Introduction

Sally Ann McKinsey

Many articles in this issue recognize the personal significance of the line referenced in its title, taken from the first line of A Brief Statement of Faith, “In life and in death we belong to God.” Cynthia Campbell considers its meaning, lineage, and significance, and her role on the committee to draft the confession gives her insight that is a gift to this issue’s conversation. Campbell asks, “When all is said and done, what do you hang on to?” Liturgy columnist Elizabeth Shannon Stokes shares, “To be perfectly frank, it’s the only thing I’m sure I believe all the time.” Several others suggest that these words can hold them and their communities in faith amid the most difficult times.

Death has a way of toppling any certainties that keep us in our daily tasks, of poking holes in that boundary between personal and professional life, especially for those who are professional caregivers and ministers. The assurance that in life and in death we belong to God seems to do the same, going with us in whatever role we find ourselves. I give thanks for the vulnerability of the contributors to this issue, as many share reflections about the ways their personal losses have influenced their leadership with those who are dying and their communities. Following their lead, I introduce this issue with my own personal reflections.

As I write this, my four-year-old daughter is playing with clay at a table across the room. Either she is so aware of her surroundings that she knows the topic of this issue or its echoes are showing up everywhere for me. She hums “Baby Shark” while poking holes in her rapidly disintegrating piece of clay, then pauses, looks at me, and asks, “Will you be with me when I die?” 

It should be no surprise that death is on her mind, though American culture strives with all its might to convince us all that death is not on the list of approved, family-friendly conversation topics. Media for both children and adults surrounds us with violence and a sense of impending doom. Children are wise and observant; they know that death is in the air. 

Already my four-year-old has been to her great-grandfather’s and great-aunt’s funerals, tugging at my skirt at each as I offered a prayer of commendation at their graves. She and I both know the sensation of walking on the absurd turf-like fabric material used by many funeral homes to cover evidence that a grave has been dug. The feeling of walking on the uneven ground without being able to see it is so emblematic of the cultural forces that hope to sanitize death. Death is not on the list of approved, family-friendly conversation topics, after all, but shouldn’t we know the color of that local earth where we bury our beloved ones? Kimberley Wadlington raises some of these questions as well in her analysis of two books about green burials by Kent Burreson and Beth Hoeltke. 

 The cultural, medical, and funerary practices we have come to assume in the United States often keep death at arm’s length and reinforce a kind of dying inconsistent with early Christian understandings of death. Richard Deibert recognizes this so beautifully in his contribution to this issue. He gives scriptural analysis, investigates the ways of thinking that have formed a Western biomedical understanding of death, and offers guidance on preparing the body and soul for dying in the midst of it. I am grateful for articles that guide us in the particular practice of planning and leading funerals. Carla Jones Brown guides us in thinking about funeral preaching. With sensitivity and wisdom, she discusses the role of clergy in a funeral event, reflects on the language used for the proclamation of the Word in these occasions, and calls preachers to a particular kind of presiding in these sacred spaces. Keion Mekhi Jackson gives a history of Black sacred music that includes both lament and hope in a powerful testimony about the gifts of this history to the church in times of loss and at the difficult occasions. 

Patrick Lane accompanies us in thinking about the life cycle of communities as he considers the meaning of resurrection for church institutions that are said to be in decline. He defines resurrection as more than a return to what was, suggesting possibilities for leadership that both validates and heals scarcity mindsets.

Artistic practice has a way of giving language to this conversation when words may be difficult. Jill Carattini, a guest curator and contributor to this issue, has curated a group exhibition as The Work of Our Hands section for this edition. She considers a vision for engaging visual art that includes listening to artists of many perspectives and learning from the practices of artists, who often gather in diverse groups, listen, and share with authenticity, curiosity, and wonder.

Derrick McQueen shares a reflection of a powerful event he attended, the West Village Chorale’s winter concert held at Judson Memorial Church in New York City, titled Requiem. The piece was a conversation between Gabriel Fauré’s 1888 work, Requiem in D Minor, and Joel Thompson’s 2014 work, Seven Last Words of the Unarmed. The piece and McQueen’s review of it both consider the conversation between concepts in sacred music and human life, between worship and work for justice.

“Will you be with me when I die?” The question rings in my ears.

I think of the painful and powerful work of Ashley-Anne Masters, whose article in this issue recognizes the importance of practicing honesty with children when speaking about loss and dying.

After a moment of hesitation, I say, “While we are living or while we are dying, God’s love is always with us, and we are together in God’s love.” Something about the conversation holds me in wonder even as it breaks my heart. In a culture so fixated on violence, avoidant of aging, and disembodied in death, there is a countercultural energy in speaking about death candidly and speaking words of love into the abyss. 

Have we become convinced we don’t want to talk about it, just as we have come to assume the fake plastic turf will keep us safe from the earth turned up around us? To speak of death is to be held in mystery, to trust love amid pain. May the articles in this issue convince you that you are not alone in dying and give you support as you hear those in your community ask, “Will you be with me when I die?”