Awaiting Death — The Great Un-American Pastime

Sometimes I write a blog and then don't push it live — usually for reasons that involve me hoping to avoid becoming a candidate for psychiatric evaluation and/or the object of a 24/7 suicide watch.

With this blog I break free from that tradition of silence and confess that I am awaiting death somewhat eagerly.

Having dropped that bombshell, I now rush to clarify.

For starters, I have been this way for more than 25 years and fully expect to put in at least that many more before my life comes to an end.

For seconders, there is an important distinction between those who are ready for death and those who are suicidal. Truly suicidal people by definition are ready for death. And not interested in waiting.

But the reverse need not be true. One can eagerly await death — and all the while have absolutely no plans to hurry the moment forward.

Count me in that latter, rather unusual crowd. Hopefully this clarification will keep the wailing sirens at bay.

So... why this break? Why this blog actually posted to a public website? Something I read this morning finally cemented a realization into place.

I do have a problem, but my problem is not that I am sick. I don't need Prozac, a shrink, or a stay in the white, padded room.

My problem is that I'm not American enough.

Additionally, all my heroes are certifiably insane.

I checked my blogs and see that I did indeed begin a blog series titled All My Heroes Are Certifiably Insane but I only finished one blog on Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Father Jerzy Popieluszko.

I didn't get far on that series, but I intend to resume it here.

But before I proceed, I want to return to Dietrich. There's something I didn't put in my first blog on him, though it has stayed with me indelibly.

Bonhoeffer became not just a hero, but also a soul-mate to me.

It happened when I read this:

…Bonhoeffer chose Eberhard Bethge as his confessor. Bonhoeffer felt comfortable sharing with Bethge what he called acedia or tristitia – a ‘sadness of the heart’ that we might call depression. He suffered from it but rarely showed it ... And it’s doubtful that Bonhoeffer discussed it with anyone but Bethge. ... He touched on his depression years later, in a letter to Bethge from Tegel prison: ‘I wonder why it is that we find some days so much more oppressive than others, for no apparent reason. Is it growing pains – or spiritual trial? Once they’re over, the world looks quite a different place again.’

Days like those? I know those days. Story of my life.

But let's move on to my next hero: Dag Hammarskjöld.

It was while reading about him this morning that I suddenly kicked free from the notion that I'm completely sick in the mind to struggle as Dietrich did. (And won't Dietrich be relieved to hear that too!)

After I had read a few pages of quotes from Hammarskjöld's personal journals, I felt like I had read my own journals and my own words.

In 1950 Hammarskjöld initiates a practice "that he will follow for six of the next eight years." The New Year's Day entry began with with these words in all capitals. NIGHT APPROACHES NOW.

And by night? He meant death.

Hammarskjöld went on to jot down a poem that includes these words:

You would welcome death.
But when it slowly grows within you,
Day by day,
You suffer anguish
Anguish under the unspoken judgment which hangs
  over your life
While leaves fall in the fool's paradise.

In recent weeks when I ventured outside my home, I couldn't help but soak in the beautifully golden trees of our neighborhood in all their resplendent colors. But virtually every time I did, I also sang quietly to myself.

September, I remember.
A love once new has now...  grown old.
—Simon & Garfunkel (a.k.a. The Kings of Doom and Gloom...)

Yes, the world has beauty. A great deal of it. God's beauty.

But usually I feel like I'm watching leaves fall in a fool's paradise.

On New Year's Day in 1951 Hammarskjöld returned to his theme.

'Night Approaches Now. —' So another year it is. And if this day should be your last.... The pulley of time drags us inexorably forward toward this day. A relief to think of this, to consider that there is a moment without a beyond."

Death couldn't come soon enough for him. Move forward a year. In his journal entry for New Year's Day in 1952 Hammarskjöld again returned to his theme.

'Night Approaches Now. —' How long the road is.

How long, indeed, my friend.

But then things take a turn for the better. Much better. January 1, 1953:

'Night is drawing nigh —'
For all that has been — Thanks!
To all that shall be — Yes!

WOW! This is good news. Living water for a parched soul. Hammarskjöld eventually emerged from his dark night of the soul. For the remainder of his life his journals were peppered with the word Yes! — done in italics and with clarifying words to accompany. What's more, Hammarskjöld seemed to come to a point (and then passed it)... the point where he recognized...

Led by the Ariadne's thread of my answer through the labyrinth of Life, I came to a time and place where I realized that the Way leads to a triumph which is catastrophe and to a catastrophe which is a triumph, that the price for committing one's life would be reproach, and that the only elevation possible to man lies in the depths of humiliation. After that, the word "courage" lost its meaning, since nothing could be taken from me.

