LIVING AND DYING
A sermon by Kenneth W. Phifer, Delivered at First UU Church Ann 
Arbor, April 10, 2005, Ann Arbor, MI.  

Death has been much on our minds these past few weeks. There was first of 
all the sad saga of Terri Schiavo, followed by the mortal illness of Pope John 
Paul II. Each of these deaths, in addition to touching our hearts, raised many 
issues of social concern. Two in particular will be the focus of these 
remarks, how we live and how we die.

Death has always been a disturbing question for human beings. We are born 
yearning to live and to have our lives matter. We want to find or create 
meaning in life. We want our brief moment to be full of joy and purpose.

What we learn early enough is how easily death sweeps away all our 
discoveries and all our creations and us as well. "Vanity of vanities," the 
ancient text cried, "all is vanity…for the wise one dies just like the fool."

And it all happens so quickly. We are "here today and gone today."

For the most part we ignore death, at least our own, pretending that we shall 
live forever. Maybe that is necessary for us psychologically in order to 
function without constant anxiety. But like it or not, death keeps arising in 
our midst. Tsunamis, victims of war, friends bring death into our lives. If we 
let it, death can help us to learn how to live and how to die.

Thinking about death teaches us our mortality, our finiteness, our 
limitations. Humbling lessons in a way, these truths remind us nonetheless 
that we must seize the day. These truths remind us that we must find in each 
moment something to treasure. These truths teach us that life really is only 
this moment and that moment and other moments. Live them well!

Religion, more than any other institution in human society, has been charged 
with the responsibility of preserving these truths. Religion is supposed to 
confront death and seek out its lessons, and then help people to learn and to 
live those lessons.

One of those lessons is that we must pursue justice. 

All the religions teach us to be sure that society is so structured that there 
will be a fair distribution of the wealth of the society, that hardships will be 
borne by all the members of the society, that responsibility for the tasks of 
the society will be equitably shared, that the welfare of the whole 
community must be a primary consideration in every decision, and the 
welfare of each person always be considered one of the highest priorities. 

Hinduism teaches "there is nothing higher than justice." Islam advises rulers 
to "gladden the people and do not scare them; make things easy and do not 
make them difficult." Jainism urges us to "have benevolence toward all 
living beings."

Christianity reminds us to "bear one another's burdens," Judaism says that  
"we are all responsible for one another," and Sikhism would have us 
remember, "in service lies the purest action." 

These are the treasures of human beings who have found the path to 
happiness and meaning in life, despite the shadow of death that looms over 
us. It is a path of sharing, of caring, of modesty, of fairness, of consideration, 
and compassion.

To walk that path means that we must work to see that never again will we 
read a headline like the one in Parade Magazine last Sunday: "Every year, 
more than 10 million children worldwide die from preventable diseases."  
These diseases include acute respiratory infections, AIDS, diarrhea diseases, 
TB, malaria, and others. The story told of doctors and organizations trying to 
cure those afflicted and prevent so many from getting the diseases. 

To walk that path means that we must fight the terrifying poverty that now 
afflicts almost half of the world's population, some three billion human 
beings. While a small number of people grow fabulously wealthy, and a 
somewhat larger number that would surely include most or all of us live 
quite comfortable lives, a huge proportion of our fellow human beings 
struggle to get clean water every day, morsels of food, adequate shelter from 
the elements, medical care in times of illness or accident, and some means of 
livelihood that will make obtaining these necessaries of life realistically 
possible.

Too much of the wealth of our society, of many societies, is frivolously 
expended: on or by Donald Trump and Paris Hilton and Michael Jackson, on 
widgets and gidgets and gadgets, on stuff we do not need in an incessant 
pursuit of things that do not make us happy, on making ours the most 
wasteful society humanity has ever known.

To walk the path of happiness and meaning in life also means forsaking war 
and violence. This lesson is embedded in all our religions.

The TAO TE CHING teaches us that "Fine weapons are instruments of 
evil." The Confucians teach that "death is too light a punishment for those 
who wage war." The Jains believe that "the essence of right conduct is not to 
injure anyone."  Jesus taught that we should turn the other cheek and love 
our enemies, while Judaism offers us a wonderful image of people who have 
beaten their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks 
while living a life of gentleness and harmony.

True enough that religions have also offered justifications for war and 
killing, and too often have been the cause of violence against heretics, 
heathens, and women.  But the theme of non-violence is truer to the intent of 
every religion and a better path for humanity to walk on.

