to the second person. Where the psalmist had once spoken of God as "the Lord," now he addresses God as "thou" or "you."
This is consistent with human psychology, with how we discover resources of faith in a time of crisis. Just when we need God the most, just when dark shadows threaten to overwhelm us and anyone would be seized by a desire to turn back, God arrives but not as a subject of theological discourse, but in person to lead the way.
***
In his book, Lament For a Son, Nicholas Wolterstorff writes (commenting on life after his son's death), "The world looks different now.... Something is over. In the deepest levels of my existence, something is finished, done. My life is divided into before and after."
***
One of those who escaped from the World Trade Center said: "If you'd seen what it was like in that stairway, you'd be proud. There was no gender, no race, no religion. It was everyone helping each other." But away from that stairway -- in America's streets -- there is gender, there is race, there is religion.
-- Julian Bond, cited in the New York Times; from a graduation address at Susquehanna University
***
Amid all the high fashions and fashion blunders, the ritual wheel that worked the space between the living and the dead still got us where we needed to go. It made room for the good laugh, the good cry, and the power of faith brought to bear on the mystery of mortality. The broken circle within the community of folks who shared blood or geography or belief with the dead was closed again. Someone brought the casseroles, someone brought the prayers, someone brought a shovel or lighted the fire. Everyone was consoled by everyone else. The wheel that worked the space between the living and the dead ran smooth.
For many Americans, however, that wheel is not just broken but off track or in need of reinvention. The loosened ties of faith and family, of religious and ethnic identity, have left them ritually adrift, bereft of custom, symbol, metaphor, and meaningful liturgy or language. Times formerly spent in worship or communion are now spent shopping or Web-browsing or otherwise passing time. Many Americans are now spiritual tourists without home places or core beliefs to return to.
Instead of dead Methodists or Muslims, we are now dead golfers or gardeners, bikers or bowlers. The bereaved are not so much family and friends or fellow believers as like-minded hobbyists or enthusiasts. And I have become less the funeral director and more the memorial caddy of sorts, getting the dead out of the way and the living assembled for a memorial "event" that is neither sacred nor secular but increasingly absurd -- a triumph of accessories over essentials, stuff over substance, theme over theology. The genuine dead are downsized or disappeared or turned into knickknacks in a kind of funereal karaoke -- bodiless obsequies where the finger food is good, the music transcendent, the talk determinedly "life affirming," the accouterments all purposefully cheering and inclusive and where someone can be counted on to declare "closure" just before the merlot runs out. We leave these events with the increasing sense that something is missing.
Something is.
Just as he showed us something about suffering and sickness and dying in his last days alive, in death Pope John Paul II showed us something about grieving and taking our leave. The good death, good grief, good funerals come from keeping the vigils, from bearing our burdens honorably, from honest witness and remembrance. They come from going the distance with the ones we love.
-- Poet and funeral director Thomas Lynch, "Our Near-Death Experience," New York Times, April 9, 2005
The transitions in life, the cracks in the sidewalk, are fearsome places -- but often they are also the places where God is most powerfully present.
Old Testament Lesson
2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14
Elijah Passes The Prophetic Mantle To Elisha, And Ascends Into Heaven
This is a story of both supernatural power and deep human emotion. For some time, Elisha has been training under the tutelage of Elijah. Now, the time has come for the master to depart and commit the prophetic vocation into the hands of his younger protege. As the twice-repeated exchange in verses 3 and 5 (omitted from the lectionary selection) between Elisha and the company of prophets makes clear, the younger prophet is none too eager to see this happen. Standing beside the Jordan beside Elisha, Elijah rolls up his mantle and strikes the water with it. The waters part, and the two of them cross over to the other side (v. 8). This, of course, recalls Joshua's parting of the Jordan as the people of Israel crossed into the promised land, as well as the earlier parting of the Red Sea. Elijah asks Elisha what he can do for him before he departs, and Elisha responds that he would like a double share of his master's spirit (v. 9). Elijah replies that this is "a hard thing," but if the younger man can still see him as he is being taken up by God, then he will know the request is granted. Elisha can indeed see Elijah, as fiery chariots and horses separate the two of them, and he is carried up into heaven in a whirlwind (v. 11). Elisha rends his clothing in grief, then picks up his mentor's discarded mantle, using it to part the waters so he can return back to the other side of the Jordan -- thus indicating to the watching company of prophets that the prophetic succession has taken place (vv. 12-14).
