A Morbid Subject Spoken at First Unitarian Universalist Church, Philadelphia PA by Christine Carlson It s such a beautiful day, perhaps too beautiful to talk about a morbid subject. I must admit, I ve been thinking a lot about death recently. And here s why: Next year I ll be 53 years old. Some of you may be thinking: 53 is so young! Why are you thinking about death? Others, including my children, are thinking: 53 is so old! But to me, turning 53 is significant. That s the age my mother was when she died. At the time, I was 18, and angry. I so desperately wanted to stop her pre-hospice-era pain, hating the doctors and nurses who did everything they could to keep her alive. I felt guilty, believing that I was one of the reasons she held on. And I resented that my less-than-perfect teenage relationship with her would never grow into the kind of companionable mother/daughter bond had she forged with my older sisters. So, as my 53 rd birthday looms on the horizon, I find myself thinking about the things I didn t think of back then. Things like: what was she thinking knowing she was about to die? Was she afraid? Did she rage against the dying of the light, or did she go gentle into that good night? And what would I think if I knew I was to die at 53? My oldest sister was able to answer some of the questions about my mother: Mom was not afraid to die. She had a strong faith and believed she was going to a better place and would be pain free. She was a brave and realistic woman she did not want to leave us, but knew it was not to be. I wish you could have known her longer. 1 P a g e
I do see her occasionally when I glance in the mirror. Her 53 year old eyes look back at me as I see her features in my own face. My mother was a devout Catholic. All her life, she strived to be a good person. And although I doubt she needed to have any part of her soul cleansed, she had made her last confession, and received the Anointment of the Sick. She truly believed that she was ready to meet God in heaven. And I hope that in her own way, she did. When I was little, I thought heaven would be a field of horses with bookshelves. That s the part I miss the most about Catholicism. The belief that I would go to heaven, a perfect place where I would once again be with the people I loved. I wish I still believed that. But if I did, I d also have to believe in what Unitarian minister William Ellery Channing called the fiction of theologians, where man has contracted infinite guilt, and is consequently exposed to an infinite penalty. Like my mother, I believe we should live a good life, even without the fear of eternal damnation. If we don t believe in heaven or hell, why do we try to live good lives? Why don t focus on complete self-gratification? This week, our church s Women s Book Group will meet to discuss The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert. The main character, Alma, is a 19 th century botanist who develops a theory of evolution concurrently with Darwin. But Alma never publishes her work. She believes it has a fatal flaw: If the natural world is a sphere of amoral and constant struggle for survival, and if out-competing one s rivals was the key to dominance and adaptation, then what were the evolutionary advantages of altruism and self-sacrifice? Another character in the book tells her he believes that this human trait is proof of a higher intelligence, apart from the earth. But she could not understand why others must dream up marvelous new spheres beyond this dominion. 2 P a g e
Is this what I m doing? Dreaming up marvelous new spheres? Do I need to have my own version of heaven? Do you? Being Unitarians, there are as many versions of heaven (or not) as there are people in this room. I had always looked at God as energy, not personified, really beyond what we can comprehend. While we live, we absorb both positive and negative energy. And when we die, that energy is jettisoned into the atmosphere. And that s a far as my thinking went. Then I read a book about entropy the theory that energy, once used, transforms into entropy. I don t really understand entropy as it relates to thermal dynamics and a mathematical equation, but the idea that expended energy becomes something else was like a lightbulb going off in my head. I began to think that perhaps we don t just cease to exist when we die. Perhaps we become something else. I ve read that Socrates thought that the universe was made of energy, and that all matter comes from that. Ralph Waldo Emerson notes that the universe is represented in every one of its particles. He says The dice of God are always loaded. The world looks like a multiplication table or a mathematical equation, which, turn it how you will, balances itself. Balance must be important. Just like Star Wars. In Luke Skywalker s Darth Vader s world, people gravitated to the light or dark side of the force. When they died, they became part of it. At the end of the saga, balance was restored to the force and all was well Yes, it s fiction. But to me, the force represents the energy that is God. Perhaps George Lucas is a closet Unitarian. 3 P a g e
When we die, we might become energy, entropy or matter. One could say this is a literal way of looking at what happens when we die. But there is also a figurative way to think about life after death. Perhaps we only live as long as others remember us. Graffiti artist Bansky said I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, when somebody says your name for the last time. Every June, I donate the flowers in our sanctuary in memory of my mother. My niece was named after her. In this way she lives on. My grandmother Ellen is still alive in some way because I named my daughter after her. Perhaps this explains why our churches and synagogues are covered with memorials to the names of the dead. For instance, I never knew John Vaughn, but I do know from his simple plaque in the sanctuary that he went about doing good. If people remember our name, is this a form of immortality? If so, then the Pharaohs are truly immortal because their names are still spoken today. And Jesus would have everlasting life. I can t imagine a time when his name won t be spoken, at least while human beings exist. Subscribing to this figurative view of life after death still doesn t explain why we are compelled to live good lives. After all, the names of people who have committed atrocious deeds are still uttered, even if it is in the context of history. In The Orphan Train, by Christina Baker Kline, yet another women s book group title, the aging protagonist Vivian says she s come to think of heaven as a place in the memory of others where our best selves live on. 4 P a g e
Perhaps we strive to do good because we want people to remember only the good things about us we hope that it is our best selves that live on. Sorting through all of these questions has been difficult. It s been intellectually difficult because it has forced me to articulate my beliefs about death and what comes after. And it s been emotionally difficult, because it s caused me to open the box of that time of my life that I ve tightly locked. It s been painful thinking about what I would be leaving behind if my life were to end at age 53. And though I might fear the way I might die, I m not afraid to die. But I m not ready to. And I can only hope that, when my time does come, I will have the same courage as my mother did to know when it is time to rage against the dying of the light, as well as know when it is time to go gently. It s made me think about our 7 th principal in an entirely different way. Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part. Before this, I ve only paid attention to the interdependent web part. I didn t really think about of all existence other than the present. I ve come to think that our web extends beyond the present. Whatever its form -- energy, entropy, matter or memories -- the interdependent web is not just about us. It also includes those who have come before us. We remain a part of it even after we die. And when I think of it this way, perhaps it s not such a morbid subject after all. Perhaps it was appropriate for a sunny day. 5 P a g e