I have disagreed with Pope John II on many issues: his stance on 
reproductive rights, his assaults on homosexuals and other sexual minorities, 
his dismissal of the potential contributions of women in positions of 
religious leadership, and his failure to grasp the huge evil of the sexual 
misbehaviour of too many of the priests in his church.

But I do not allow these disagreements to blot out this pope's remarkable 
stance on other issues.. As Professor Michael Kennedy noted a few days 
ago, "this Catholic leader not only took on communist tyranny, but he also 
challenged capitalism's destruction of community and of decency…his 
encyclical on human labor…(provided a critique that not only amplified the 
Solidarity movement, but inspired a more humane approach to the 
conditions of work in capitalism too." 

I have not read a specific papal criticism of the horrible greed of American 
CEO's, a greed that, according to the New York Times Business Section, 
has not diminished at all in the past few scandal-ridden years. CEO's who 
lay off thousands, who see stock value decline, who out-source jobs all over 
the world, are still being paid salaries and bonuses in the millions and tens of 
millions of dollars.  We know what John Paul II would say about such 
selfishness, and he would be right.

Just as he was right when he addressed "all men and women of violence" in 
1979 in these words: "On my knees I beg you to turn away from the paths of 
violence and return to the ways of peace. You may claim to seek justice. I 
too believe in justice and seek justice. But violence only delays the day of 
justice. Violence destroys the work of justice."

He was throughout his papacy eloquent in his support of non-violent 
solutions to the conflicts humanity faced. Surely we know he is right. Surely 
we know that justice cannot be pursued by violence. Surely we know that we 
must learn to put war behind us. Surely we know these things. Don't we?

The religions of the world have given us ample testimony of what is required 
of us to live well. The Pope's final words capture the spirit of that universal  
teaching: "It is love which converts hearts and gives peace. To all humanity, 
which today seems so lost and dominated by the power of evil, selfishness, 
and fear, our resurrected Lord gives us his love, which forgives, reconciles, 
and reopens the soul to hope." 

I do not believe in a resurrected Lord, but I do believe in the power of love, 
"which forgives, reconciles, and reopens the soul to hope." That is the 
message of the ages transmitted through religions in every part of the world, 
teaching us how to live well with the time we have, to do justice and to seek 
peace by peaceful means.

It is most likely the case that if we have lived well, we shall die well, for 
many of the same lessons apply: that we must seize the moment and live it 
as fully as we can, that we must be humble in recognizing that none of us is 
indispensable, and that in the time of our dying, perhaps more than any 
other, we can learn deeper lessons about the power of love.

The death of Terri Schiavo illustrates how no one could possibly wish to die. 
The death of Pope John Paul II exemplifies what most of us would hope for.

The best medical opinion said that Terri Schiavo was in a persistent 
vegetative state from which she could not recover. The person she was gone. 
Only her body remained, reflexively acting, without intent or purpose. 

For the person she was before her collapse, her dying would surely have 
been dreadful. For the body that was left, her dying had no meaning. She 
was not aware of the disgraceful antics of Congress, the media, and a variety 
of publicity seekers like Jesse Jackson.

Her dying was, however, an enormous burden for her husband and for her 
parents and siblings, though for quite different reasons. 

Is there anyone who would wish for such a public spectacle to surround their 
dying days, even if they were unaware of its happening? 

How much better the last days of the Pope, though pictures of him taken in 
the last days make clear that he suffered considerably. This is a description 
of those last days by two Los Angeles Times reporters, Sebastian Rotella 
and Jeffrey Fleishman: "Pope John Paul II died the way he wanted.

"He spent his final hours in his Vatican apartment, surrounded by nine 
members of his mainly Polish inner circle. Three doctors were present, but 
no elaborate technology prolonged his life.

"Just before the end, the pope's longtime secretary celebrated a Mass and 
began to anoint the pope's hands with oil, according to one account. John 
Paul gripped his secretary's hand, an apparent farewell gesture to a faithful 
aide who helped the pontiff fulfill his wish to die unencumbered by tubes 
and machines."

The deaths of Terri Schiavo and Pope John Paul II were different because 
she could contribute nothing to the discussion of what should be done to her 
and he could. But both situations force us to think about the dying process, 
and those whom we love who are or may soon be dying, and about ourselves 
when we find ourselves confronting directly the end of our lives.

