Reports from the Afterlife

This morning, I listened to a fascinating interview with Dr. Sam Parnia, the author of Erasing Death: The Science That Is Rewriting the Boundaries Between Life and Death.  He's spent his medical life easing people back from death, and he's got all sorts of insights.

If you're interested in the biology of death, and why some people can come back from death relatively unscathed while others are terribly damaged, he's got some answers.  He also reports on his efforts to determine whether or not the experiences that people have after death are due to chemical reactions, pop culture expectations, or something else.  He reports that people who can discuss leaving their bodies do indeed have experiences and knowledge that they couldn't have had at the moment of death.  For example, he's placed pictures at the head and the foot of the bed as they worked to bring the patient back, and the patient can describe the pictures in great detail.

Very good, you might say, but what happens to them?

Some of what he reports will probably not be new to you:  the light in a tunnel, a presence that welcomes them.

But one chunk of what he said made me wonder if we'd behave differently during life if we knew we'd be facing a test when we died:  "They often describe having a review of their lives, everything that they had done from early childhood to that point. And interestingly, the way they describe their review is very much like they experience, sometimes, everything that they had done. So for instance, if they had hurt somebody's feelings, even inadvertently, without purpose, they feel the pain that they had given somebody else. And therefore, they judge themselves, in effect, and their actions. And that's why when they come back, many of them are motivated to lead their lives in a completely different way. I remember one person who said that, I particularly wanted to make sure that I don't fail again; and I want to make sure that I at least end up with a C, when I get back there again."

I have always loved the great English poet John Keats' view of heaven as one where we experience again all the joys we experienced during life; but we experience them even more intensely in the afterlife.

But what if we also experienced all the pain we'd caused to others?  Would that knowledge shape our behavior here on earth?

The interview with the doctor is fascinating from beginning to end, and if you want to hear it or read the transcript, go here.

Meditation on This Sunday's Narrative Lectionary Reading

The readings for Sunday, February 24, 2013:

Luke 13:1-9, 31-35

optional reading:  Psalm 122 or 122:6


I don't have much history with sermons that implore us to repent.  I grew up as a good Lutheran girl and learned that God has already forgiven me.  I struggled with the concept of grace; if I'm already forgiven, why should I be good?

I don't want to wrestle with that particular question this morning.  Whole fields of Philosophy and Literature and Psychology and Sociology can give us a wide variety of answers.  No, I want to think about this issue of turning around and returning, verbs which are at the root of the word "repent."

In many passages, Jesus implores his listeners to leave the path that they're on and to choose activities that will lead to new life.  The prophets that come before and after Jesus have trumpeted a similar message. The end of the Narrative Lectionary reading for this week shows that Jesus knows that his listeners will not pay him attention any more than they did the prophets of old. 

But Jesus is clear:  repent we must.  Jesus didn't come to earth to get us into Heaven after we die.  Jesus came to earth to show us how to live so that we create the Kingdom of God right here on earth now.

Those of us who cling to the concept of grace like to think that we have plenty of time.  Sure, we'll take care of our neighbor.  But first, we've got some movies to watch.  We'll help feed the poor--right after we get back from our vacation.  We've got a grueling work schedule, so maybe we can just arrange for our credit card to automatically send money to Lutheran World Relief.

It might help us to think about that fig tree that gets a reprieve.  The fig tree doesn't get an indefinite amount of time to bear fruit. 

I'm not about to suggest that God will chop us down and send us to the flames of hell.  Frankly, God doesn't have to do that.  We marinate in the bad choices that we've made, and that's punishment enough.

But the parable of the fig tree suggests ways out of our barrenness.  We could think of pruning.  What in our lives needs to be pruned so that we can bear good fruit?  We could start with a bad habit or two keeping us from the life God wants us to have and build from there.

Or think of fertilizer.  What would enrich the soil of our lives?  More prayer, more inspiring reading, stopping each day to take a real break for a meal together:  the list is endless.  Choose one and begin to enrich the soil in which you're planted.

Like ancient people, we kill the prophets of God in all sorts of ways.  We like to think that we'd have recognized Jesus had he appeared to us, but would we?  Now is a good time to tend the fig tree lives so that we can truly repent and choose the way of Jesus.

Lenten Discipline: Progress Report #1

A week ago, I'd have been washing the ashes off my face.  On Ash Wednesday, when I knelt to receive the ash cross on my forehead, I got more ash than anticipated.  Ash fell across my eyebrow and onto my cheek.  As I wiped my face, I made it worse, or better, depending on your viewpoint.

I've said before that I could use a daily reminder of the shortness of our time here, something to keep our descent into ash ever present to me.  If only I had time to design jewelry!

But jewelry design is not my Lenten discipline.  I have decided to work on my memoir 3-4 days a week and to write one poem every day.  So far, I've done well. 

Of course, it's early yet.  But I'm happy that it's going well so far. 

