You are all going to
die.
It’s true. Perhaps it is
something of a gloomy truth for such a joyous occasion as this, but after all,
you asked Tullius to speak, and so this is what you get. But don’t worry; I
promise to offer a silver lining, or at least a dingy aluminum lining for this
dark cloud.
I talk a lot about
death. It’s a common theme in Literature, not just because we literary types
are morbid, sad, insufferable losers, but because death is real—more real than
we like—and it has a clarifying effect on our beliefs. Those of you who have
been more recently my students will recall that I am fond of saying, “Nothing
helps prioritize like Death.” That is not a new or unique reflection. Socrates,
Seneca, Jesus Christ, Montaigne, Kierkegaard, Heidegger, Ghandi—pretty much
every notable thinker since the beginning of time has recognized the central
reality of death to the proper understanding of human existence.
In their illustrious
company, then, I wish to propose a brief thought experiment.
In the classic 1938
comedy "Holiday," the protagonist Johnny Case (Cary Grant) falls in
love with a woman whom he later discovers to be the daughter of a wealthy
banker. Rather than continue to climb his converging social and economic
ladders, he instead declares that he wants to take a holiday, right at the
start of a promising and lucrative career: “Retire young, work old,” he says,
“come back and work when I know what I’m working for.”
Within our western
world, we may share the impression of Johnny’s would-be father-in-law that such
sentiments are naïve, idealistic, and perhaps even dangerous. But essential to
his reasoning is a profound and practical truth: One cannot reasonably expect
to understand the worth and relevance of an activity or a process without first
examining the intended goal or outcome. So what about the activities and
processes of life?
Consider the analogy of
taking a cooking class whose only point was to teach you that you should
know what you want to make before you find a suitable recipe
for it. It seems like a painfully obvious concept. Perhaps you’d want your
money back.
The sad truth, however,
is that we do tend to live our lives ignoring that fact—we combine ingredients
we like in the hopes that a beautiful and satisfying "meal" will
magically emerge. We rarely think what that meal should be--what would nourish as
well as please, what would satisfy and not merely fill.
And this is what Death
is good for—discovering the end, the outcome, the objective, so we can
understand the recipe; so our lives don’t form some horrendous casserole of
toxic ingredients.
So let’s figure out the
end; let’s take Johnny Case’s idea of "retiring young" and “working
old”—and apply it more broadly: suppose you could die young in order to
live old—come back and live when you know what you’re living for.
So, here’s the thought
experiment: You’re dead. Got it? Actually, go back a little; start
with your dying moments.
First: Imagine.
You’re lingering on your
death bed. You are surrounded by your friends and loved ones. With tears in
your eyes, you turn to your mother, and in a faltering voice whisper, “What did
I get on the ACT?”
Somewhere else in the
hospital, taking his final breaths is Rob Knab. Too weary to speak, he weakly
scribbles his dying words, “Don’t eat my burrito, I’m still going to finish
it.”
Other pressing thoughts may cloud your dwindling minds:
--“I never got the chance to find a desk job and make tons of
money!”
--“If only I had studied a little harder and kept my 4.0—then I could really
rest in peace!”
--“Does Josh Van Vleet think I’m cute?”
And most pressing of all,
--“I wish Liberty would have let me wear floral print!”
In truth, none of these
things will matter (except that last one); none of them should matter. None of
these things—no job, no tax bracket, no impressive résumé, no trophies,
diplomas, or physical feats can make you more worthy of love. And seldom, if ever,
can such things make you better at loving others. And at death, life and love
are the only realities.
Next, consider your funeral: What will your friends
and relatives say--what will be your eulogy?
David Brooks in his
article “The Moral Bucket List” identifies a distinction between what he
calls résumé virtues and eulogy virtues. He explains:
The résumé virtues are the skills you bring to the marketplace.
The eulogy virtues are the ones that are talked about at your funeral — whether
you were kind, brave, honest or faithful. Were you capable of deep love?
We all know that the eulogy virtues are more
important than the résumé ones. But our culture and our educational systems
spend more time teaching the skills and strategies you need for career success
than the qualities you need to radiate that sort of inner light.
He goes on to offer
examples of those dispositions that he thinks are constitutive of the deep
goodness he finds so beautiful and so scarce, which include humility,
an honest grasp of our weaknesses, and an embrace of our dependency on
others.
Humility, weakness, and
dependency. Not exactly classical
virtues—yet can you think of something else you’d rather be true of yourself?
That you understood your own limitations, invested heavily in others interests,
and never showed an inflated sense of self?
On occasion I read the
obituaries—is that weird?—well, someone has to read all those thoughtful words
and think about the lives they represent. I am often surprised, however, that
obituaries can sound a lot like résumés.