The first thing to say is to make sure our wishes are known to those closest 
to us and to our doctors and our spiritual counselors. We should speak of 
these matters in as clear terms as it is possible for us to do. We should write 
down what we want done where that is possible. It makes sense to seek legal 
advice about how to phrase things, about what documents are currently legal 
and what only advisory, about organizations that can be helpful. 

If we are able to communicate as we are dying, such actions are not as 
important as they would be if we are not able to communicate: because we 
are comatose, in a persistent vegetative state, we have lost the ability to 
speak or write, or have some other disability that inhibits communication. 
But there is nonetheless value in the process in that it helps us to be as clear 
as we can be about what we want done or not done, how we feel about such 
matters as heroic measures, the double effect, the removal of tubes and 
machines that sustain our lives.

Here are several principles central to my thinking about death and dying.

First, mere existence is not an absolute value.

All life wants to survive and all life will do what it can to survive. That is a 
biological imperative of enormous force. But among human beings, there are 
sometimes values that transcend our urge to survive.

Margaret Murphy, a nurse, has written that "death is not an absolute 
evil…and life is not an absolute good…Human life is more than biological 
functioning. Keeping a human being alive against his or her own will after 
all dignity, appreciation, and meaning of life have ceased and any benefit to 
anyone is impossible is cruel and dehumanizing."

It is the terms of our living more than just being alive that matters.

That is why Socrates chose the death imposed by his beloved Athens rather 
than the escape offered by his friend Crito. He valued his loyalty to the city-
state for which he had fought in war and to which he had sworn allegiance 
above his own existence.

That is why the former president of Union Theological Seminary and his 
wife, the Pitney Van Dusens, made a pact that they carried out in their mid-
80's to leave life together when ill health had made existence unendurable 
for them.

That is why my maternal grandfather took his own life at the age of 47, in 
order to preserve the family homestead after financial reverses had brought 
him to the brink of ruin.

Some things matter more than existence. If existence means that our sense of 
self, our sense of worth, our sense of integrity will be violated, sometimes it 
is better to die. 

I feel, and I have indicated this to family members and friends orally and in 
writing, that if I were in Terri Schiavo's situation, I would not want to be 
kept breathing for 15 years. Better to use those resources necessary to keep 
me alive to help children or young people in need. This is not a judgment on 
the Schiavo decision. She was a young woman when she suffered her 
collapse. It was worth the effort to see if she could recover. I am 66 years of 
age, with many years ahead of me, I hope, but with a full life already lived.

Mere existence is not an absolute value.

Secondly, we should respect life.

We should rejoice in the gift of life. We should find some moment of joy in 
every day, however small and transient. We should live with as much 
vitality as possible as long as we can. There are different ways of doing this. 

Pansy Robbins respected life. At the age of 96, her kidneys stopped 
functioning and her doctors told her there was nothing they could do. They 
gave her good what-they-thought-of-as palliative care, but her body worked  
some kind of miracle so that kidney function was regenerated. She went 
home and lived another year. There she continued to make the phone calls 
that had for more than 16 years been part of her daily existence, phone calls 
to old friends long unseen, who then urged her to call friends of theirs 
because of how good they felt after talking with her, till she had a roster of 
over 100 people she called at regular times every week. I have always 
believed that Pansy came back to life because she had not had the chance to 
say goodbye to her friends. She respected life.

So did the two young people in this congregation who courageously chose to 
turn off the machines that kept them alive. So did my father in his last days. 
He made certain that his children understood that no heroic measures were 
to be taken to keep him going if he slipped into a comatose state after the 
surgery required to repair a broken hip. He was 93, eight months a widower, 
and wanted more than life to join his beloved Evelyn wherever she was.

We can respect life by staying in it or by choosing to leave it. Those whose 
responsibility it is to care for us respect life by being certain that whatever 
choice we make will be carried out and that we are as comfortable and free 
of suffering as it is possible to be.

That leads to a third principle, the importance of the relief of suffering. 

Living in a culture so deeply influenced by Christianity, the Christian notion 
that God gives us suffering to help us grow spiritually or to chastise us for 
our sins still has some influence. That's unfortunate. The Apostle Paul may 
"welcome our sufferings" but few do. We call such people masochists, not  
in any way intending to praise them. To describe the burdens of the children 
I knew at the Massachusetts Hospital School for Handicapped Children as a 
consequence of their moral failings—as some Fundamentalists on staff 
did—is a grotesque distortion of religious thought. 

Most of us want to relieve suffering, our own and that of others. Most of us 
understand that suffering has no innate value, though there is great value in 
the way some people endure their suffering: trying not to make others pay 
for their pain, trying to ease the conversational strain others feel in talking 
with them, trying to keep a stout but light heart through the worst travails.

