Speaking of death

— Christians have an opportunity to eschew euphemisms and talk honestly about mortality.

By Rachel Mann

When my father died a couple of years ago, my family asked me to take the lead in organizing his funeral. I was happy to take this role: I am an experienced cleric used to working with funeral directors, and I have a strong understanding of the funeral process. What I’d never previously experienced—at least not from the point of view of a grieving person—is how readily those involved in the ministrations around a death speak in euphemisms. Perhaps it was a token of my grief, but I was annoyed by how many people couldn’t even say that my dad had died; most people, including the funeral director, said, repeatedly, that he’d “passed.”

Does it matter? At one level, no. The phrase “passed away” has been used to refer to death for 500 years. Still, it troubles me theologically. I fear that the prevalence of using passed as a way of speaking (or not speaking) of death indicates a society frightened by the finality of death, one that has opted for an overly spiritualized response to the last enemy.

A common refrain in my clergy circles is about how, on visits to plan funeral services with the bereaved, the only person prepared to use the “D” word is the priest herself. The bereaved will typically resort to any number of euphemisms to avoid it. This is entirely understandable. Shock is a natural reaction to death and, as creatures of language, we may be inclined to retreat to clichés that seem to soften the blow.

Indeed, at one level, euphemisms are entirely comprehensible as strategies to avoid the things we struggle with most. As Voltaire noted, “One great use of words is to hide our thoughts.” This applies to any difficult aspect of life, not simply death. Terms like downsizing and rationalization have been used for decades in business settings to avoid speaking directly about job cuts. In almost every area of life that really matters or troubles us—from sex through to war—there are forms of words that have been found to smooth out what’s difficult.

If death is the greatest human fear, it is hardly surprising that most of us will find ways of avoiding talking about it. The sheer number of ways humans have of avoiding the “D” word is both a testament to our creativity and an indication of how much we fear death.

Yet I think one of the imperatives on us as Christians is to be as honest as we can about death. Priests in particular are called to help people to pray and prepare them for death. Ironically, in an age when Christians are often parodied as delusional fantasists, we in fact have something powerful to offer as people who model realism and honesty about death. And one way we do that is by avoiding euphemisms at the point of death. If euphemisms are deployed in part to soften the nature of something shocking and appalling, ironically they serve to draw greater attention to that which they are meant to conceal. By being carefully and humanely honest about the singular finality of death, both priests and laypeople may be key agents in helping the bereaved to come to terms with the simple fact that, in this life at least, their loved ones are gone.

I am not suggesting that Christians should be crass. I trust we will always be sensitive to death’s ability to strip any of us of our certainties. But the quiet acknowledgment of the final nature of death may be significant both pastorally and for mission. In being clear that death has a shocking finality about it, Christians—as people who are committed to resurrection and new life—may be better placed to speak the good news of Christ. One thing we should not be afraid of in our faith tradition is the bleak reality that God incarnate, Jesus Christ, actually died and died horribly. He did not fall asleep or pass over or, to quote George Eliot, “join the choir invisible.” He died, in a vile and appalling way.

Resurrection is predicated on death. This is a powerful message in an age and culture in which technology and market economics have created the illusion that life and growth are almost endless. Growth is taken to be always good—and to be fair, growth is often a sign of life. Yet Jesus invites us to remember that unless a kernel of wheat falls and dies it remains a single seed. Jesus himself models a way of living abundantly that is grounded in the unavoidable reality of death.

Increasingly I read stories of billionaires seeking to cheat death altogether. In a culture where medical technologies have extended life among the wealthy to unprecedented levels, Christianity retains a potent voice on the inescapability of death. Even more powerfully, the figure at the heart of the Christian faith, Jesus Christ, signals that a fulfilled and rich life is not by its nature dependent on its length. At a time when religious faith is often parodied as absurd, childish, and fantastical, there is a profound opportunity to speak to the privilege of individuals and societies that seek to isolate themselves from the facts of human existence.