As I continued on the Way, I learned, step by step, word by word, that behind every saying in the Gospels stands one man and one man's experience. Also behind the prayer that the cup might pass from him and his promise to drink it. Also behind each of the words from the cross."

I bolded one sentence in the lengthy quotation above because it's a thought that has been rattling about in my head incessantly over the past few months. My version of that thought goes like this:

So, Pilgrim, if you're so ready to die, you ought to be as detached from this game as a father about to lose a game of Monopoly to his son. Losing the game matters not a whit. But loving the son during the process is priceless.

Are you so ready to die, Pilgrim? Live well because, while you have nothing to lose in this sometimes seemingly senseless game, there is much yet to gain by serving God faithfully until the last roll of the dice.

Ready to die, Pilgrim? Prove it by how you live.

LOVE! As if you have nothing to lose. Nothing at all.
LIVE! As if you have nothing to lose. Nothing at all.
GIVE! As if you have nothing to lose. Nothing at all.

Dag Hammarskjöld, my hero, has gone further down this trail than I have, and his NIGHT turned to Yes! That's immensely encouraging. In fact, the title of his published journals is Vägmärken, which translates to "Trail Markings."

"Perhaps it may be of interest to somebody to learn about a path about which the traveler who was committed to it did not wish to speak while he was alive."

Perhaps? Definitely. I myself am on a long journey between NIGHT and Yes! — with too much emphasis on the former and not enough on the latter. It's good to know where this path leads, provided I keep an eye out for the markings Dag left behind him. I think I'll buy a copy of his book.

How old was Dag Hammarskjöld during his long stay with NIGHT? I looked. In 1950 he turned 45 years old.

That's how old I am today. Hope.

To complete a train of thought, I return to my final, relieved conclusion. The one that set me free to write this blog and push it live.

I'm not insane.

I'm not sick.

I'm just not American enough.

And all my heroes are certifiably insane.

Bonhoeffer was a hero of the Christian faith. But he knew my NIGHT.

Dag Hammarskjöld? Best Secretary-General the United Nations has ever known. Wikipedia notes, "In 2011, The Financial Times wrote that Hammarskjöld has remained the benchmark against which later UN Secretaries-General have been judged. John F. Kennedy had this to say of him: 'I realize now that in comparison to him, I am a small man. He was the greatest statesman of our century.'"

If these two men were sick, then let me drink deeply of their disease.

In the footnotes of Streams of Living Waters Richard Foster adds these thoughts after quoting Hammarskjöld's journal entries at length:

These meditations upon death may strike the American mentality as a bit strange, even morbid. The Scandinavian mind would not find it unusual in the least, however; nor would most cultures throughout history. Indeed, one of the well-established Spiritual Disciplines is to contemplate one's own demise.

Another Slant On The Victory Stance

What does it mean when you see someone out in the water waving at you? The poem Not Waving But Drowning (perhaps by title alone) captures the ambiguities of the situation.

I found myself musing this matter over recently for another reason. Never mind being out at sea. How do we interpret arms raised while on land?

Well, we all know why Olympians raise their arms after winning their event. Yes, arms raised often signifies dominance and victory.

Thus far, no surprises, but there is a popular TED video out there titled Your Body Language Shapes Who You Are. It's quite interesting and offers some surprising insights into the mind/body link. Specifically, the presenter recommends that we strike "victory poses" regularly, because in the very act of doing so we shape our own reality and the reality of those around us. We don't merely feel more victorious, we actually become more victorious.

With limitations, of course. We won't simply raise our arms into Olympic gold. However, if we raise our arms in the bathroom for a few minutes before an interview, we're quite literally more likely to be hired.

This is all well and good. Food for thought, especially for an inveterate sloucher such as myself. A timely reminder to keep working on my posture!

But one piece of the talk that never went down terribly well with me was that nagging concern that I not be seduced by the ways of this world and the deification of success so common in American culture.

I don't want to be a victory-pose kind of guy. Donald Trump isn't my hero.

But the other day I was feeling down, so on a lark I decided to get up while praying and even raise my hands in supplication.

And, of course, now it's clear where I'm going.

It dawned upon me that in taking the supplicant pose I was also assuming a victory pose. Every child who reaches up for their parent's embrace is assuming a victory pose.

And, as the speaker indicated during her TED talk, it's not what you bring into the pose that makes the difference. It's simply that you (to quote Madonna) strike the pose.