Surely humanity requires that we provide for physical comfort, for 
emotional comfort, and for spiritual comfort for those in great distress. 

The first of these means good medical and nursing care, and part of that 
involves a social system that provides the necessary facilities and personnel 
for people where they live, whether in cities or rural areas. One of the 
scandals of our country is the absence of good medical and nursing care in 
so many places in America. We have some of the worst distributed health 
care in the world. If we would ease suffering, that must be changed.

Emotional comfort is provided by families and friends who spend time with 
the person who suffers, who are not afraid of the conversations that might 
occur, and who know how to listen, even to silence.

One other factor that plays into the emotional support we need in our mortal 
illnesses: the assurance that our care will not bankrupt our family. We live 
with a wretched system of health care delivery in this country, one cast into 
the marketplace as though health care were like automobiles, CD's and 
pizza, one that enables some people to grow wealthy off the misfortunes of 
others  and some—estimates range to more than 100 million people and the 
numbers are climbing--to be completely or mostly excluded from adequate 
care. The relief that every sick person will feel will be earth-shaking when 
that system is changed to one of universal health care in which we all carry a 
responsibility for payment and we all receive the care we need regardless of 
our income.

Suffering also calls for spiritual comfort, which will mean different things to 
different people. I have prayed prayers whose theology is not mine with 
those for whom the words are sacred. I have held the hands of people 
terrified at what lies ahead to reassure them that they are not alone. Mostly, I 
have tried to do what Elizabeth Kuebler Ross says is the most important 
thing for us to do, and that is to give hope.

Hope can be offered in the form of reminding a person of the worth of their 
lives, telling them of things they have done that have mattered to us, 
pointing out that there will be a sunrise tomorrow and birds will sing 
somewhere and lovers will hold hands and children will play. Life will go 
on, even if we do not, and yes, there is hope in that for all but the most self-
centered person.

Suffering has no innate value, but how we meet that suffering can be of 
tremendous worth.

One last principle to mention, autonomy. 

Terri Schiavo had lost her autonomy, and her last years of breathing were 
characterized by bitter animosity between her parents and her husband. John 
Paul II carried out his wishes till the last moment. Her last years were devoid 
of meaning for her. Until his last breath, his life was full of meaning.

Autonomy is essential if life is to have meaning. If  predestination or fate 
determines what we do, our lives are meaningless. If we are enslaved, our 
life has meaning in the measure in which we can resist that enslavement. 

Autonomy when we face a life-threatening illness or accident-induced 
condition means that we know fully what our options are and are not subtly 
or overtly coerced into one decision or another. 

Within American society and within Unitarian Universalist religious 
communities, moral autonomy is one of our highest values. Liberty was the 
cry of the American Revolutionaries!  Freedom has been our by-word for 
450 years! We believe that within the constraints of time and place, family 
and genetic inheritance, each person should be allowed to choose how they 
live. Our work, our partner, our place of living, our clothes and 
transportation, our leisure activities, our spiritual expression and many other 
aspects of our lives are personal choices we have a right to make. 

Of at least as great an importance is our right to choose how we shall die: 
fighting desperately for every breath, struggling as long as there is a 
reasonable chance of improvement and then letting go, choosing an early 
death to avoid unwanted pain and expense one feels useless, or some other 
choice consistent with what we believe matters in life.

Each of us will have our own way of dealing with the fear of death, of 
handling the unfinished business of life, and of preparing for what lies 
ahead, whatever we think that might be. It is wrong to stand in the way of a 
person's decision about how to do that.

Moral autonomy is fundamental to our dignity as human beings.

These are some of the thoughts that have come to me over these past few, 
often very sad weeks, as the world has stood a death-watch for Terri Schiavo 
and Pope John Paul II.

Death humbles us, and so makes us more responsive to others. Sharing with 
and caring for others is fundamental to a decent life. Building a society in 
which all people can enjoy the possibility of such a life is an important way 
we can make the brief interlude between birth and death meaningful. 

When it is our turn, perhaps we can remember that mere existence is not an 
absolute, that respecting life can take different forms, that suffering is not in 
itself noble but we can be noble in the face of suffering, and that moral 
autonomy is essential to our integrity.

Death can teach us how to live well and how to die well. May those lessons 
live in all of us.

Copyright 2005, Kenneth W. Phifer, All Rights Reserved







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