I know that there is nothing much I can do, as an individual, about the use of passing as a euphemism for death. At the same time, I can think of no greater vocation as a person of faith than to speak honestly about death, trusting in that even deeper reality of God’s resurrection.

Complete Article HERE!

We are all going to die

— During my first several hours administering ashes as a hospital chaplain, I kept cringing.

Chaplain Angela Song, right, places ashes on the forehead of surgeon Michele Carpenter at Providence St. Joseph Hospital in Orange, California, in February 2023.

By Rachel Rim

Inside the vast, dimly lit chapel, I stand beside a stool that holds Q-tips, a number ticker, and a small jar of ash. The chapel is musty and dark, its stained-glass windows allowing little light to permeate the pews. It lacks a cross, bimah, or any other particular faith marker. This chapel is not a gathering place for a specific community but a refuge for the thousands of patients, family members, and staff who enter the Columbia University Irving Medical Center each day.

Nurses in navy scrubs begin to queue outside the entrance, and I ready a Q-tip in one hand and the jar of ash in the other. Then, as each person squats before my five-foot frame, I check their badge, make a black cross on their forehead, address them by name, and say, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Most of them murmur a thank-you and leave; a few walk past me to sit silently in the pews. One or two enthusiastically tell me how glad they are that the hospital offers ashes on Ash Wednesday. The mood, however, is mainly somber, and I wonder as I administer the ashes what these colleagues of mine—nurses and doctors and social workers—are thinking as they receive a sign of death on their bodies before making their way to the dying bodies they are caring for.

Ash Wednesday is the busiest day of the year for our spiritual care department. It’s a whole-team affair: the Catholic priest attends to specific sacramental needs, the chaplains who are comfortable with the imposition of ashes each cover an assigned part of the hospital, and those who are not handle the litany of calls and referrals that make up a day at the hospital. Like a symphony, it takes everyone doing their part to play the piece.

Last year, the day after Ash Wednesday I was sitting with my chaplain cohort when I saw a New York Times article about a man who was being investigated for hate crimes after multiple incidents in which he punched Asian Americans on the subway. I found myself suddenly in tears, unable to breathe—an intensely physiological response that was unusual for me. When my supervisor, a rabbi, realized what state I was in, she promptly invited me to accompany her and another chaplain friend to visit a colleague who’d gone into labor the day before. We made our way over to the maternity ward and held the beautiful baby. At the new mother’s request, we each spoke a blessing over the infant—one Jewish blessing, one Christian blessing, and one Indigenous blessing, representing each of our traditions. As we stood in the quiet, clean room blessing this new life that had entered the world on Ash Wednesday, my body calmed and I relaxed into the safety of my friends.

The mother, also a rabbi, now says that Ash Wednesday is her favorite non-Jewish holiday. She loves the personal resonance she feels with it as her daughter’s birthday, as well as the memory of the sacred moment of mutual blessing and respect that we shared the following day.

I, too, have come to love Ash Wednesday differently after two years of working in the hospital on this day. For me, the memory of being invited to provide a blessing in my own tradition to this daughter of a rabbi feels like the embodiment of interfaith chaplaincy. It baptizes this day with a kind of hospitality, marking it not merely as a day of somber repentance and meditation on mortality but also one of generosity and grace, a day that all can participate in regardless of their faith tradition.

The first time I administered ashes at the hospital, I was shocked both by how many people—patients, staff, visitors—wanted ashes and by the genuine gratitude and peace they seemed to feel upon receiving them. It felt incongruent to me, to feel peace at a symbol of one’s mortality: Why were they so grateful to have a stranger remind them that they will one day die? I felt as though I were saying, “Hello, good doctor—receive this sign that one day you will die just as inevitably as all your patients will.” I cringed for the first several hours that I administered ashes.

