We're All Dying, and the Church is Blessed to Know It

Wisdom from a dying woman for the Church she loved

“Give to us now your grace,

that as we shrink before the mystery of death,

we may see the light of eternity.”

The United Methodist Book of Worship Service of Death and Resurrection Liturgy

Photo by Peter Mason on Unsplash

“We’re all dying,” D— told me as we visited on her covered back patio.  Already we had admired the birds chirping and fluttering to their nests in her eaves, as well as the hydrangeas in full bloom lining her fence.  I was noticing the juxtaposition before me.  There was her yard, teeming with greenery and blossoms and baby birds - life abundant - and there was her, yellowed with nausea, thinner than she ought to be, fragile and gray and clearly dying.  Still, her smile was as dazzling as ever, giving her vivacious yard a worthy opponent.

“We’re all dying, she repeated, holding my eyes for a beat, smiling gently, “I’m just blessed enough to know it.” She then told me of a recent visit with a family member, and how her fatal illness opened up a conversation that cut right to the heart of things, to the things that mattered.  Things that needed to be cherished and forgiven and remembered, things that would not have been spoken aloud were she still healthy.

She told this story with such assurance that God’s hand was in it.  That God was orchestrating these final moments, these beautiful goodbyes, these hallowed send-offs to the next life.  She’d seen God do just this thing with the saints who had gone before her in the Church.  She was no stranger to death and dying, just as she was no stranger to God.

“The Lord has been so good to me,” she said with a yawn.  Taking that as my cue, I squeezed her hand in farewell as she added, “I’m ready for what God has for me next.”  That was the last time I saw D— before she passed into that glorious eternity she was so ready to enjoy.

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As a young(ish) pastor, I am often amused when I tell my peers I can’t attend this or that because I will be officiating a funeral.  I can tell when the person I’m talking with is not a churchgoer because they inevitably tense with discomfort.  Death and dying and funerals are so far outside their scope of regular life, only entering their orbit in the saddest of times when a family member or close friend passes away.  For many in the non-churchgoing world, encountering death or dying in any form is awkward and uncomfortable; best to get it over with and get back to living.

We’re all dying, but we’re not all blessed to know it.  

The Church does not allow awkwardness and unease around death and dying to linger.  After all, death, dying, and funerals are central to the Church’s life together.  The Church is rooted in Christ’s very death, you see, so it’s familiar territory.  We can’t glory in resurrection without muddling through death. 

Beyond the theology, of course, there’s the practical reality that in the Church someone is always dealing with death.  On any given day for any local church, someone is grieving a loved one.  Someone is wrestling with a terminal diagnosis.  Someone is reeling after a fatal accident.  Someone is planning a funeral.  Someone is saying their final goodbyes.   

There’s no escaping the reality of death in the Church, and that is a beautiful gift the Church offers the world.  Rather than shrink away from its mystery, the Church helps us understand that brushes with death can be moments of liminal depth.  They can be moments when the world as we know it — predictable, definable, understandable — fades to gray at the edges, and the light of eternity bleeds in, coloring our world with an unshakable awareness that something More, something beyond our grasp, is not only there, but there for us with unaccountable love and goodness.

Christ’s resurrection power is made palpably present through the Church’s ministry in death and dying. Through the Church, God pries open death and dying as a doorway to encounter the Divine. God points us past death to glimpse the fullness of life that preceded and follows. God gently reminds us that we’re all dying, and in doing so, teaches us how to truly live.

You see, I wasn’t the only one who visited D— in her final weeks.  She had to limit visiting hours because so many church friends kept dropping by - some with casseroles, some with cards, some with flowers, some with hugs and laughter, and all with a ministry of love.  

When we know we’re all dying, nothing is more important than showing our love.

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At the funeral, per D—’s request, we borrowed her hats to honor her beloved sense of style, for she always came to worship in a bright ensemble of coordinating pumps, blazer, and hat.  We sang her favorite songs and told stories of her well-lived life, her inspiring faith, and her lion’s heart of love.  

This is what we, the Church, do when we’re at our best.  We face the inevitability of death without flinching, hand in hand together.  We bake casseroles and visit deathbeds and murmur prayers and take communion and deliver flowers. We grapple with the stark reality of death through our simple acts of love, alongside a healthy dose of tears and lamentation.  And then, with all the courage faith can muster, we stare down the black hole of death for and with one another, until we find that promised speck of light, that glimmer of eternal life.  Resurrection at last.

We’re all dying, it turns out, and we the Church are blessed to know it.  For in the knowing, the Spirit of God empowers us to live as people with purpose, people of resurrection hope.  In the knowing, we become people who count each and every day as a gift, people who have nothing more important to do with our time than show the world God’s love.

You see, with all its failures, scandals, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church.  Be hopeful. God is still here.