September 2, 2026

Over a thousand dead from the flood in Nepal and China. The recent deaths of celebrities Tim Curry and Dolly Parton and of the writer Wendell Berry. Why are the deaths in the last few weeks more poignant than at other times? Berry’s death is singularly difficult as he has long been one of my favorite poets. No more of his poems which he wrote on the sabbath days. And these three personalities helped shape the culture in which I was formed. They were a part of creating and sustaining who I was and who I am as a human being. The deaths in Nepal and China are pure horror, reminding me of the tenuousness of life in the face of disaster.

The French philosopher Michel de Montaigne wrote, “Every death should be like its life. We do not become other by dying. I always interpret the death by the life.” Yes, it is the life that is remembered. It is the life that is cherished. It is the life that is emulated and celebrated.

Our faith is a celebration of life. God said “No” to death and to the powers-that-be which crucified Jesus; for God is a God of life. “Choose life (Deut. 30:19),” instructs God. Jesus says, “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly (John 10:10).” To the Romans, Paul writes, “the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Rom. 6:23)”

And we are mortal.

Rev. Eric

Sabbath Poem I (1979)
by Wendell Berry

I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.