Then something shifted. I went to the pediatric ward and administered ashes to my patients, the children of parents desperate for hope and healing. I saw how this ritual gave them that hope and healing, the way their eyes closed, their heads bowed in gratitude, and their shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. I remember going into the room of a patient I’d been following for months, a five-year-old girl with leukemia, and feeling both a kind of dread and a strange, unexplainable grace as I marked her and her parents’ foreheads. It meant something—it meant everything, perhaps—that I, too, wore a cross of ash on my forehead as I marked theirs. I was not pronouncing their deaths like some kind of prophet or angel of death; I was joining them, and inviting them to join me, in the knowledge of our universal mortality. In a sense, I was saying, “We are all patients here. We are all going to die. We are all called to join Christ in his death and his resurrection.” Perhaps providing ashes on this holiday was the deepest embodiment of solidarity with sick and dying people that I possessed.

After that experience, I came to see administering ashes to staff differently as well. Rather than feeling like I was dooming the work of the doctors and nurses who came to me with their heads bowed—essentially telling them that no matter how hard they tried or how advanced medical science became, they would ultimately fail—I was relieving them of a burden too great to carry, one that medical providers are too often asked to hold. They are not, in fact, in the business of saving lives—not in the sense of endlessly deferring death, curing people of the disease of mortality.

Human beings cannot be cured of our mortal diagnosis; death will come for each of us at one time or another, no matter how healthy our lifestyles and how frequent our scans and checkups. Perhaps by administering ashes to these doctors and nurses, I was helping remind them of that truth, freeing them even a little from the enormous pressure that they carry. Their jobs are not to cure but to care, not to fix but to heal, until the inevitable and universal healing of our bodies comes in the form of the death we will all one day face.

According to the United States Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, physician and clinical services expenditures in 2021 totaled $864.6 billion. An estimated $4.3 trillion was spent on health care that year in the US, $1.3 trillion of it on hospital care. In 2017, a team of Australian health-care researchers reported that so-called futility disputes in that country—wherein patients with an extremely low or zero chance of recovery, such as those who are legally brain-dead, are kept on life-sustaining interventions in the hospital—cost $153.1 million per year.

The story behind these numbers is a complex one, and no single narrative can be extrapolated from it. Nevertheless, it seems clear that Western culture is too often a death-denying culture, one where the inevitable fact of our mortality stands in stark contrast to the billions of dollars spent each year not only on medically futile treatment but also on the many products aimed at denying death, halting the aging process, and alleviating the sting of acknowledging that we are mortal creatures. We know that we will die, but like children who cover their ears to ignore their parents’ commands, we block out the noise of our impending death with any device or entertainment we can find.

Distracting ourselves from death is not necessarily a bad thing. Human beings weren’t designed to dwell endlessly on our mortality, to read constant stories of violence and death on the news and ruminate over the inevitability that our loved ones will one day leave us. Jesus himself, even as he set his face toward Jerusalem and the violent death he knew would come, broke bread with his disciples, debated with his neighbors, and spent hours reclining after supper with friends and strangers.

Nevertheless, there is a difference between appropriate distraction and endless denial, and research has shown that such denial has enormous costs, from medical expenditures to the quality and length of one’s life (Atul Gawande makes this argument powerfully in Being Mortal). For my part, I have come to see Ash Wednesday, with its blunt liturgy and embodied rituals, as a profound antithesis, perhaps even a kind of antidote, to the particularly American denial of death. I now see the hospital setting as a uniquely appropriate stage for the drama of ashes, and its actors—the patients, families, and staff—as the people who have the most to teach us about how to live well as mortal beings, which is above all a question of how to die well.

The dramatization of death in the hospital that happens every year at the start of Lent leaves no room for escape, whether one wears a cross of ashes or shares a room with one who does, whether one is receiving a diagnosis or delivering one. We all bear witness with our bodies to the truth of our finitude, and for one day every year, perhaps we can help heal one another of our tendency to forget. There can be a grace to remembrance, after all. We remember that we are dust and that we will return to dust, and by remembering, we invite ourselves and one another to learn how to live in this fatal time between.

Complete Article HERE!

I Love the Beautiful Chaos of a Jewish Funeral

— There is something quite moving about all this grief amongst all this routine.

