Wednesday, February 13, 2008 at 1:01am
To dust we shall return
Column: New Houses from Old Bricks
Last Wednesday marked the start of the Lenten season, 40 days leading up to Easter. It's traditionally a time of repentance. More broadly, it's a time to reflect on our need — our hunger — for God. (That's why it's traditional to fast, that is, "give something up" for Lent.)
Lent offers us mortals a chance to reach out humbly to the Immortal. Living in a culture that denies the reality of death whenever possible, sometimes we need a humbling reminder of our own humanness which will come to an end. On Ash Wednesday last week, we received that reminder in ashes on our foreheads with the words, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."
At my church, that reminder might have been overkill this year. We were just beginning a stretch of four funerals in five days. We were all too aware of mortality — at least, the mortality of those we love, if not ourselves.
I remember when I first realized I would die. I was embarrassingly old. Sure, I had known intellectually for many years that my life would not last forever. But in my early 20s, there was a particular day when I realized that I — the self I was on that very day — would someday have the experience of death.
Before that day, I had vaguely believed that I would become someone different as I aged; that person would experience death, but not "me." Somehow there was a difference between imagining myself experiencing death, and merely thinking of myself dying (intellectually true, but not emotionally weighted). They say adolescents believe themselves to be immortal. If that's true, then that day I remember marked the end of my adolescence.
The best way to find out what you believe about your death is to consider your funeral. What music would express the celebration or grief or memories you want people to experience? Would you want something displayed — a work of art or craft, pictures, remembrances? Who would speak, and what would you want them to say? I once was asked, for a funeral sermon, to say something that would be comforting to the person who had died. What would be comforting to you and to those who love you?
It would comfort me to know that I had cared about and worked toward something — a faith, a cause, a principle, a love — that would last beyond my own life. I would want to know that I had been part of something bigger than myself. I'd want to know that the love I gave and received in my lifetime had flowed into and out of God's eternal love. I would want to know that I had believed or loved or contributed to something that would not die with me. I can see why "leaving a legacy" is such a powerful motivator; it's the only way we know to live beyond our life.
Planning your own funeral is also a good way to find out what you believe about your life. In the 16th century, St. Ignatius suggested people do a "deathbed examen." Imagine yourself on your deathbed, he said, and think about what you'd want to be true of your life by the time it ended. What would you want to say about the way you spent your time, money, love? What was the most important thing you received, and what did you give? For Ignatius this "examen" could be a powerful tool for discernment. It could reorient one's life by illuminating the distance between where one was headed and where one wanted to end up.
This reorientation is also the purpose of Lenten discipline. To recognize our need for God and to turn toward God is to "repent," which means to "turn around." Ash Wednesday brings us to our knees with the reminder that we are not immortal, we are not perfect, and we will experience death.
So begins 40 days of reorientation to God, whose life goes way beyond our earthly life, and whose eternal love is far stronger than death.
— — —
Rev. Rebecca Schlatter is an ordained minister in the Lutheran Church (ELCA) in Reno, Nevada. You can contact her at {email newhousesfromoldbricks@hotmail.com}newhousesfromoldbricks@hotmail.com{/email}. © Copyright 2008 by Rebecca Schlatter.
Lent offers us mortals a chance to reach out humbly to the Immortal. Living in a culture that denies the reality of death whenever possible, sometimes we need a humbling reminder of our own humanness which will come to an end. On Ash Wednesday last week, we received that reminder in ashes on our foreheads with the words, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."
At my church, that reminder might have been overkill this year. We were just beginning a stretch of four funerals in five days. We were all too aware of mortality — at least, the mortality of those we love, if not ourselves.
I remember when I first realized I would die. I was embarrassingly old. Sure, I had known intellectually for many years that my life would not last forever. But in my early 20s, there was a particular day when I realized that I — the self I was on that very day — would someday have the experience of death.
Before that day, I had vaguely believed that I would become someone different as I aged; that person would experience death, but not "me." Somehow there was a difference between imagining myself experiencing death, and merely thinking of myself dying (intellectually true, but not emotionally weighted). They say adolescents believe themselves to be immortal. If that's true, then that day I remember marked the end of my adolescence.
The best way to find out what you believe about your death is to consider your funeral. What music would express the celebration or grief or memories you want people to experience? Would you want something displayed — a work of art or craft, pictures, remembrances? Who would speak, and what would you want them to say? I once was asked, for a funeral sermon, to say something that would be comforting to the person who had died. What would be comforting to you and to those who love you?
It would comfort me to know that I had cared about and worked toward something — a faith, a cause, a principle, a love — that would last beyond my own life. I would want to know that I had been part of something bigger than myself. I'd want to know that the love I gave and received in my lifetime had flowed into and out of God's eternal love. I would want to know that I had believed or loved or contributed to something that would not die with me. I can see why "leaving a legacy" is such a powerful motivator; it's the only way we know to live beyond our life.
Planning your own funeral is also a good way to find out what you believe about your life. In the 16th century, St. Ignatius suggested people do a "deathbed examen." Imagine yourself on your deathbed, he said, and think about what you'd want to be true of your life by the time it ended. What would you want to say about the way you spent your time, money, love? What was the most important thing you received, and what did you give? For Ignatius this "examen" could be a powerful tool for discernment. It could reorient one's life by illuminating the distance between where one was headed and where one wanted to end up.
This reorientation is also the purpose of Lenten discipline. To recognize our need for God and to turn toward God is to "repent," which means to "turn around." Ash Wednesday brings us to our knees with the reminder that we are not immortal, we are not perfect, and we will experience death.
So begins 40 days of reorientation to God, whose life goes way beyond our earthly life, and whose eternal love is far stronger than death.
— — —
Rev. Rebecca Schlatter is an ordained minister in the Lutheran Church (ELCA) in Reno, Nevada. You can contact her at {email newhousesfromoldbricks@hotmail.com}newhousesfromoldbricks@hotmail.com{/email}. © Copyright 2008 by Rebecca Schlatter.