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Sermon Index

Preparing for Death

by the Reverend Phyllis L. Hubbell
at the First Unitarian Church of Baltimore
on the 16th of April 2000

After he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, Cardinal Bernardin found himself drawn into a ministry to the ill and dying. Part of that ministry was the writing of a book entitled The Gift of Peace, in which he shared his reflections on his last months. Cardinal Bernardin wrote the follwoing words in a handwritten letter to his readers that introduces the book:

I invite those who read this book to walk with me the final miles of my life's journey. When we reach the gate, I will have to go in first¾ that seems to be the rule: one at a time by designation. But know that I will carry each of you in my heart! Each of us will one day walk those final miles of our own life's journey. Last summer, when I read Cardinal Bernardin's book, I did not know that my mother was entering the final miles of hers. Nor did I dream that we would be holding a memorial service this very afternoon for 38-year-old Gary Ivanish, whose marriage we performed just 3 years ago. But I was moved and inspired by Cardinal Bernardin's reflections after he learned of his own very serious diagnosis. I began to plan a sermon for what Christians now call Passion Sunday, when Jesus was looking on to his own death.

Cardinal Bernardin writes:

On Saturday, June 3, I noticed that my urine was somewhat discolored, but I did not pay much attention because I thought it might possibly be related to something I had eaten. But it was like that on Sunday and again on Monday ... .[After Mass that Monday] I casually told [my friend Father Scott Donahue] about the discoloration. He immediately said, "You'd better call your doctor." My response must not have convinced him that I was going to make the call, so he said, I'm not leaving this house tonight until you call your doctor." [After several tests in the next few days, Cardinal Bernardin met with several rather serious looking doctors.] "Well, what's the story?"

"You have a tumor in your pancreas," Dr. Furey said. "Oh?" I asked, "What are the possibilities of it being malignant?" Without batting an eye, the doctors said, "About 99 percent plus," "I'm in trouble, then," I voiced aloud, only to hear them say, "Yes, you're in a lot of trouble."

Nearly 4 years ago now, my mother was having a lot of trouble. Severe dizziness. Forgetfulness. Disorientation. One night, she looked at Dad and didn't know who he was. They took her to the hospital. They ran lots of tests. Finally, they sat down with mom and dad. "You have something quite rare," they said. "It's known as Shy Drager Syndrome or Multiple Systems Atrophy. We don't know what causes it. We only know that for some reason your nervous system is shutting down. We can ease some of the symptoms for awhile. But over time you will forget how to walk, how to focus your eyes, eventually, how, even to swallow. Your heart will forget to beat. We do not know how long you have left, but this disease usually progresses fairly rapidly."

For awhile, we read everything we could on Shy Drager. My sister haunted the Internet. But the progress of the disease seemed deceptively slow. Mom had good days and she had bad ones. For 3 years, Dad took my mother out to restaurants, discussion groups, concerts, church. It is hard to recognize incremental decline when you see someone every day. There was some thought that she was in remission. But although there were a few frightening falls, nothing dramatic happened. Gradually, Dad took over all the cooking. She who had kept the books for the family, could no longer write checks. She had difficulty dialing a phone.

What do we do when we hear those words: "You're in trouble." "It doesn't look good." What if we never get a chance to hear them at all? One realization I have had as a minister is that no matter how much we may think we have life under control, death can come in an instant, at any age, no matter how healthy we may appear. Our cousin, Judy Moore's husband Chris Moore, a UU minister and renowned head of the Chicago Children's Choir was in his 50s when he went off to General Assembly one year. They had an argument at the airport but made up in a late night phone call. He died later that same night of a brain aneurism.

Who in this congregation will ever forget the sudden death of Carolyn Sanborn, George and Carolyn Tyson's 16-year-old granddaughter. She had been perfectly healthy up until that day. She had a heart attack while she was sitting at a computer with her sister Laurel. She was gone in minutes. I still think of her.

We do not know the day or the hour. Even if we do know, we often do not believe. How then do we prepare for our end? For whether we hear those words or not, all of us live continually in the face of the end of our existence as we know it. By the time we admit the end is near, it often is too late for those preparations. We may be in too much pain, too disoriented, too weak to say and do what we wish we had said and done.