By

It was only relatively recently that I learned that holding funerals within 24 hours was a Jewish custom, and not the general norm. I’ve been extremely lucky in having gone to quite few funerals, and almost all of these have been those of Jewish family members, so it simply didn’t occur to me that we might be doing anything unusual in having them so quickly. Without the understanding that this wasn’t standard practice, I didn’t consider it exceptional — but the impact it has on the process of mourning can be, in my opinion, a significant and unifying one.

In the Torah, we are told that “You shall bury him the same day. His body should not remain all night.” And traditionally, the urgency of the funeral is linked to the importance of returning the body to the earth and allowing the soul to return to God. As a culturally-not-religiously Jewish person, I was unaware of both the scriptural and spiritual reasoning until very recently. I would have placed the emphasis on the emotional reasoning, which argues that the immediate experience of loss, mourning and proximity to death is a deep pain to feel, and one which should not be undergone any longer than absolutely necessary. Now it seems clear to me that it’s more about custom than anything else. Either way, I have come to hold it as an immensely important, beautiful aspect of the Jewish culture around death.

In December, my great-great auntie Marjorie became quite ill and we as a family braced ourselves for an upcoming funeral. She, along with much of my family, lived in Manchester, so in the lead-up to her passing, the London sect of us were on slight tenterhooks in anticipation of journeying up on little notice. In these moments, the banal and the profound are forced to find some kind of harmony. When contemplating loss is simply too vast, logistics take on a special importance.

In some ways, the knowledge that you’re just waiting for a death to occur so that the chain of events can start to unfold can be quite tiring. Maintaining a state of urgency over an extended period of time is logistically and emotionally tricky, and having to be pragmatic in the face of something so sad can feel like an unnecessary added encumbrance. But ultimately, there is no actively good time for a funeral. No one is looking at their diary and finding the perfect date to dedicate to doing something none of us want to do. In some ways, recognizing that the funeral will be hard no matter what, and then allowing it to take precedence over all other commitments, is the best way to allow a loss the appropriate space it deserves in our lives.

When the day arrived, a large portion of it for me was taken up by travel. We woke up to cancelled trains — standard — and then huddled alongside however many other disgruntled passengers at Euston. My mum’s cousin Caroline and I ran at absolute breakneck pace through crowds of people to get seats as soon as the platform was announced. On the drive from the station to the cemetery, we passed innumerable family monuments: the prison to which my uncle was told his parents had been sent in a prank by his cousin, the sandhills where Caroline reported “practically torturing” my mum when they were little, the shop to which it was a very grown up privilege to be allowed to walk to alone. Despite most of my visits to Manchester now being for funerals, the city will always feel full of life. Our memories and our history are part of the fabric of the place, and so many of those who we’ve lost are kept alive in the stories we can’t help but keep telling.

The funeral itself was brief and beautiful. My great-great aunt was a truly incredible person whose innate kindness and protectiveness distinguished her as remarkable to everyone around her. With it all having to come together so quickly, the words people choose take on a special significance: they are candid, and emotional, and cut straight to the core.

And yet, alongside mourning and meaning exists the mundane. People keep being people, and we continue to have to get ourselves from A to B. On the journey back to the station after the funeral, I sat squashed between my uncle and my grandfather in the backseat of my great uncle’s car, and we sat for a short eternity in a gridlock outside my grandma’s primary school, entertained by stories about that time of her life. When we finally got to the station, we caught a train by the skin of our teeth. By holding funerals so quickly, we force our lives to fit into the space around them, and require them to find a way to enmesh themselves into the day to day. There is something quite moving about all this grief amongst all this routine.

Sitting on trains gives you the wonderful gift of time to think. I reflected on my privileged position, experiencing the funeral of someone so beloved as a peripheral mourner, and how this offered another insight into the magic of having a funeral within 24 hours of a death. With this custom, in the direct aftermath of losing someone the people closest to the deceased are immediately wrapped in love. Their family and friends flock to them and make sure they aren’t alone with their grief. The initial experience of living without someone involves being in a room full of people who are there to remember and celebrate them. A funeral within 24 hours catches you just as you fall into the abyss.

