I recently read a piece in the New York Times by N. R. Kleinfeld entitled, “The Lonely Death of George Bell.” It contains a long story about a man who died alone in his apartment in Queens. His body was discovered only after neighbors complained of smell in the apartment. Investigators took some time to determine the identity of the man who had no family and few friends. Kleinfeld took time to find out a bit more and even located some photographs from earlier in his life. The article ends up being a rather extensive obituary for a man who lived and died in obscurity in the midst of a huge city.

We will never know if George Bell experienced loneliness, or if he had adapted to his life in a way that he was comfortable with all of its eccentricities. Having read the article, I don’t really feel like I know much about the man except that the end of his life seems to me to be forlorn and sad.

There was no funeral, no mourners, no ceremony. Just a simple urn with his cremains placed in a city-owned storage facility on the outside chance that some relative might be found to claim them and put them to rest in a permanent location.

The circumstances might be different, but people living alone without family or any form of community is not a phenomenon reserved to giant cities. It also occurs in rural areas. There are folks living alone out in the hills whose deaths go unnoticed and undiscovered for some time.

Besides the obvious issues of a lack of help in a medical crisis, there are other problems that aries from the failure of community. When I look back on my life there have been moments when I don’t know how I would have survived without the help of others. In most cases, I wasn’t dependent upon physical support, but rather upon the emotional and spiritual support of others. As I often say, “When you can’t find the words for your prayer, it’s good to know that you aren’t the only one praying.” When we have experienced a death in our family, the community just appears. Food is delivered to our house, cards and letters appear, people stop by to offer their condolences and to check to see that we are OK.

There are many things in this life that require community. I am convinced that this is true of the three things that are most important: Faith, hope and love.

I frequently hear some version of “I don’t need a church to believe in God,” from those who don’t participate in church regularly. On the surface, the statement is true. A person’s intellectual ideas and commitments are not always dependent upon others. There is ample evidence of God in the world for one to come to the conclusion that God exists. There are sufficient opportunities to experience God’s presence without the need for gathering in a church building. God is not confined to the structures we make for the gathering of our communities. One can be alone in the hills walking through the forest and experience God’s presence.

There is, however, something important and transforming when you share that experience with others. Telling the stories of your experiences of God gives you the opportunity to see them in the context of a bigger story. Religion isn’t just about sensing God’s presence, it is belonging to a long line of people who have touched an experience that is as ancient as the universe and will continue until the end of time. Ours isn’t the first generation to have know of God’s goodness. Ours isn’t the last.

Faith is formed and nurtured by community. Gathering together to experience and share beliefs is far different from the solitary experience. Furthermore, times of solitude often provide the motivation to engage community. It isn’t a coincidence that so many who have lived in monastic isolation become engaged in issues of social justice. Time alone with God provides energy and enthusiasm to engage others and the world in meaningful activities.

In preparation for a presentation that I am making this afternoon, I’ve been thinking a lot about hope in the last week or so. I am convinced that hope is more than a mere wish for a positive outcome. It even reaches beyond an individual longing for a brighter future. Hope is a power - a positive energy - that dwells in community. Alone we don’t have the ability to manufacture hope. And there are times, when individuals and communities come under intense pressure, that hope would not exist were it not for the wider community.

One of the hardest years of my life started with the sudden and unexpected death of my brother. By the time of the anniversary of his death, we had experienced the death of my mother, the birth of a grandson, the death of my father-in-law and the wedding of our daughter. The year had both high points and low points, celebration and grief. It was also a year of vocational challenge for me. There were pressures at work that I had not previously experienced and questions in my mind about what directions to take. It was a year of many sleepless nights and challenging days.

It was also a year of truly experiencing community. A small group Bible study in which I have participated for years became a center of support and encouragement. Even though it is my place of employment, the church became a source of care and centering. Prayers in church became more powerful than prayers alone at home. The genuine care and concern of others was essential to the journey.

The hope I discovered that year did not come from some internal source. It wasn’t an idea I thought up or an emotion that came from within. It was a gift of the community that nurtured hope while it seemed to temporarily fade inside of me. The gifts of faith, hope and love came from beyond my internal resources.

Nurturing community isn’t an option. It is essential for ongoing life.

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