Cardinal Bernardin regretted that immediately after his surgery he was in too much discomfort to pray. Yet he had prepared. Because he had made a habit of prayer, he was grounded in his faith. One of the chief spiritual tasks of all of life is sorting out the essential from the minutia. Finding the call of the good and the true in the midst of the all that leads us astray. Laying to rest old hurts and affirming lasting love. The end of life draws these tasks so clearly. But sometimes it draws them too late.

A day or so after the surgery they had me up and walking a bit, first in my room and then in the hallway ... As I made my rounds, the nurses told me that there was a little girl by the name of Amanda who was being treated for leukemia on another floor. She had been watching all of the television coverage regarding my surgery and told her mother that she wanted to see the "pope man." "I'm not a Catholic," she said, "but he and I both have cancer, and I want to see that pope man." I was not permitted to go off the floor so I sent her a teddy bear and a bouquet of flowers from the many gifts I had been receiving. Fortunately, I was able to visit with other patients on my floor. I began dropping in to see people, wheeling my entourage of tubes each time. [Thus began his ministry to cancer patients and others who were ill. Soon, he had 700 people on his prayer list.] Cardinal Bernardin had been doing ministry for so many years that when he fell ill, his new ministry was but an extension of the old.

Mom had done much of the preparation about final decisions concerning the practical stuff of dying. More importantly, she had lived her life letting others know she loved them. Her minister said she had one of those faces that shone with gentleness and kindness. Yet in those final months more remained to do. By the time the relatives came to visit, mom had difficulty getting out entire sentences¾ toward the end, even single words were difficult. When I got ready to leave at the end of my second visit, I knew that even if I saw her alive again, she might not
recognize me or be able to say even the few words she could now. I told her I loved her. She responded that she didn't know what to say. That was one of the phrases she often used toward the end when she wanted to say something but the words weren't coming. I asked her to tell me she loved me. She said, "I do, always."

"I do. Always." Those were all the words she could get out. But they were words I will treasure all the rest of my life. By the time my sister Julie was able to get there, she could no longer say even that much. Yet mother loved Julie just as much. Those last weeks, she made Dad read and reread Julie's letters to her.

The blessing of those words "You're in trouble" is that they can help to concentrate the mind, bring in sharp relief what really matters. And what doesn't matter at all. Knowing it or not, we are preparing for death every second of our lives. The task of preparing for death is to gain and keep that clarity.

How would you spend your remaining days if you learned today that you would die one month from today? What would you say to your spouse, or your parents, your children? What tasks would occupy your few days of remaining health? How shall we live our lives so that when the end comes we are at peace?

In the Buddhist tradition, the answer is that to live intentionally, committing ourselves to following the great moral precepts¾ refraining from lying, stealing, murder¾ treating all of creation with loving kindness, surrounding ourselves with others who share and live those values, working in jobs that are in harmony with creation. Practicing all life long to let go of the ephemeral, yes, even life itself, that we may be free to live and die in joy, one with all we love, loving all that is, part of all that is and ever will be.

The Christian tradition uses different words but the counsel is similar. Keep the great ommandments. Do not sell yourselves for riches, pleasure or power. Love one another. Love that which lasts. The eternal. God.

Shortly before his death, Cardinal Bernardin wrote the last chapter to his book. For those of us who are not Christian, I ask you to look beneath his words for the meaning that transcends his particular religious language:

It is the first day of November and fall is giving way to winter. Soon the trees will lose the vibrant colors of their leaves and snow will cover the ground. The earth will shut down, and people will race to and from their destinations bundled up for warmth. Chicago winters are harsh. It is a time of dying.

But we know that spring will soon come with all its new life and wonder ...

What I would like to leave behind is a simple prayer that each of you may find what I have found¾ God's special gift to us all: the gift of peace. When we are at peace, we find the freedom to be most fully who we are, even in the worst of times. We let go of what is nonessential and embrace what is essential. We empty ourselves so that God may more fully work within us. And we become instruments in the hands of the Lord. When I left Chicago, the daffodils were in bloom and the trees were turning green. Spring had returned. And I, I had miles to go on my own journey. And preparations to make.

We walk together towards mystery¾ you and I. No one know what lies beyond the horizon. What we have is the journey together. Well lived, well loved, abiding with the eternal, we will find sustenance though foes surround us and ills plague us. If we make of our lives a covenant with the transcendent, our tears will lose their bitterness. If we fall in love with all of creation our hearts will be filled with peace. We are both at home and going home, returning to the home from which we came.

Let us prepare for the journey.