And whilst there are undeniable impracticalities, the system manages to account for most. For those who are unable to make it, attending a shiva in the coming days offers them another chance to support and commemorate and mourn for themselves, as well as to contribute to the elongation of the period in which those closest to the deceased are surrounded by care. Whilst the funeral comes quickly, this does not mark the end of the grieving process — rather, it’s the beginning of the talking, processing and feeling. I am grateful that, thanks to Jewish custom, that beginning starts within 24 hours of a death. It’s exactly what we need.

Complete Article HERE!

“That’s for remembrance”

– A recipe for garlic and rosemary lamb

Rosemary in bloom

By

I wrote half of last month’s column in an airport, trying to get to my grandmother before it was too late. Neither of us made it; she was gone before I even boarded. When I was done ugly crying – on the phone to my cousin as he broke the news, then again in front of the alarmed workers of the airport Costa – I wanted to metaphorically tear up everything I’d written and start on this instead, even if I didn’t have a clear idea of what this was yet, beyond something about rosemary’s tie to memory and a roast lamb no one would ever make for me again.

But it was the Winter Solstice coming up, and my first entry in a column on the place where food and magic intersect; and, crucially, it was too close to that moment of raw grief to pull it together into something coherent, something worthwhile. So I finished that piece on tea and mead and spices and the interwoven debts that we owe each other, and I’m bringing this to you now instead.

Rosemary is the herb of memory. I miss my grandmother.

When dealing with traditional herbal correspondences it can be hard to separate the magical from the mundane. Partly because our ancestors didn’t make that distinction themselves, seeing magic, faith, and physical medicine as part of a single whole in a world entirely imbued with the sacred. But also because, as traditional herbcraft has faded out of practice, attributions which were once meant to be understood literally can seem like metaphor or mysticism, only to then surprise us when we rediscover their physical nature. Rosemary, and the impact it has on memory, is one such example.

When Ophelia includes the herb in her list of accusatory flowers, it’s easy to assume her famous quote, “rosemary, that’s for remembrance” is as metaphorical as the rest. But rosemary has long been a herb associated with funerary rites, with death, and with remembrance of the departed, traditionally being placed on the biers of the dead. Its strong smell, which lingers in the room like a memory, would have helped to cover the beginnings of decay, as well as indelibly tying itself to that moment of grief and loss in the mourner’s neurology. Scent is one of the key triggers of memory, even with substances that don’t specifically effect cognition – how much more powerful rosemary’s impact then, with the discovery that it does.

Rosemary has other folkloric ties to memory outside of the funeral parlour – with Ancient Greek students supposedly using it as a study aid, and Sir Thomas Moore declaring the herb sacred to friendship because it provokes remembrance of the living, not just the dead.

As modern medical research examines herblore to see if there are effective treatments that have been overlooked, or that can be made effective with modern scientific techniques, rosemary has had its turn in the laboratory. Studies indicate that ingesting rosemary enhances recall speed as well as improves episodic and working memory, and may even have a positive impact on Alzheimers, though more research needs to be done to understand why.

Even inhaling the scent of rosemary seems beneficial, though the impact is smaller, and works best if the subject is exposed to the scent both during the learning process and then again when asked to recall things later on – scent as a memory trigger, enhanced by the effects of rosemary’s unique chemical composition on the brain.

A bouquet of herbs, including rosemary, in a bowl

This puts us in a position where rosemary is uniquely suited to remember and honour the beloved dead. Symbolically linked to the dead through religious rites and burial practices, tied to love and the transition from one life stage to another (it is worn at weddings as well as funerals), rosemary also helps us to remember in a literal, physical way. Eaten regularly, it may help preserve the memories of those departed, as well as prompting us to remember meals shared or time spent cooking together when the familiar scents reach us and work their neurological magic.

To combine the spiritual with the physical is a very powerful thing, grounding us in both realms at once, and binding them together in us. That which is gone is never really gone.