There are usually some
reputable accomplishments, a few vague character traits like “generous” or “creative”
and perhaps a reference to particular interests or hobbies. I suppose that is
to be expected; capturing a loved one in writing is like trying to describe
aurora borealis to a dog. But sometimes I wonder, what if there was
nothing else to say? Or, what if such things are exactly what
our loved ones think we would want them to say about us?
My own eulogy could
easily be, “Here lies an ordinary consumer with an average number of friends,
and an impact inferior to many others who are already forgotten.” But I hope
there would be something better to say.
How many of us can
articulate why we are truly valuable?
A wise man asked me once
to attempt just that, and almost everything I could think of was ultimately
inessential; most of my ideas were just ways of describing how I’d be useful to
a prospective employer or how I think my social persona might attract a subset
of interesting people. Pathetic.
Who are you really?
Why do you matter?
My wise friend offered
this: You matter because you can give love and receive love from the nexus of
your personhood as no one else can. Sounds simple, even a bit cheesy at first,
but it means, hallelujah, that you have as much to offer this world
as the most talented genius in all of human history.
We don’t need you to
cure cancer or invent better cell phones or streamline mass transportation. We
don’t need you to “make a difference” in that grandiose sense. There is no new
legislation, wonder drug, or technological advancement that can make a good
world using bad people. Bad people make a bad world.i So we need you to be good,
not impressive. Focus on that.
So, your eulogy…
Do you want to hear
about your grades? Your scholarships, your college admissions? Your trophies
and awards? Perhaps even silence would be better than that, for shouldn’t the
charity of your heart be ineffable and unrepeatable?
Lastly—your final words done; your funeral
over—consider now what’s ahead…
Here’s the silver
lining: There is life after death!
Your old high school
Self is in the tomb. Your petty complaints and anxieties are sealed with your
adolescent corpse; your papers and exams are in the trash; even your
friendships and acquaintances have begun to fossilize into memory.
But the real you must
now be resurrected; you must take on the new life of your adulthood, not just
today, but every day as you awake from the grave of your bed. And this is the
task, the struggle—not just for you, but for us all. As Kierkegaard has put it,
“It is perfectly true, as the philosophers say, that life must be understood
backward. But they forget the other proposition, that it must be lived
forward.”
What is the way forward?
Well you have to choose.
Sorry. We’ve tried to help, but now it’s on you.
There is a reason
students sometimes begin to resent Liberty by the end of their time here. We
asked you to do all sorts of things that are almost too arduous, too strict,
too seemingly arbitrary.
I recall going out for
the water polo team in high school. It is perhaps the most physically demanding
sport I’ve ever had the idiocy to think I could handle. After hours of sprints,
calisthenics, and another 45 minutes of treading water, I felt the full weight
of human frailty. I thought it was too much, too difficult, even pointless. I
just wanted to play the game. I didn’t really want to be good at it. I left the
first morning practice, never to return.
A close acquaintance of
mine at the time, however, endured, and over the season he reaped all the
benefits of the physical conditioning and all the joys of actual competition.
It was not enough,
however.
After my friend
graduated from high school, he grew sedentary and eventually more rotund than
seemed possible for his wiry teenage frame. The benefits of his toil were real,
but they were also abandoned in his next stage of life.
Unlike me, you, Class of
2016, have not quit. Like my friend, you have endured. But that is not enough.
You must not abandon the good. You have done well, but (God forbid) some of you
may get worse. Your new independence will offer new temptations.
When my son Gideon first
started Kindergarten, I asked him what his favorite subject was. His decision
was not hard: Recess. Oddly enough, that may be the one subject in
which some you will really struggle. You will no longer be
supervised.
New people will enter
your life with all the conviction of broad cultural approval and with no
hesitation over indulging to their every impulse. The context will strengthen
the temptations, for it is context and feeling that influences us most strongly
in the days when we must suddenly be self-directing.
The most effective
temptations will merely be an incremental increase of apathy and a sense that
your desires have hitherto been relegated to the margins in order to complete
your high school career, so now they deserve a little “attention.”
There is a reason former
students sometimes appreciate the regimen of Liberty Common only after a year
or two away. The context here made better choices easier—almost necessary.
But your new life must be one of courage and conviction much
stronger than your circumstances. We don’t want you to need us anymore.
Come back only as friends or as colleagues.
The bell has rung. It is
time for recess.
We love you, now get
out.
[i] Freeman, Stephen. “You Barely Make a Difference, And It’s a Good Thing.” http://blogs.ancientfaith.com/glory2godforallthings/. Ancient Faith. December 2015. Web. May 2016.