So that thought really made me happy. Talk about a win/win. Praying to God while taking the supplicant's pose yields a double-whammy bonus.

A quick study of this pose in the Psalms yielded a result I expected to find.

Psalm 28:2
Hear my cry for mercy
  as I call to you for help,
as I lift up my hands
  toward your Most Holy Place.

But another verse reminded me that that this pose is used for praise too!

Psalm 134:2
Lift up your hands in the sanctuary
   and praise the Lord.

So we don't have to be addicted to the American success obsession in order to play this game of poses. We can capture all the same benefits if we simply engage our bodies more during our quiet moments with God.

That's a pretty cool perk.

I have a sneaking suspicion God was waiting for us to notice it.

Vegetarian Postscript: The Medical Verdict

So as I noted in a prior series of blogs, I became a vegetarian in late May of this year.

It's a long series of blogs, but if one were to read all of them (a task that few, statistically speaking, have ever endeavored to do) it would quickly become clear that my decision was not at all driven by concerns surrounding personal health.

This is interesting, because when I tell people of my decision, the nearly universal response is to assume that I did so for personal health reasons. (Why else would one become a vegetarian??)

And yet here is the even more curious twist: despite the fact that most people assume my decision was health-driven, a substantial minority of them go on to express doubts that vegetarianism is "better for you." The reasoning is basic and blunt. It basically goes like this: "God made us this way, and we all need that protein."

Both opinions are quite wide of the mark.
A) I did not go vegetarian to improve my health. I was already healthy.
B) Going vegetarian properly does improve your health. Even mine.

Yes, the above chart is my own. In the day and age of keeping your health records a secret, I see nothing I need to hide in the above. It shows how my lipid panels changed between the readings taken two years ago and the readings taken this past Monday.

If you're like me, you don't read these numbers every day, so here's a quick medical rundown of what they mean. Compare my numbers to the below explanations...

As for triglycerides? "The American Heart Association (AHA) recommends that a triglyceride level of 100 mg/dL (1.1 mmol/L) or lower is considered "optimal."

My triglycerides did rise, however they are still in "optimal" range.

I didn't start this journey out for health reasons, but my doctor was certainly happy with the latest results. Whereas my cholesterol readings were borderline "OK" before, they are now fantastic.

Plain and simple.

Revive A Corpse In Three Simple Steps

Step 1: Find someone who can bring the dead back to life.

In my 2nd language (Consultantese) I call Step 1 the "show-stopper." There's no point in worrying about later steps if you can't get past the first.

And, of course, we can't.

But that doesn't stop me from trying occasionally.

No, I don't try to raise the dead. But I do try to "achieve sinless perfection" through personal effort from time to time, and it's no less impossible.

As if I could raise the dead.

As if I could stop sinning.

But I do know a God who can raise the dead and transform me through the awesome power of his mighty Holy Spirit.

And if we return to the original instructions I began with?

Step 1 isn't such a show-stopper, after all. That's really good news.

Because I feel like a walking corpse from time to time.

Tasty, Healthy, Or Both

I have a rule of thumb when I eat. Whatever it is, it had better be tasty, healthy... or both. For obvious reasons. Why would I want to eat something that is neither tasty nor healthy??

So this is hardly startling wisdom. But it gets me out of trouble when someone serves me something that is healthy, but not so tasty. I mention my rule of thumb, note that the food is healthy, and thank them for it.

And I mean it!

What struck me the other day, however, is that this kind of thinking has its applications in life. I say that because God too, in his sovereignty, serves up a daily smorgasbord of experiences. What shall I say of them?

No surprise, I definitely prefer the tasty situations. But as is the case with food, so with experience. In moderation God blesses pleasant experiences — however desserts should not overwhelm the plate.

What I need a lot more of in life, is those healthy experiences - the ones that don't taste good automatically. The ones we'd prefer not to eat.

The veggies.

Fact: I'm not in the habit of thanking God for the "veggies" in my day. Thankfully, God doesn't give it to my complaints. In his wisdom God keeps sending them my way each day.

How sad, though, that I know to thank people for sugar-free veggies but I don't know to thank God for the spiritual equivalent?

This pilgrim needs to acquire a taste for the trials and tribulations that are good for my soul. What is truly healthy can and should become tasty.

And when that happens, I will give God, my good chef, his proper due.

Playing To The Wrong Crowd

I have a recurring daydream that happens more often than I'd care to admit. It begins with my sudden death, but I don't focus much on that. I zero in on the funeral.

Crowds of people come, of course. Some famous, some not. Many tears are wept and all present remember me as a truly great person taken too soon.

