We said good-bye to the Queen of England this past week, with all the pomp and pageantry that England could offer. I was surprised to be up early in front of the TV because I haven’t been a fan of “the royals.” I do remember making a scrapbook of pictures cut from Life magazine when she became the Queen 70 years ago, and as I watched the long procession and heard the slow cadence of measured steps, other endings pressed forward: COVID deaths with no memorial, family estrangements, unfinished projects, unhealed hurts. Somehow the Queen’s funeral became a memorial for other events and other times, and the finality of her lowered coffin was a powerful image of closure for many things in my life.
But my questions remain. How is fear of death stoking violence today? Can death wake us up? Quicken our sense of time passing? Focus attention on what needs to change? Or does it simply leave us with despair and hopelessness?
What happens after death seems to be the centerpiece of the gospel for this week. It could be read as a fairy-tale ending for the rich man and Lazarus—each getting what they deserve in the afterlife.* Or we could read it as a dire warning to care for the poor, something that Jesus spoke about often. But today I’m intrigued by the five brothers who are left behind – as we are whenever death occurs. What will it take for them to wake up? To see the humanity of others and act from that knowing?
What will it take for us to see the humanity of people who have walked hundreds of miles to reach our borders? Is grief a pathway to seeing what could be healed here and now? And closer to home, will the rich and secure part of me notice the rejected parts of myself at the gate, begging to be seen and embraced? Can the wisdom of scripture lead me to wholeness in the time I have left? Are there words written into the hearts of my community that will lead me home to the heart of God?
We’ve been left behind with time to wrestle with these questions.
–Marjory Zoet Bankson, Editor of Inward/Outward