I'm also giving myself latitude to write a gratitude haiku at the end of the day to fulfill my poem-a-day obligation, if I hadn't produced anything else.  It's a practice that I've been wanting to explore.

I'm using the word "haiku" very loosely.  I simply mean the form of 5 syllables in the first line, 7 in the second, and 5 in the 3rd line.  I am aware that if I adhered to the Japanese form, I'd need to be writing very different poems.

So, I've written 2 haiku and 6 non-haiku poems. 

As with regular blogging or taking a photograph daily, writing a poem a day trains me to be aware.  I'm always looking for nuggets that could lead to a poem.  I'm always thinking about the next day's task.

Here's the gratitude haiku I wrote last night:

I am so much more

than the sum of my e-mails
whole worlds hidden plain

If you want to know more about what prompted it, go to this post on my creativity blog. 

So far, Lent seems different to me this year.  I'm often in a severe mood.  This year, I feel more joyous.  My spouse continues his successful recovery from his back surgery, which leaves me hopeful, not somber.  It also makes me mindful of our dusty destiny, a feeling that we're staving off the inevitable descent into pain that comes with aging.  Still, I'm happy that his spine could be repaired this time.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The lessons for Sunday, February 24, 2013:



First Reading: Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18

Psalm: Psalm 27

Second Reading: Philippians 3:17--4:1

Gospel: Luke 13:31-35


This Gospel is one of those that might tempt us moderns to feel superior. We're not like that wicked Jerusalem, are we? We don't stone the prophets and others who are sent to us. We're a civilized people.

But think of how many ways there are to kill the messengers of God. Let's start with our individual Bibles. Do you know where yours is? Have you touched it this week? This month? This year?

After all, one of the main ways God has to speak to us is by way of the Scripture. And if we don't read our Bibles, we lose out on a major avenue of communication with God. You might protest that you hear the Bible plenty when you go to church on Sunday. And that's great. Far too many churches have very little scripture as part of the weekly service. But it's not enough. We'd be better off if we read our Bibles every day. It's far too easy to be seduced by the glittering secular world; a daily diet of Bible reading can help us remember God's claim on us and our purpose in the world.

But the Bible isn't the only way we can learn about God and our place in the community. We can read the works of other holy people. There are plenty of books out there that can help us be more faithful. My reading list is fairly eclectic; if you're new to this, I'd start with the works of Henri Nouwen, Kathleen Norris, Madeleine L'Engle, Thomas Merton, and C. S. Lewis, among many others.

You could also listen for God. Many of us are pretty good at talking to God, especially if we're in trouble. But we're not very good at listening. Henri Nouwen suggests that we take 10 minutes a day to quiet our minds, to sit and just listen. You might also keep a journal, which can be a very valid form of active meditation for busy Westerners. Don't just write down what happens to you during the day. Keep a list of things for which you're grateful. Keep a list of your heartfelt desires. Make a space for any sorts of intuition you have. Ask God for insight. Keep a keen ear for what God replies. Write it down so you won't forget.

We stone the prophets sent to us by God by ridiculing, of course. There are many effective ministers and churches out there. Just because one church's style doesn't work for you doesn't mean that you should work to tear it down. We should all be about the same business: being a light for Christ in the world, so that we can help people find their way. If someone else's techniques work, we should celebrate that.

We stone the prophets that God sends to us by refusing to pay attention. Look at your life. To whom do you pay highest allegiance? Your God? Your boss? Your nation? Your family? What keeps your loyalties split? How can you find your way back to God?

God tries to get our attention in all sorts of ways. We're prompt to dismiss our strange dreams (both the night kind and the daydreaming kind) and strange voices (both our own and the ones that come to us from books and other media). We're quick to believe everything our culture tells us about who we should be.

In this time of Lent, we can repent for all the times we've stoned the prophets (metaphorically). We can turn our attention to God and once again, try to be more faithful. God longs to gather us, as a mother hen gathers her chicks. Come be part of the brood.

Optimism, Work, and the Words of Jesus

Yesterday a colleague and I were talking about all the recent upheavals at work.  I said, "I feel like there's a big picture that I just can't see.  I can see my little piece of it, but I just can't get enough distance for it to make sense."

He said, "You assume there is a big picture, not just chaos."

Well, I have my dark moments when I assume that no one is in charge, or that the people in charge are working at cross purposes.  There are moments when I think I wouldn't like any of their purposes, cross or not.

My work colleague said, "It must be your faith that makes you believe in a big picture."

I thought of that comment for the rest of the day.  Is it my faith?  I would argue that it's not.  I just tend toward optimism.

In fact, I would argue that my religious tradition would warn me against putting any faith at all in the corporation that owns and runs my little school.  That corporation is one of the powers and principalities of this world, as Paul labeled it, and Walter Wink so eloquently described it.  That corporation is at cross purposes with almost everything that Jesus tells me is important.

The words of Jesus echo in my head most loudly when I'm at work.  I hear his advice to the rich, young man who has followed every commandment so carefully.  He's expecting a pat on the back, but Jesus tells him to sell all his goods and follow Jesus, to turn away from the worldly commitments and give himself to Christ.

