I have little to say about the death of Anna Nicole Smith. She and I were exactly the same age, and I suppose all I can say is that while I never paid much attention to her career, I always felt a strange tenderness whenever I saw her face or heard about her. There was a very obvious frailty to her, a kind of vulnerability that I can’t really explain. It’s sad.
A few days ago, Chris Clarke made the difficult decision to put down his beloved dog Zeke. (He had posted last week about steeling himself for that fast-approaching decision). Zeke went peacefully; the not-safe-if-you-don’t-want-to-weep link to that story is here. As always, Chris writes with such clarity that it makes me ache, though I’m not sure if that ache is more from empathy with his grief or envy at the grace with which he writes about it.
Now that Amanda has moved on to serve John Edwards, Chris is writing at Pandagon. And he’s got a fabulous post up today (one in which I am quoted, but without being named). It’s a post about the various things people have written to him in the aftermath of Zeke’s passing. Chris is not much of a theist, but that hasn’t stopped the well-intentioned from assuring him that he and Zeke will be reunited in heaven. (Lots of references to the Rainbow Bridge.)
Chris and Becky don’t believe in the Rainbow Bridge. He writes:
Here’s the thing: I don’t believe in an afterlife. What’s more, in contexts like the one in which I live now, I find the whole concept of an afterlife to be profoundly unhelpful. No, that’s not strong enough. It’s like sticking a fucking corkscrew in my heart and yanking it out. After all, I’m not so completely rational that I don’t succumb to the temptation to stand on his grave and talk to him. After years of indoctrination in Roman Catholic dogma, the reflex of imagining the Pearly Gates dies hard. But it’s false hope, and both the glimmer of reunion and the fleeting thought that he misses us make me feel worse.
And Chris has asked folks to please not persist in foisting what he sees as false, perhaps even cruel reassurances upon him as he grieves his friend. Sadly, that request was ignored. Folks continued to push:
When people respond to a politely worded request to can the heaven stuff by ramping up the heaven stuff, that is an example of religious intolerance. When a person has to take time out from grieving to forgive people who’ve made him feel a lot worse, telling himself that he has to give them slack because they’re upset over the death of his family member, that he has to remember they’re just trying to make him feel better with promises of meeting again despite his express request, that is a symptom of religious intolerance.
Chris and I both love the rolling hills of the San Francisco Bay Area. He hikes them with what seems like reverence; I tend to attack them with hyper tenacity, measuring my fitness on their slopes. We both love animals, and we’ve both lost creatures whom we adored within the past year. And when it comes to the great questions, the ones about life and death and the possibility that our souls endure, sentient and unique, beyond this world — Chris and I have different answers.
And because I know he and I have different answers, I don’t try and comfort him in his vulnerabilty with my answers. Authentic Christian evangelism is not predatory. Authentic Christian evangelism doesn’t see the grief of those who don’t share our faith as a “special opportunity” to do some witnessin’! And far too many of my brothers and sisters in Christ make this obnoxious error.
I use this blog to share my faith, of course. But the best way I can carry out the Great Commission is to lead a good life, a life devoted to justice and compassion, a life that is happy and considerate and brave. And when people see any goodness in me, or ask me where my strength comes from — then heavens to Betsy, I’m gonna share. But to paraphrase what they say in AA, evangelism is about “attraction, not promotion.” It’s about living out our faith in ways that will draw others to it; it’s not about foisting pamphlets on passers-by, and it’s not about saccharine promises to pray for those who have already made it clear that they don’t want to hear it.
Do I pray for non-Christians? Sure I do. Do I tell them about it, as if I’ve done them a special favor and tucked the spiritual equivalent of a $20 bill in their purse when they weren’t looking? No, I don’t. In his Pandagon post, Chris quotes what I wrote on his blog when I learned of Zeke’s death:
Much love to you and Becky from a man, a woman, and six chinchillas in Pasadena.
That seemed right. Chris doesn’t need to hear that I’m lifting him and Becky up in prayer, and imploring Jesus to soothe their pain. Chris doesn’t need me to tell him that more and more Christians are convinced that we may indeed find animals in the next life. He doesn’t need me to claim that I believe that he and Zeke will hike together again, each in uncorrupted bodies, climbing the true mountain in the undiscovered country that lies beyond the grave. I can write that sort of comforting, sophomoric bullshit very easily. It comes naturally to me. And it’s more than bullshit, I suppose; I not only am certain that there is a heaven, I am pretty danged hopeful that all the beings I have ever loved will be with me there. And there will be no more tears, for the former things have passed away… and so on.
When a fellow Christian asks for my prayers, I promise them that I will storm the very gates of heaven on their behalf. With those who do not believe in prayer, when they tell me of their grief, I share a gentle “I’m so sorry.” I often ask what I can do, which usually is little more than listening. And my prayers are quiet. I might pray just as hard for those who don’t believe as for those who do — but I don’t feel the need to share that tidbit. I often say “I”m sending you love”. I always mean it.
I lost my father last June 22, eleven days after our first chinchilla, the beautiful Matilde, left us without warning. Sometimes, usually in the early mornings, the reality of their deaths hits me with such force that I have to sit for a moment. My chest still gets very tight when I think of my Daddy. And I’ll be honest about what I believe:
I believe my Dad and my Matilde are together somewhere. I believe that Matty died so suddenly because she knew her beloved opa, her abuelo, would need her in the next world and she wanted to get things ready for him. I believe it because I want to believe it, even though my Dad was not a Christian and my own faith is dubious about whether or not animals have souls. So when people told me that I’d see them both again, I was cheered and comforted. Those who reassured me that it was possible to be reunited with those who have gone before knew that I believe in the resurrection; they knew that I do believe that we will all be together on the far side of the Jordan. Those aren’t just pretty words to me — they are certainties as certain in my life as the Pythagorean theorem, the orbit of the moon around the earth, as the pounding of the surf on the rocks of Carmel Point.
On this blog, in this space that is my own (bought and paid for), I will say what I believe as honestly as I can. When I write a note to comfort the grieving, when I reach out to those I know who are in pain, I choose my words carefully. Their journey may not be my journey. They may well be sheep of a different fold, as my shepherd says. And I choose my words carefully, making sure that the only constant is love.
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