Dying To Live
When you discover a religious principle that is present in every major enduring religious tradition in the world, you are on the track of something that can stand up to the claim of being a "universal truth." There is a path of transformation that every enduring religion witnesses to. It is the path of dying and rising.
In Judaism it is spoken of as "the way," which involves a new heart and a new self, centered in God. The literal meaning of the word "Islam" is "surrender' -- to surrender one's life to God's will. Muhammad said, "Die before you die." At the heart of the Buddhist path is "letting go" -- dying to an old way of being and being born into a new. "If you want to become full, let yourself be empty; if you want to be reborn, let yourself die," speaks Lao Tzu in the Tao te Ching, a foundational text for both Taoism and Zen Buddhism. Dying and rising is central to the world's great religions.
The unique angle that Christianity offers to this universal testimony, is that we see this truth revealed not just in words or teachings, but in a person. We point to Jesus and say this is what God is like. As much of God as can be revealed in a human life, we see that in the person of Jesus. Jesus is the human face of God. We are invited to live like Jesus, to be like Jesus. That is the way of abundant life. And the central story of Jesus is the story of death becoming life, the story of the cross and resurrection.
Let me suggest an image. Think of the cross as a great lightening rod. The cross of Jesus is anchored, positively grounded into our source. From that cross, Jesus is willing and able to attract to himself all of the negative energy that afflicts our creation. On the cross, Jesus soaks up within his own life the experience of personal betrayal and abandonment, projected blame, structural systemic injustice -- cursed by religion and condemned by the state; he endures unspeakable physical pain and violence, becomes a picture of shame, failure and hopelessness; and before death, he feels the exquisite horror of spiritual desolation -- "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Every terror of human life attacks Jesus on the cross. Evil has its day.
And what does Jesus do? He accepts it, like a lightening rod soaking up an electrical charge. He refuses to return any of the negative stuff. He lets it flow into and through him, down the cross, and into the source and ground of life. By doing that, he breaks all the vicious cycles -- violence that begets more violence; hatred that produces more hatred; injustice that provokes revenge; slander that spawns bitterness. With absolute vulnerability he suffers the abuses of power, and refuses to strike back. He accepts the evil, blindness and brokenness of the world and lets it flow through him without provoking a response in kind. He experiences all of the many faces of death, and he does not let it change his face, and there we see the human face of God. This is what God is like in the face of our evil.
Jesus says, "Father forgive them, for they don't know what they are doing." He accepts all of the wrong done to him. He stays in union with them all, even those who abuse him. He continues his trust in God, even when experiencing God's absence. He endures hopelessness with hope. He answers evil with nothing but love.
And he is vindicated!
The evil and pain and horror flows down through that cross and into the earth where it is entombed for a time. And in that mysterious, waiting darkness, God does what God does best. New life! Resurrection! Light out of darkness. Life out of death. It is the eternal way; it is a universal truth.
A priest who has recently retired to write has a story about a relatively new parishioner named Daniel who asked for an appointment, appearing in the rector's office nicely dressed in a suit that hung on him a little loosely, as if he had recently lost weight.
Daniel introduced himself to the priest as the assistant coroner of their affluent county, a devout Episcopalian, and as a person living with AIDS. He said, "I'm as fascinated watching myself die as I have been investigating others' deaths for the past 15 years. Now, tell me, do you think I'll find a home for myself here at St. Anselm's?"
The priest's thoughts raced, and he said, "I sure hope so, Daniel. I'm pretty new here myself and I haven't figured out how to read this crowd that well yet."
"O.K. Fair enough, we'll find our way together on this one. Now, when does the group meet that I'll use for moral support?"
The priest swallowed hard, blushing, feeling sheepish.
"I see," Daniel said, "so we have to start one. How about this time every Tuesday afternoon, from 2 to 4 p.m.?"
That's how it began. They called it the "Blessed Group." At first just the priest, and an 80-year-old man who had survived nearly every known form of cancer. Daniel became the chief recruiter, changing the group description as needed, from "Those Living With Terminal Illness" to "Those Touched By Terminal Illness" to "Those Touched By Challenging Illness" gradually opening the conversation to as many lonely, fearful persons as possible.
According to the priest, the loneliness that a dying person feels about talking with people first drew them to the group, but Daniel kept them coming back.
One afternoon, Daniel announced to the group, "I've started practicing my dying." He had dropped twenty pounds and he couldn't eat much solid food. He'd taken disability leave from his job, so instead of his suit and tie, he came to the meetings in shorts, Hawaiian shirt and thong sandals.
"How in the world do you practice dying?" wondered the 80-year old man.
"I'm trying something I learned in yoga. I lie on my back and surrender my body, an inch at a time, beginning at the soles of my feet. So far I've gotten to my knees. I can tell, it's going to be ecstasy when I get to the top of my head and let it all go.
"My goal is to become so good at relaxing that I won't freak out when death comes for me. I want to be conscious and aware as long as I can, right up to the last breath if possible."
Eventually he became too sick to come to the group, so the group began to go to his home, practicing, as Daniel was, the art of dying.
And die he did.1
Look at what Daniel did. He accepted the dark side of life. He soaked up the reality of death's face as it came to him. He claimed his union with all of life, reaching out in community. Embracing abundant life, he left no room for shame or guilt. He continued his trust in God; he met hopelessness with hope; he answered threat with love. He soaked up all of the negativity of death, and grounded it in Christ, letting it flow into the source. And after a bit of waiting, he let new life arise through a group that was indeed blessed. He learned how to die so that he could truly live.
Death has so many faces. Sometimes it may be that our call is to bear sufferings that are not even our own, to accept sufferings vicariously as Jesus did, and let their energy flow down the cross into God.
Whenever we have enough trust to accept the misfortunes that come our way without reacting in kind -- whenever we meet hopelessness with hope and threat with love -- we are the human face of God, grounding and healing the negativity of the world. That is the universal truth that Easter invites us to embrace. We die in order to truly live.
The world needs people who can soak up evil and death, in all its petty forms -- people who can participate in God's work of resurrection. People who can practice death, in order to practice resurrection. Every major religion tells us that is the way to life, the path to enlightenment, the gift of salvation.
Alleluia! Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!
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1. This story comes from Bill Tully. The retired priest is a friend of Bill's. I've borrowed the story from Bill's Easter sermon he is preaching today at St .Bartholomew's Church in New York City, printed on their web site at www.stbarts.org