New Testament Lesson
Galatians 5:1, 13-25
Christian Freedom
"For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery" (v. 1). The lectionary uses this isolated verse as a sort of prologue for verses 13-25. In the intervening verses, Paul argues against those who are preaching that Christian male converts must go back and receive the Jewish rite of circumcision. He concludes by wishing his opponents would castrate themselves (v. 12). To the relief of lectionary preachers everywhere, this line is not included in this week's selection! The very next verse is, however, and in it we hear Paul issuing a "call to freedom." In the context of the larger discussion, what he has in mind is freedom from circumcision, and all the oppressive use of the law that goes along with it. Yet it goes far beyond that. "Do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence," he warns, "but through love become slaves to one another" (v. 13). There is deep paradox here. Echoing Jesus himself, he reminds his readers that the whole law is summed up in the command, "love your neighbor as yourself" (v. 14). In the next two sections, Paul contrasts "the works of the flesh" with "the fruit of the Spirit." Each of these lists (vv. 19-21 and 22-23) are fruitful ground for word studies.
The Gospel
Luke 9:51-62
The Cost Of Discipleship
Verse 51 is the great turning point in the Gospel of Luke, when Jesus "sets his face to go to Jerusalem." For the next ten chapters or so, Jesus will move slowly but steadily toward Jerusalem, where a cross awaits. Most of what takes place in these ten chapters comes either from the "Q" source that Matthew and Luke share in common, or from material unique to Luke. The first episode of this section is a disheartening one, as a village of Samaritans refuses to receive him, "because his face was set toward Jerusalem" (v. 53). James and John ask for permission to call down fire from heaven and consume the haughty village, but Jesus turns and rebukes them instead (v. 55). The disciples obviously misunderstand what Jesus is all about. The misunderstandings continue as they converse together along the road. "I will follow you wherever you go," says one impetuous disciple. Jesus responds with an enigmatic saying about foxes and birds having their homes, but the son of man having nowhere to lay his head (v. 58). Jesus asks another to follow him, and the man demurs, saying that he must first go and bury his father (not an unreasonable objection, for according to Jewish law this would have been among the most solemn of obligations). "Leave the dead to bury their own dead," says Jesus, a statement that would have indeed sounded harsh to Jewish ears (v. 60). Finally, another man says, "I will follow you, Lord, but let me first say farewell to those at my home." Jesus' reply: "No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God" (v. 62). Experienced farmers of course know it is impossible to plow a straight furrow unless they keep their eyes fixed on a reference point straight ahead; turning to look back is disastrous. As Jesus and the disciples begin their journey to Jerusalem, he wants them to have no illusions about the hard road that lies ahead, and the sort of absolute obedience that will be required.
Preaching Possibilities
"Don't step on the cracks, or you'll break your mother's back." The cracks in a sidewalk mark the transition from one slab of pavement to another. Even the lore of children recognizes that transitions are hazardous places. The "cracks" -- the times of transition -- in our individual lives bring out strong emotion:
• putting the kindergartner on the school bus,
• watching the graduate march down the aisle in cap and gown,
• the mother crying at a wedding,
• the once-healthy person suddenly become a patient,
• and then there is the greatest transition of all, the transition between death and new life in Christ.
Fearsome ... emotion-laden ... beautiful at times ... always accompanied by anxiety: such are times of transition. The singer and poet Leonard Cohen has written words to a song called "Anthem" stating that nothing is perfect, that everything has cracks ... and that is how the light gets in.
The cracks in our lives -- the times of transition -- are disturbing, but they're often the times when the light gets in. Today's passage from 2 Kings describe a time of transition: a transition in leadership between the prophet Elijah and his young protege, Elisha.
Elijah and Elisha are walking along the road. Both of them know a terrible transition is near: Elijah's going to die. Who will carry on his prophetic work? Elisha would seem to be the obvious choice.
