How to Die¹

As we continue to experience the Word of the Lord together, Let us Pray. Eternal One, you are with us in life, and in death. Through your resurrection, you promise us life with you in your kingdom forever. Help us to live as those who are prepared to die, and to, when that hour comes, die as people ready to live, so that, living or dying, our life may be in Jesus Christ our risen Lord. Use this time to further your purposes. Speak Lord, your servants are listening. If these words are not Your Word, may they be forgotten and come to naught. But if they be Thy Word, may they adhere to our hearts, forever transforming us from glory into glory, into the creatures you would have us be, Thou who art our Rock and Redeemer, Amen.

Hear now The Word of the Lord as it comes to us in the gospel of John. Open your ears and your heart to hear God’s Word. John 14.1-4. The Word of the Lord... Thanks be to God. And hear now The Word of the Lord as it comes to us in Paul’s letter to the Romans. Listen. Romans 14.7-9. The Grass withers, the Flower falls, but the Word of the Lord endures forever… Thanks be to God.

Am I out of date to talk about Terri Schiavo? Is she passé now? Does it bother you, like it does me, that Terri Schiavo mattered so intensely, and then so suddenly dropped out of sight? There were some things about her story that mattered. What happened to those things?

I have a strong opinion about Terri Schiavo and the feeding tube, as did just about everybody, but I admist that my opinion had nothing to do with what she would want. It had to do with what I would want if I were in her situation. I would certainly not want to be either her husband or her parents, in a fierce disagreement over what should be done. I would not want to be any judge in any court who, without knowing Terri Schiavo, had to make a decision about her life.

But it really didn’t matter what Terri wanted, because she never told anybody. It doesn’t matter what you want, if you keep it to yourself. When Terri Schiavo completely vanished from the news, I knew it was time to preach this sermon.

There is some tradition in my family of dying lucky. At age 81, my Great Grandfather Murphy, for whom my father was named, stepped out of his evening bath – it was the best part of his day, where he would finish the crossword puzzle and sing his favorite hymns to himself. He leaned over to pull the stopper out of the bathtub – and had a stroke. “He never felt his head hit the tub,” the doctor said. He made his exit warm, clean, and mooning the world.

In the late 50’s my father’s father developed a heart condition. Although it forced an early retirement, he refused to have a new procedure called “by-pass surgery,” because at the time, only 15% of the patients survived the procedure. For the next 15 years, he lived having been served notice that he was mortal. He was reminded of that truth every single day during those times when he would flinch, and reach for a nitro-glycerin tablet, wondering if this was the big one. One evening he got up from his chair to go to the fridge. The doctor said he never felt himself hit the floor.

So there is some tradition in my family of how to die – die lucky. But there is other family tradition as well.

Sometime last year, the doctor, with an EEG in one hand and results of tests for cancer in the other, looked my Uncle Jim in the eye and pronounced, “Mr. Fry.  I have to tell you that your days are numbered.”

The next weekend, my father drove to Jacksonville to visit him.  “What now, brother?” he asked, as they rocked on his porch.  “Well,” he replied calmly, “I’ve always tried to teach my kids how to live.  Now I’ll teach them how to die.”

In the late 90’s my Granpa Russ, who was himself in his early 90’s, went into the assisted living home. He and Gramma married in 1982. She was 65. He was 75 then. Every year, when they went for their yearly physicals, the doctor would say, “We’ve talked about this, but I’m just checking again. In the event that you get sick, you want this type of care only,” and then the doctor would pull out the copy of each of their living wills. So, after 15 years of marriage, when my Gramma had to care for Granpa Russ after his TIA strokes left him in a bad state, one from which they said he wouldn’t recover, and in fact he didn’t, she went in with the comfort of knowing what he wanted. He died with his family at his side, with as little pain as possible, and with the knowledge that his death caused the least amount of stress on his family as possible. He died like he lived, with class.

So, I have learned from my family that you can die lucky, like my Grandfather and Great Grandfather, or you can die well, you can die prepared, like my Uncle will, and like my Granpa did.

Here is what I have learned is a solid truth, as old as the scriptures and as up-to-date as a Google search: death, if it is well-planned, can be much more peaceful than if it is not.

We may have no choice; we are not in complete control of this matter. After all, the death rate for humans is still 100% these days too. Nothing we can do about that. And the manner we die isn’t always up to us. I may be stuck by lightning before this sermon is over, and I cannot return a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s with the request, “This doesn’t fit me well; may I have a heart thing instead?”

Nevertheless, though we are not in complete control, we do not have to keep our eyes tightly shut whenever the subject of death appears.

Perhaps the place to start is by considering our preferences. What makes a good death different from a bad death?

A good death comes at the end of a long life, at a ripe old age. It is not good for a young person to die. If Jennifer Wilbanks had been killed, I can create no scenarion that could call her death anything but a tragedy.