Etc. etc. etc. Yada, yada, yada.

You get the idea. I suppose most of us nurse secret vanities like these from time to time, though I perhaps am more guilty than most on this count.

When these thoughts have run their course and I return to reality, I am struck by the contrast between what I'm doing and what I see in Hebrews.

Hebrews 12:1 (abridged)
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses... let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us...

Who are these witnesses? The author lists a few of them in chapter 11.

They are dead.

Yes, Hebrews encourages us to put on a good show for the dead, but my funeral fantasies focus on the living. So why do I do that? The answer is pretty obvious. The living can be fooled. The departed cannot.

The truth is? I'm selfish. Self-loving. Petty. Greedy. Lustful. Revenge-loving. You name it. I know all these things to be true.

My funeral fantasy is therefore like the great finale of a grand deception put on for people who don't know the real me.

Hebrews 12, in contrast, reminds me to run my earthly race well in the presence of heavenly witnesses who do. God himself is among them.

Forget the funeral deception, Pilgrim. Focus on the heavenly reception.

Unbroken: Finding Gratitude When All Hope Is Lost

I recently finished Unbroken, a fabulous biography recounting the life of Louie Zamperini. My alternative title for this blog is "I Hope They Don't Break Unbroken", because it's coming out in the theaters in a few months.

I hope they don't transform an awesome book into a mediocre movie.

What am I concerned that the movie get right? Principally, the fact that it was God, a personal God, the Christian God, who intervened at key moments in Louie's life. The book is a biography about Louie, but it also unabashedly touches on the theme that there is a bigger story afoot. That God is sovereign over Louie's life.

But to stick to one small vignette from the book that moved me, let me paint the scene...

Louie got sucked into World War II along with a few dozen million other young men, and had the misfortune of a crash at sea. Misfortune might be misstatement, however, because while many others died in countless ways, Louie lived. Out of a dozen men on the plane that crashed, he and two others survived. Three men dragged themselves out of the sea and onto a raft.

And began to float.

The story from there is long, and one man died eventually. But some weeks into their long journey on a short raft, Louie and his remaining companion Phil found themselves at the end of the end.

The book (excerpted here) describes it thus...

"One morning, they woke to a strange stillness... There was no wind... The ocean stretched out in all directions in glossy smoothness... It was an experience of transcendence. Phil watched the sky, whispering that it looked like a pearl. The water looked so solid that it seemed they could walk across it.

For a while they spoke, sharing their wonder. Then they fell into reverent silence. Their suffering was suspended. They weren't hungry or thirsty. They were unaware of the approach of death.

As he watched this beautiful still world, Louie played with a thought... Such beauty, he thought, was too perfect to have come about by mere chance. That day in the center of the Pacific was, to him, a gift crafted deliberately, compassionately, for him and Phil.

Joyful and grateful in the midst of slow dying, the two men bathed in that day until sunset brought it... to an end.

I find this passage particularly moving because I am so often filled with ingratitude. But here, lying under an unrelenting sun, two depleted skeletal men facing imminent death find ecstatic gratitude for a placid ocean scene.

As I reflect upon their experience, I'm challenged to the core. Do I see God's beauty around me?

I should.

I could stop there but the next scene begs mention.

A bit of backdrop must be noted here. You see, Louie wasn't even religious at this point. More to the point, I'm not even sure the author of this biography is either. She is certainly fair to his story, and recounts it well. But I wonder if she (or Louie) caught an interesting detail in what is recounted next.

The two men had just got through rejoicing in the midst of a great quietness. Now came the show.

"On the fortieth day, Louie was lying beside Phil... when he abruptly sat up. He could hear singing. He kept listening; it sounded like a choir. He nudged Phil and asked him if he heard anything. Phil said no. Louie looked up.

Above him, floating in a bright cloud, he saw human figures, silhouetted against the sky. He counted twenty-one of them. They were singing the sweetest song he had ever heard.

Phil was the one with the deep faith, and yet Louie is the one who saw the angels. Oh, the inscrutable decisions of God. To leave Phil without a ticket to an angelic visitation granted, seemingly, only to Louie.

This is the story as Louie and his biographer recounts it. What I can't help but wonder, however, is whether either of them appreciate the ironic timing of the angelic visit to the fortieth day at sea?

Give God a bit of credit for a sense of humor.

After all, isn't there a story in the Bible about a boat lost at sea for 40 days and 40 nights? With no land in sight? I'm wondering if God has some contractual obligation (beyond the rainbow promise) to send encouragement to those who find themselves at sea alone for that long.