Garlic and Rosemary Lamb

Growing up, my grandmother was the only person who could cook a roast lamb I actually enjoyed eating. I don’t know how she did it, and she was a cooking by instinct sort of person so there are no recipes left behind. I still don’t eat lamb that much, though it’s appeared more often in my house since I married a New Zealander, but I knew it was exactly what I wanted to make for this column, and my grandmother. I hope you like it.

Lamb with rosemary and peppers

Lamb shoulder (900g)

Fresh rosemary (2 – 3 tablespoons, chopped)
3 bulbs of garlic
500g baby potatoes
125 ml red wine
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Flour

Start by setting the oven to pre-heat at 240 C (220 C fan, ~450 F). While that’s heating up, mix four tablespoons of olive oil with eight cloves of crushed garlic, the rosemary, and the salt and pepper. When thoroughly mixed rub it all over the lamb shoulder. Halve the remaining garlic bulbs and place them with the potatoes in a roasting tray, drizzle with olive oil, crack salt and pepper over them, and then place the lamb on top. Finally, pour the wine over it all and cover with a tinfoil tent before placing it into the oven.

Let the lamb roast for fifty minutes and then remove the tinfoil for the final ten minutes to let it crisp up nicely. Once it’s done let the lamb rest for fifteen minutes. While the meat is resting, remove the garlic and potatoes from the tray so you can turn the drippings into a gravy by whisking in flour over a low heat until it reaches your preferred consistency.

Complete Article HERE!

Terror Management Theory

— How Humans Cope With the Awareness of Their Own Death

By Cynthia Vinney, PhD

Terror Management Theory (TMT) suggests that human beings are uniquely capable of recognizing their own deaths and therefore they must manage the existential anxiety and fear that comes with knowing their time on Earth is limited.

The theory was developed by psychological researchers Jeff Greenberg, Sheldon Solomon, and Tom Pyszczynski, who published the first TMT article in 1986.1 They based TMT on the writings of Ernest Becker, who spoke of the need to protect against the universality of the terror of death.

In this article, we’ll review key concepts of TMT, look at empirical evidence in support of TMT, explore real-life examples of TMT, and discuss how it is used across different fields.

Key Concepts and Principles of Terror Management Theory

Terror Management Theory explains that people protect themselves against mortality salience, or awareness of one’s own death, based on whether their fears are conscious or unconscious.

If they’re conscious, people combat them through proximal defenses by eliminating the threat from their conscious awareness. If they’re unconscious, distal defenses, such as a sense of meaning, like cultural worldviews, or value, like self-esteem, diminish unconscious concerns about death.2

Cultural worldviews and self-esteem are key concepts of TMT. They are both central to protection against mortality salience. David Tzall, PsyD, a licensed psychologist in New York, notes, “TMT suggests that individuals gravitate towards and defend their cultural worldviews more strongly when confronted with thoughts of mortality.”

Through cultural worldviews, people can achieve literal or symbolic immortality. Literal immortality, the idea that we will continue to exist after our death, is usually the domain of religious cultural worldviews. Symbolic immortality is the idea that something greater than oneself continues to exist after their death, such as families, monuments, books, paintings, or anything else that continues to exist after they’re gone.

TMT suggests that individuals gravitate towards and defend their cultural worldviews more strongly when confronted with thoughts of mortality.

Self-esteem plays a significant role in TMT too. “When faced with the awareness of death,” Tzall says, “people often engage in activities or behaviors that boost their self-esteem as a way to manage the anxiety associated with mortality.” In so doing, they provide the sense that they are a valuable participant  in a meaningful universe.3

These have led to two important hypotheses in TMT. First, the mortality salience hypothesis says we have negative reactions to individuals from a different group, called “outgroupers,” who present a threat to our group, and have positive reactions to those who represent our cultural values, referred to as “ingroupers.” Second, the anxiety-buffer hypothesis says strengthening our anxiety-buffer by, for example, boosting self-esteem, should reduce the individual’s anxiety about death.4

