Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 “For everything there is a season. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away; a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace. For everything there is a season, and a time and purpose for every matter under heaven.”

Wanting Sumptuous Heavens

No one grumbles among the oyster clans,

And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer.

Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want

Heaven to be, and God to come, again.

There is no end to our grumbling; we want

Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven.

But the heron standing on one leg in the bog

Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.

A few years ago on Easter, Shelly preached on the theme, “Dance in the Graveyards.” I got to do the special music that day, and we did the song of the same title. This was a theme and a song that came at a very good time for me.

My father had died the previous September, and as is often the case, I was still adjusting to this new reality. I know people like to say there are stages to grief, but I have found it to be a rather messy affair. And the theme that Shelly picked up on—of celebrating our lives and dancing in the face of death became good words for me to hear.

And that Easter we took those words very seriously, and literally. That afternoon we had friends over for Easter dinner, and after we ate and drank to our hearts content, we danced, late into the night. It was a celebration of life in it’s most elevated place—in direct opposition to death. And it was beautiful.

That night was a culmination of events and realizations for me; and it was one of those very rare, very special occasions where it felt as if the wall that exists between the sacred and the secular was tissue paper thin, and this life, this beautiful moment, somehow took on all the joys and all the sorrows of all time. It was one of those miraculous nights where I felt so much joy I could cry. My heart was so swollen with love and sorrow that it felt like it could burst.  It was a time of elevated emotion, where all of the opposites of life, the joy and the sorrow, the hope and the hate, the peace and the war, the seeds and the fruit, the whispers and the shouts all blended together in the ether and poured out over our receptive souls. We were drunk on good food, good wine and great company – and for an instant on that lovely springtime evening, we were fully aware of just how incredible this gift of life can be.

Not long ago, a church member was traveling home to attend a funeral for a loved one. And in some of my parting words to them, I said something that, in retrospect, might have been inappropriate to say. I encouraged her to enjoy herself, and to make the most of her time away.

Most people, it turns out, feel a little uncomfortable when told to enjoy themselves at a funeral. And I understand why. Funerals are meant to be times of mourning; deep sadness. Tears. Heartache. And they are, I know that all too well.

But I have also found that

Sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes the passing of a loved one can be a beautiful thing. We hint at this in the words of comfort we offer in the memorial services when we say, “while we live with an awareness of death all our lives, and while we trust in eternity beyond life itself, death always casts a shadow. Our emotions swirl when confronted with it—a whirlpool of disbelief, sadness and emptiness blend with the joy and love and blessing that come when we consider our treasured memories and the passing of life.”

And that’s the beautiful part. That is where the enjoyment comes in. Through the treasured memories- and the stopping of time. There is beauty in grandmothers dusty, fake flowers. There are memories in the beauty products splayed out beneath the sink.  The whiff of Dad’s armchair is a scent we wish we could box up and cherish for all our days.  And it feels as if time, in the way we know time, falls away, and becomes ALL time.

The heightened awareness that takes place because of this makes the presence of grace and kindness instantly recognizable—and appreciably (gratifyingly) known. It is a beautiful thing, this falling away of the mundane day to day, and this elevation of spirit that lets our receptive synapses go crazy for all the affirmation we’re receiving, and giving, for life in this present moment. And it’s too bad that this heightened awareness must come at such a high cost. And if feels odd to say that some of the best parties I’ve ever been too have been as a result of some of the most treasured people in my life passing away.

But there is life in death. In the same way we can appreciate joy because of our sorrows. Why forgiveness is most appreciated in the aftermath of conflict. Why love is so important in a world thriving on hate. It is simply natural law; or Newton’s third law, to be precise, that proves that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Clearly the author of Ecclesiastes was onto something when they wrote out such an orderly attempt to give hope in the chaos and extremes of life, with their good news reminder that to everything there is a season. Now, how we navigate those seasons of life is up to us.

Robert Fulghum has found a way to pay attention to the sanctity of life without having someone have to kick the bucket to do it. He says that one of the best things he’s ever done was to pick out his grave site. He knew which cemetery he wanted to be buried in. He was told he’d have to purchase his plot, and then they would need to dig it, to ensure there were no previous occupants, since it was a very old graveyard. And so, with his children by his side, he picked a plot—one that was agreeable to them (for they’d be the ones most likely to visit it) and on the day they dug it, he showed up, just to watch.

And a funny thing happened. Since that time, he’s taken to visit his final resting place on a regular basis. He likes it there. Says he gets some of his best thinking done there. He’s even had a picture portrait of himself taken at the site that he has framed and has hanging by his desk at home. One day he asked his life insurance agent to calculate his projected death date. And since that time he’s regularly asked himself, “21 years…17 years…14 years…what do you want to do with these remaining years of your life?”

This is a good question to ponder every once in a while.

Sometimes I think, “I could be like the heron in the bog of the Robert Bly poem; content to stand on one leg and drink dark rum all day.” (though I’m not much of a rum guy; but standing in a bog definitely sounds appealing to me.)

But sometimes I think, “I could make this world a better place if I just worked a little bit harder; If I go to that one meeting, or respond to that one email, or write that one great sermon…”

But often, like EB White, I have a hard time planning my day, torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy it.

I’m learning though that my decisions don’t have to be either/or. They can be, as my friend Jackie Davis likes to say, “both/and.” When I’m at my best, my working life is woven into my contemplative one. My best thinking for sermons and prayers for friends take place when I’m walking through the park. My deepest truths are revealed when I am both consciously moving towards a better tomorrow and living fully present in the beauty of today.

Sometimes, when I’m really lucky, I remember that I am merely a blip in a nanosecond of the universe; and I am blip that is capable of feeling deep connections with an evolving world.

Sometimes, when I’m really lucky, I remember:

These skies are the same skies my father gazed up at as a child, in the same measure of wonder and amazement that my children will behold them with their own eyes tonight. And in that remembrance I feel a deep connection with him once again.

Sometimes, I remember:  this earth beneath our feet is the same hallowed ground trod by our most ancient ancestors, and there are others who come behind us who will be more sure of their way, thanks to the paths we take.

And sometimes I remember:  that this love we feel is the same translucent vesper we have known since our very first breath and will share with the generations to follow with the exhalation of our last.

Sometimes we have to know sadness and loss—it’s part of the blessing of these danged opposable thumbs; and sometimes the depth of our grief is equally and oppositely known in the gifts of hope that we can share when we participate most fully in a community of care and concern, love and acceptance, loving us no matter who we are or where we are on our life’s journey, just as God loves us no matter what.

In every season of our lives, there are moments of possibility that call to us from the all-time and are filled with the all-knowing. In those moments we come to know the richness and the possibility that exists in each passing moment, in every person we know. My prayer is that you will know the richness of YOUR life, and you will make the most of every season.

-Prayer-

This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice, and be glad in it.

With your left hand, please plug your ear.

Breathe deep. And listen close. Listen to the sounds of the eternal. As breath rises and falls, we can hear the waves on the ocean. As breath rises and falls, we can hear the breeze in the trees on a mountain path. As breath rises and falls, we can hear the breath of our beloved one. We know that we are alive. We know that we are connected to all life.

Please place your right hand on your heart.

Feel it’s beating beneath your skin.

This is the source of life—and the rhythm of all life.

This is the tick of the clock, the beat of the drum; this is the knock of possibility—the quiet reminder to remember our blessings.

In the gift of this new day, in the gift of this present moment, in the gift of time and eternity intertwined, may we be attentive, may we be aware of the flow and the rhythm of life all around us, and let us give thanks.

How lucky we are, to know connections so deep.

Amen.