Yet, Elijah doesn't make it easy for him. Three times he tells his young friend, "Stay here." But Elisha says, "As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you." Finally, the two of them arrive at the Jordan River. Fifty members of the company of prophets are with them. Elijah takes off his mantle (his cloak), rolls it into a tight cylinder, and strikes the water with it, as though it were a staff. Immediately the waters part, and Elijah and Elisha cross over the river with dry feet.
The symbolism, here, could not have been lost on those who first heard this tale. Their minds would have raced immediately to two scenes in the Exodus story: First, when Moses struck a large rock with his staff, causing water to gush forth; and, second, when Moses touched his staff to the waters of the Red Sea, parting the waves so the Israelites could escape dry-shod to the other side. Clearly, the people are meant to draw a comparison between Elijah and Moses.
When they've crossed over, Elijah asks Elisha what he can do for him. It's a final offer, before he goes on his way. Elisha asks for only one thing: a double share of the prophetic spirit that has empowered Elijah throughout his long career as prophet, as the Lord's spokesperson on earth.
Not even the mighty Elijah can grant this request. "You have asked a hard thing," he tells his young protege. That will be up to God, and God alone.
Just then, Elisha experiences an ecstatic vision. A chariot of fire, drawn by horses of fire, appears, and carries Elijah off into heaven. Elisha watches his master grow smaller and smaller, until he can no longer see him. Then he falls to his knees, dissolves in tears, and tears his clothing into two pieces -- that ancient, symbolic act of inconsolable grief.
One might think his reaction would have been different. His mentor Elijah has lived a full life, after all, and the amazing cosmic sign Elisha has just witnessed -- this chariot and its horses of fire -- is so clearly a sign of God at work, there's no question where this great prophet is going. Elisha has waited years for the day when he'd finally begin to live into the promise of his prophetic calling. Now the day is here -- and all he can do is weep.
No surprise, here. It's a time of transition -- a hinge between that which has been, and that which is yet to be. The times of transition in our lives can be profoundly disorienting.
The next thing Elisha does is bend down and pick up his master's discarded mantle. He throws it over his own shoulders, which is where we get the expression, "passing on the mantle of leadership." The transition is complete, and by this symbolic act, Elisha shows he is ready to move on.
Anyone who's involved in the work of counseling knows that most of the counseling process is helping people to realize truths they've known all along. Counselors don't give to their clients much that is truly new; rather, they help them discover and water the seeds of new life that are already planted within them. The counseling process is one of self-discovery, rather than invention. It's one of overcoming obstacles to growth, rather than making the growth itself happen. It's as the Apostle Paul wrote, describing his work among the Corinthian Christians: "I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth" (1 Corinthians 3:6).
Most counseling is challenging people to perceive something already present as an option in their lives, a possibility they have failed to perceive. In a time of transition, they are afraid to see and acknowledge such a possibility because: 1) it may require them to change, and they feel helpless to change; 2) it may require them to trust, and their capacity to trust may be wounded beyond repair; or 3) it may require them to let go of something familiar -- for even though the familiar is killing them, it's still familiar.
Living through life's transitional times is never easy. Feelings of grief for that which is lost, or about to be lost, can seem overwhelming. Sometimes there is a feeling of being stuck between the has-been and the not-yet -- and that experience of stuck-ness seems to go on and on. No wonder children are afraid to step on the cracks in the sidewalk: They know, intuitively, that transitions are dangerous places.
Whenever we must say good-bye to the old and embrace the new -- however fearsome and unfamiliar the new may seem -- there may appear for a time to be no way forward. Yet faith reveals to us that there is such a way, it just hasn't been revealed yet.
Prayer For The Day
O God,
to turn from you is to fall,
to turn to you is to rise,
and to abide in you is to stand fast forever. Amen.
-- Saint Augustine of Hippo
To Illustrate
Nothing is more surprising than the rise of the new within ourselves. We do not foresee or observe its growth. We do not try to produce it by the strength of our will, by the power of our emotion, or by the clarity of our intellect. On the contrary, we feel that by trying to produce it we prevent its coming ... The new being is born in us, just when we least believe in it. It appears in remote corners of our souls which we have neglected for a long time. It opens up deep levels of our personality which had been shut out by old decisions and old exclusions. It shows a way where there was no way before.
