The morning of her father's funeral, Barbara Lundblad and her sister went on a mission. They drove two miles south of town to the farm where they had grown up. Their parents had retired from farming several years before and had moved into town, but the sisters still thought of it as their farm - even though the family had never owned the land.
They parked the car just south of the farm where they could see the house, the barn, the corncrib and machine shed. And although they knew they didn't own the land, they were planning to take some of it. They were going to dig up a few tablespoons of that rich, black Iowa dirt and place it in a small plastic container.
The idea had come to them just that morning when Barbara, a Lutheran minister, mentioned that their mother had asked her to say the words of benediction at the cemetery. She had spoken the words many times - "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." And the two sisters thought it fitting that Barbara toss some of the dirt from that farm where their father had toiled many years, onto his casket as she spoke the traditional words of committal.
Although she had recited the words many times before, she had never spoken them for her own father. She said she felt that it would be easier for her to say the words, if she could hold some of the dirt from their farm in her hands.
It had rained the night before and so the ground was damp that morning. They knelt down next to one another and each one scooped up a few wet clumps of earth. They took the mud back to the house, flattened it out on a cookie sheet, and placed it in the oven to dry.
That afternoon at the cemetery, her words came out alright as she sprinkled the dirt on the coffin. "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The soil from the farm mingled with the soil of the grave; the common dirt mingled with God's blessing.(1)
These words, which are routinely spoken at a committal service, are inspired by the second creation story in Genesis where we read that God formed the first human being from the dust of the ground. The story is not a literal account of how the first human body was created, but rather a poetic reference to the transitory nature of life. Our bodies are fragile and our time on earth passes with computer-like speed.
The apostle Paul noted this fact in one of his letters to the congregation in Corinth. He is referring to his ability to proclaim the Christian gospel to others, and notes that his ability to spread the good news is not derived from any personal talents. The credit belongs completely to God. He says, "We have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us."
Paul refers to human beings as clay jars, and his metaphor is instructive. For one thing, clay jars are subject to chipping and they are likely to contain imperfections.
Some people like to pretend that they live near-perfect lives and they have a great deal of difficulty facing and admitting their shortcomings. They deny their penchant for envy and anger, for lust and greed, as if to deny these things would make them somehow disappear. The season of Lent is intended to remind Christians that we do not always live as we should, and we need God's forgiveness to heal us, and we need God's guidance to get us back on the right course. It's a time for facing squarely the things we tend to deny and for telling the truth about them instead. Some people are afraid that such honesty will be too harsh and too painful, but the Gospel of John reminds us that it is only the truth that really will set us free.
The second reason that the clay jar serves as such a helpful metaphor for a human being is because clay jars eventually break. They don't last forever. And neither do we. There's a message you won't hear much about in our death-denying culture. People will say it's too dark and depressing, so let's not talk about it. People will often pretend that it won't happen to them. But failing to face our mortality does not spare us from pain so much as it can cheat us from getting the most out of life. Knowing that our time is limited, helps us to focus on what is genuinely important. Knowing that we will not be here forever helps us to see the beauty that surrounds us. Knowing that we only have a certain amount of time prompts us to use our days wisely.
Writer Kathleen Norris tells about a friend of hers who is a young woman and a brilliant scholar. She was stricken with cancer and over the course of several years she came very close to dying on three occasions. Fortunately, after extensive treatments of both radiation and chemotherapy, she has gone into remission. Her prognosis is uncertain at best, but she has been able to return to teaching. She remarked to an older colleague, "I'd never want to go back [to the way I was living before the cancer] because now I know what each morning means, and I am so grateful just to be alive." The colleague said, "We have been through so much together in the last few years." The young woman responded emphatically, "Yes! And hasn't it been a blessing!"(2)
Knowing that our time on earth is limited is not a curse, but rather a blessing. It awakens us to the importance of each person we meet and each day that we have. May we know the deep joy of a life that is lived to its fullest.
NOTES
1. From a sermon by Barbara Lundblad entitled, "A Strong Sense of Place," preached on The Protestant Hour, January 5, 1997.
2. Kathleen Norris, Amazing Grace, (New York: Riverhead Books, 1998), p.13.
© 1999 Gregory Knox Jones, all rights reserved
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