I would much rather die of natural causes than as the victim of a crime or being tortured as a POW.

It is better to die without undue pain than with great suffering. And now, especially under hospice care whose specialty is the control of pain, this can be accomplished.

I am an extrovert. But even the highly extroverted will need some quiet time, especially when their vocation calls for them to be extroverted much of the time. So, I can be a private person, guarding my private time. While I don’t know what I will prefer at the very moment of death, I do know that as I approach my end, I want to be with people I love, as opposed to feeling alone.

I hope I can face the end of my days with minimal fear. While I believe in the resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ, and in the resurrection of the saints, i.e. that we too will be raised, I do not expect that faith can completely eliminate fear. The unknown is always scary. I have never died before, so it will be new to me.

Even if I’m just going away for a short week of continuing education, the part about leaving Melissa and my girls behind is not a good part. When it comes to dying, all the faith in the world will not eliminate the reality that “You got to walk that lonesome valley by yourself.”

But the fear does not have to become terror; it does not have to be overwhelming fear. “My faith looks up to Thee,” and I trust that faith will manage whatever fear is part of dying.

I hope to die confident that my family’s grief will heal. I don’t want the people I have love to be undone, either emotionally or financially. I want to die knowing that my life and even my death has drawn my loved ones closer, rather than creating conflict among them. I have seen it both ways. When my Granny Alice died, Uncle Bob, Uncle Jim and Dad actually began to be friends in ways they never had before. That was her parting gift to her sons, and to their families, and we are grateful. I have also known brothers and sisters who haven’t spoken to each other for years, squabbling over who inherits the dining room table.

I cannot guarantee a good death. I cannot ensure that I will ive to be a hundred, or that I won’t get hit by a truck tomorrow. By these characteristics, even Jesus did not manage a good death. He died young, treated cruelly and suffering greatly. On the cross he died alone, suspended far from heaven yet out of reach of those who would hold him. However, he faced with courage what he could address: his disciples did not have to discuss, “Who’s going to take care of his mother?” He said to Mary and the disciple whom he loved, “Woman, behold your son,” and “Here is your mother.” He told his disciples beforehand, “I am not leaving you alone, but will send you a Comforter…”

We are not in total control here; we cannot manage a good death, any more than a surfer manages the big kahuna. But there is a difference between a surfer and me cart-wheeling head-over-teakettle because I refused to see the inevitable coming.

We need a plan. It looks like this:

1. Accept the reality of the situation. Talk about it. Let’s eliminate from our vocabulary, “Oh Mama, don’t talk like that. You know it just gets you upset.”

2. Identify the decision makers. You should be the decision-maker about your medical care as long as you are able. But when you are no longer able, it is not enough to say, “I’ll just let the kids decide.” When have your kids ever agreed on anything? Choose somebody and let them know, and let everyone else know also.

3. Talk about it, and

4. Put it in writing.

As much as the news media was in our face about Terri Schiavo, only 30% of Americans have a Living Will.

In the narthex you can find today two documents: one is a Living Will in a form legally recognized in the State of Georgia. It is so simple and brief that you could fill it out and have it witnessed before you leave this building.

The other document is called “Five Wishes”. It also is a legally recognized Living Will, but it conveys more information to those entrusted with your care: do you want visitors or do you prefer privacy? Do you want music played, or would you rather, “Turn off that stinking radio!”

With the documents, in our Library, are two new copies of At the Close of Day: a Person Centered Guide Book on End of Life Care. Co-written by a pastor and a physician this book is filled with helpful information. It will describe the difference between seeking a second opinion, or even a third opinion, and desperately doctor-shopping for the opinion that you want to hear. It will tell you that if you have the feeding tube removed, you will also want the fluids removed as well, and why. I strongly recommend both the book and the documents.

This sermon is not for you Jan and Henry. I am not preaching to you Ken. (Jan, Henry and Ken are more mature members of the congregation, who have all told me that they have living wills). I’m preaching to you Jessica. And to you Amanda. This one is for you Bernardos. Shaivo was not in her 60’s when her heart failure put her in a permanent vegetative state; she was in her 20’s.

As a distant tie in to the celebration of Women Sunday, one of the ways we can take care of the women that are important to us, our mothers, our daughters, is to make sure that our deaths do not produce an extra and exorbitant amount of stress. This isn’t just men taking care of women, all of us have had mothers, and many of us have daughters.

When my Granpa Russ died, my Gramma was greatly comforted in that she knew, and was able to carry out, his wishes. When I called Gramma, she was crying. “It was a good death,” she said. “These are good tears.”

God wants to bless each one of us with a long, fruitful life, and a good, peaceful death. Let’s give God all the help we can. Amen.