The Rev. Dr. Whitney and Amy Dempsey have a decorative wooden sign hanging in the hallway of their home in Colorado. It’s a Japanese proverb that they both feel summarizes the essence of the work they do: “The sun setting is no less beautiful than the sun rising.”
On the surface, things seemed calm. Professors came and left every two weeks, teaching courses to adult South Sudanese students on various aspects of peacebuilding. The students sang together during morning devotions, laughed while acting out dramas in class, and played boisterous volleyball matches before dinner. The staff enjoyed the liveliness of a campus brimming with activity. Yet underneath, we were all aware of the country’s instability. At any time, a spark might fly, igniting a rapidly spreading flame of violence.
Now retired after serving First Presbyterian Church of Libertyville, Illinois, the Rev. Roberta Dodds Ingersoll described during a recent workshop how congregants at First Church became more comfortable talking about their death, or that of a loved one.
Annalie Korengel was having a horrific week. Five funerals in seven days can push any pastor to the brink of physical and spiritual exhaustion. But for the pastor of Unionville Presbyterian Church in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, standing almost daily at the gravesides of young people who had overdosed on opioids pushed her into an indescribable hell.
My day started with a call alerting me of a death that had occurred at dawn and requesting the presence of a chaplain for comfort. I had met the family the previous week and knew they were accepting of the prognosis and nearing transition.
My day started with a call alerting me of a death that had occurred at dawn and requesting the presence of a chaplain for comfort. I had met the family the previous week and knew they were accepting of the prognosis and nearing transition.
Seventeen years ago, our nation was stunned by attacks that took place against thousands of innocent souls. People of all economic classes, educational attainment, races, genders, countries of origin, religions and nearly any other discriminator we can identify were senselessly wounded and killed. Our nation has been at war since that day with many millions affected by the aftermath of what we now call 9/11.
On a sunny July morning, I drove into the Waldheim Jewish Cemetery in Forest Park, a suburb west of Chicago, to attend the burial service for a former hospice patient. Waldheim was founded during the second wave of Jewish immigration to the city in the late 19th century, and it has been the final resting place for women like Sara, a Holocaust survivor from Russia who lived into her 90s.
‘In life and in death we belong to God.’ So begins A Brief Statement of Faith of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.). Yet many Presbyterians struggle to claim this foundational article of faith. The predominant American culture keeps the reality of mortality hidden from public view, even within the church.
The questions come in the darkness, usually around 3 a.m. ‘What will my children’s lives be like without me?’ wonders Farm Church co-founder Ben Johnston-Krase. Four months ago he was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer.