-- Paul Tillich, "I Am Doing a New Thing," in The Shaking of the Foundations (New York: Scribner's, 1948), p. 182
***
There is a scene in the movie, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when the intrepid archaeologist/adventurer is fleeing one enemy or another, and comes to the edge of a huge and yawning chasm. He stops his forward progress just in the nick of time, and teeters there, about to fall in. Then he rights himself, and surveys his situation.
He can't go back; danger lurks there. Yet it seems just as impossible to go forward, for that would mean certain death. Then, Jones reaches down and picks up a handful of gravel. He throws it out ahead of him, over the cliff. The falling stones don't travel far. Just a few inches below the level of his boots, they land on an invisible footbridge he never knew was there.
That's not a bad image for the transitional times of life: the passages from one stage to another. Where there seems to be no discernible road ahead, God reveals one.
***
J. Barrie Shepherd observes, in Praying the Psalms, that when Psalm 23 begins, beside the quiet waters and in green pastures, it's written in the third person. Yet, when the setting changes to the valley of the shadow of death, suddenly the language shifts to the second person. Where the psalmist had once spoken of God as "the Lord," now he addresses God as "thou" or "you."
This is consistent with human psychology, with how we discover resources of faith in a time of crisis. Just when we need God the most, just when dark shadows threaten to overwhelm us and anyone would be seized by a desire to turn back, God arrives but not as a subject of theological discourse, but in person to lead the way.
***
In his book, Lament For a Son, Nicholas Wolterstorff writes (commenting on life after his son's death), "The world looks different now.... Something is over. In the deepest levels of my existence, something is finished, done. My life is divided into before and after."
***
One of those who escaped from the World Trade Center said: "If you'd seen what it was like in that stairway, you'd be proud. There was no gender, no race, no religion. It was everyone helping each other." But away from that stairway -- in America's streets -- there is gender, there is race, there is religion.
-- Julian Bond, cited in the New York Times; from a graduation address at Susquehanna University
***
Amid all the high fashions and fashion blunders, the ritual wheel that worked the space between the living and the dead still got us where we needed to go. It made room for the good laugh, the good cry, and the power of faith brought to bear on the mystery of mortality. The broken circle within the community of folks who shared blood or geography or belief with the dead was closed again. Someone brought the casseroles, someone brought the prayers, someone brought a shovel or lighted the fire. Everyone was consoled by everyone else. The wheel that worked the space between the living and the dead ran smooth.
For many Americans, however, that wheel is not just broken but off track or in need of reinvention. The loosened ties of faith and family, of religious and ethnic identity, have left them ritually adrift, bereft of custom, symbol, metaphor, and meaningful liturgy or language. Times formerly spent in worship or communion are now spent shopping or Web-browsing or otherwise passing time. Many Americans are now spiritual tourists without home places or core beliefs to return to.
Instead of dead Methodists or Muslims, we are now dead golfers or gardeners, bikers or bowlers. The bereaved are not so much family and friends or fellow believers as like-minded hobbyists or enthusiasts. And I have become less the funeral director and more the memorial caddy of sorts, getting the dead out of the way and the living assembled for a memorial "event" that is neither sacred nor secular but increasingly absurd -- a triumph of accessories over essentials, stuff over substance, theme over theology. The genuine dead are downsized or disappeared or turned into knickknacks in a kind of funereal karaoke -- bodiless obsequies where the finger food is good, the music transcendent, the talk determinedly "life affirming," the accouterments all purposefully cheering and inclusive and where someone can be counted on to declare "closure" just before the merlot runs out. We leave these events with the increasing sense that something is missing.
Something is.
Just as he showed us something about suffering and sickness and dying in his last days alive, in death Pope John Paul II showed us something about grieving and taking our leave. The good death, good grief, good funerals come from keeping the vigils, from bearing our burdens honorably, from honest witness and remembrance. They come from going the distance with the ones we love.
-- Poet and funeral director Thomas Lynch, "Our Near-Death Experience," New York Times, April 9, 2005
