One of the blessings of my life and work is that I am privileged to come close to death with the people that I serve. Like any pastor, I am called to respond to grieving families, to assist them with the planning and conduct of funerals, to speak to them about the process of grief, and mostly to be a presence with them in the midst of a very difficult time. It has taken me many years to learn that my presence is more important than the words I say. Especially in cases of sudden and traumatic loss, the grieving family won’t remember the content of my words. I can give them information, but they won’t be able to retain it. They will, however, remember that someone came and that the person cared. That is enough to know in the early stages of what is a long process.

There are others, however, who are given the grace and challenge of a process that is much slower. Often, I am present as loved ones are lost slowly. Illnesses progress at their own pace. Memories fade slowly. Sometimes there are many losses and griefs along the way. A person loses freedom by no longer being able to drive. Dignity is lost in the midst of invasive medical treatments. Relationships are lost when travel is no longer possible.

We have many people who assist along that journey. Doctors and nurses can greatly affect the quality of life as one dies by managing pain and treating unpleasant symptoms. Hospice workers bring experience and knowledge of the process and can interpret what is going on and ease fears. They also assist with equipment and care plans during the period of dying. Friends assist with meals and visits. There are many others who provide guidance, support and compassion.

On a fairly regular basis I am given the honor of being received into a home where death is near. The initial shock of the diagnosis and early stages of treatment is now past. The reality of death has been accepted. But dying is rarely a simple process of passive acceptance of the inevitable. There are many questions. There are fears. There are regrets. Sometimes I am asked questions about what happens after death.

My answers to those questions come from my beliefs. I have no special insight, no scientific research, no direct revelation of the nature of life beyond death. Fortunately, however, I am not left to personal beliefs. I belong to a congregation that is part of a church with thousands of years of history and hundreds of generations of faithfulness. Of course there are gaps in my understanding. Of course my faith is incomplete. Of course I have doubts as well as beliefs. I also have the Bible, the history and tradition of the church, and the teachings of those with brilliant minds to assist me with seeking answers and expanding faith.

When I was younger and less experienced, I would head out to a visit with someone who was gravely ill and perhaps dying armed with a Bible, a book of worship, and a handful of other resources. These days, I have learned to travel much lighter. I have psalms and passages of scripture that I can recite from memory. I know the prayers of our tradition and have confidence in my ability to shape new and different ones.

More than those resources, however, I have my own experiences of grief. I know something of the nature of kindness because it has been shown to me in times when I have experienced significant loss. I havre lived with sorrow through significant seasons of my life and have known the compassion of others who have shared my journey. I have felt times when it was all I could do to simply tie my shoes and take a step or two outside of my home, forcing myself to go through the blurry vision of tears.

This world can be heedless and heartless. When a loved one lies dying, you can suddenly become aware that the whole world has not stopped. The delivery trucks still rumble through the neighborhood, there are countless people who go on with their lives as if nothing has happened. There are faces that turn aside and fail to share your pain and loss. In this world compassion must grow from deep roots to be strong and sustainable. My ministry with those who are nearing the end of their lives and with their family and friends has taken a lifetime to learn and each visit, each loss, adds to my capacity to be a person of care the next time that I am called.

I am learning, ever so slowly, that the real important experiences of this life occur in God’s time which does not look at all like our time. The movement of the hands on my watch, the relentless rigidity of the digital display on my phone - these are not the keepers of real time. In God’s time a single moment can seem like an eternity and a generation can pass in the blink of an eye. The psalmist cried, “A thousand years in your sight are like aa day that has just gone by or a watch in the night.” In the miracle of God’s time I have been gifted by seeing a small child crawl up into bed with a gravely ill family member and offer more care than I am able, with my years and years of experience. I do not think I was so wise when I was so young.

What I do know is that the places of dying are places of great faith, hope and love. What I do know is that the letter to the Corinthians is right: “And now, these three remain: faith, hope and love. And the greatest of these is love.”

It is indeed a privilege to be called to the places of faith, hope, and love in our community. In a sometimes maddening and out-of-control world where fear and terror and anger and self-righteousness seem to shout for our attention, there are also places of peace where a deeper reality is being experienced. We will all one day find ourselves dwelling in such a place facing our own deaths. It is an experience I have not yet faced, but I know that when my time comes I will be less fearful because I have been invited into the experiences of others.

“I am certain that nothing . . . will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

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