What if Jesus meant what he said?

The Spiritual Gift of Counting Money after Church

I tend to think that volunteer work looks a certain way:  it helps the poor, the dispossessed, those who can't help themselves.  If I'm not alleviating a social injustice, I tend not to count it.

Yesterday, we spent almost 2 hours after church counting the offering.  We have 3 services, plus there was the Ash Wednesday money and the Men's Pancake Supper fundraiser dollars that had never gotten taken to the bank.

You might say, "How difficult could it be?"  I would excuse your dismissal.  I, too, used to say such things.

We're not a very automated church.  We have a variety of slips that come back that have to be separated.  We have envelopes for this, and envelopes for that:  regular offering, special gifts, upcoming events that require flowers and dedications (lilies, poinsettias, etc).  We have people who forget to use their special envelopes, and so we have to sort the pew envelopes.

We have cash, and we have checks.  And then there are the forms.

Oh, the forms.  We've streamlined them, but still.  The bank requires forms, and we fill in our own forms for our records.  We make various tallies, and then they must match.

It's dizzying and headache inducing, and it takes time.  And then, when it's done, we take it to the bank, to the overnight depository, because it's just not safe to leave that much cash in an office.  And then we bring the overnight depository key back to the office.

When I take a tally to determine how much good I'm doing in the world, I tend to forget about this kind of work.  It doesn't feel like I'm making the world a better place by doing it.  No one says thank you.  No one exclaims how important it is.  Like straightening the kitchen after coffee hour, it's very much a behind the scenes kind of thing.  Even more behind the scenes than coffee hour clean up, I would argue--the people who stay for coffee hour can see the mess they're leaving behind.  People who donate money have often never stayed to count.

But just like the kitchen clean up, the money counting and going to the bank is essential.  There are bills to be paid, paychecks to distribute, social justice to be done--and none of it can happen if the money doesn't make it to the bank.

Anyone can clean the kitchen, but not everyone can be allowed to count.  Some people should not be subject to the temptation of that much cash, that much banking information.  Some people shouldn't be allowed access to the confidential information contained in offering plates. 

And you'd be surprised how many people don't have the basic math skills required for counting.  Or the patience.

I was tired before we started, and we came home to collapse on the sofa.  We watched a western, Open Range, where the bad guys are clearly differentiated from the good guys, and by the end, the town is cleaned up.  No mundane tasks like counting the money.  I've been shaped by this ethos.  It's no wonder I think that social justice work should blaze forth, not work behind the scenes.

Soon we will be in the season of Pentecost, that time where we think about our spiritual gifts.  I notice that Saint Paul never mentions counting the money either.

Sure, I'd like a flashier spiritual gift:  to be able to heal or prophesy.  Of course, those probably come with some fairly severe drawbacks.

Ah, the eternal task:  to appreciate the gifts that I have, without envying the gifts bestowed to others.

Popes, Sacks of Stardust, and Inspirations

It has been almost a week since the Pope announced his plans to step down at the end of February.  I've been wondering if I should write a response.  But frankly, I'm not Catholic, and issues that swirl around the Pope interest me less than many other ecumenical issues that I'd rather write about.

I've listened to all sorts of responses to the Pope's announcement, and I've been amazed at how hateful so many of them have been.  Yikes. 

But finally, I've found one response worth referencing here.  E. J. Dionne makes a compelling case for making a nun the next pope in this essay in The Washington Post.  This essay is a great reminder of all the great work done in the world by all sorts of Catholics, from ordinary people to nuns to even the Pope, hard as that idea is for some people to accept.

But maybe all this ugly talk about the Pope has made you long for something more lofty.  I've been listening to this episode of the NPR show, On Being, where Krista Tippett interviews Natalie Batahla, an astronomer who studies exoplanets. She has amazing insights.

She compares love to dark energy:  "This has been the surprise to me actually that my perspective on love has been so informed by science, but it has. It's been fundamentally shifted, you know. And then I read other scientists who've had the same perspective and it all kind of makes sense. I mean, Carl Sagan's quote, you know: 'For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.' This love, this idea, is this moving force. I mean, it just permeates our history, our culture. I've equated it to, you know, this analogy of dark matter.  Ninety-five percent of the mass of the universe being something we can't even see, and yet it moves us. It draws us. It creates galaxies. We're like moving on a current of this gravitational field created by mostly stuff that we can't see. And the analogy with love just struck me, you know, that it's like this thing that we can't see, that we don't understand yet. It's everywhere and it moves us. And science has given me that perspective, but also in very logistical, tangible, practical ways, you know. I mean, when you study science, you step out of planet Earth. You look back down at this blue sphere and you see a world with no borders."

Her love for our universe permeates everything she says.  It's a beautiful interview, and it makes me wish I could be an astronomer.  But I'm a poet and a theologian, and listening to her reminds me of how close all of those interests are:  poetry, astronomy, and theology.