Review of Empirical Evidence Supporting Terror Management Theory

There are over 500 studies conducted in countries around the world supporting TMT. For example, one study found that raising self-esteem reduces anxiety in response to images of death.5 Similarly, increasing self-esteem reduces the effects of mortality salience on the defense of one’s worldview. When the researchers provided positive personality feedback instead of neutral feedback, their preference for a US-based author was equivalent to that of the control group, whereas participants who received neutral feedback far exceeded the control group in preference for the author.6

Another study found that worldview threats increase accessibility of death thoughts. When Canadians were exposed to a website that either derogated Canadian values or Australian values, they had far more thoughts about death when they encountered the anti-Canadian information.7

Real-Life Examples Illustrating the Application of Terror Management Theory

There are many ways that terror management theory can be applied to real life. Tzall provides some examples, such as “religion where religious beliefs and practices offer explanations for life’s meaning, purpose, and what happens after death. People will turn to religion to alleviate existential anxiety and find solace in the idea of an afterlife.”

Believing in religion may provide a chance at literal immortality, but beyond that, it can provide a cultural worldview that brings meaning and purpose to life and can alleviate mortality salience.

Likewise, Tzall gives the example of belonging to a nation that “provides a sense of identity and belonging, which can help individuals feel connected to something enduring. People may strive to achieve success, create meaningful relationships, or contribute to society in ways that leave a lasting impact.” There are all sorts of ways that people can find meaning and achieve symbolic immortality, including being part of a nation that will go on after their death.

In addition to feeling like a part of the nation, people will want to put their own stamp on the nation whether through success in industry, meaningful relationships that have a lasting impact, or other options like volunteering, having a family, or writing a book.

Implications of Terror Management Theory across Different Fields

Different fields can use TMT in different ways. For example, the most obvious may be the field of therapy and counseling. As Tzall explains, “TMT sheds light on how individuals’ psychological well-being, self-esteem, and behavior are influenced by thoughts of mortality.” Tzall continues, this “can help therapists understand existential anxiety and develop strategies to address it.”

The theory can similarly be used in marketing and advertising, but the emphasis is different. “TMT can inform advertising strategies that tap into consumers’ desires for symbolic immortality,” Tzall says. In this conception, marketers and advertisers advertise goods or services in a way that communicates their desire for symbolic immortality can be met.

Similarly, political science “can help explain the polarization of political ideologies,” explains Tzall, “and the ways in which leaders appeal to their followers’ existential concerns to gain support.” Through cultural worldviews that appreciate others like them but reject others that are not like them, leaders can exploit their followers and even lead them to rise up against others that do not agree with them, in wars, conflicts, or events like January 6th, where a small group of like-minded citizens stormed Congress.

Significance of Terror Management Theory in Understanding Human Behavior and Beliefs

Though some studies about TMT have failed to be replicated, Terror Management Theory has continued to resonate with many people. And researchers still use it to describe various events.

For example, a group of researchers used TMT to detail the COVID-19 pandemic during its height, explaining that regardless of how deadly the virus is, the risk of dying was highly salient.8 As a result, in response to the pandemic, people responded to the constant fear of death in both proximal and distal ways.

In proximal ways: drinking and eating in excess to arguing that the virus isn’t nearly as lethal as health experts claim. And in distal ways: affirming an individual’s cultural worldview to maximizing one’s self-esteem, in line with the TMT literature. As threats that remind us of our own deaths continue and expand, TMT will continue to be a leading source of understanding human behavior and beliefs.

Complete Article HERE!

My 2024 Goal Is To Have A Good Death

(But not this year)

By Ryvyn

American culture is extraordinarily goal-oriented. This January, pause and notice the messages and expectations that are motivating you. Everyone creates goals regarding all aspects of life. In a single day, we set a vast number of goals to accomplish.

Adults have daily, monthly, or yearly goals for their job which may not be in alignment with their additional career goals. Athletes have intense levels of goal achievement and mindset work. Others may have spiritual or emotional goals. You might also have social, educational or even comfort goals, for instance, you want to purchase your own car or house or you want to start a family or gain independence. This list of goals can go on ad infinitum, but you have gotten the point by now and I’m beginning to feel overwhelmed by just listing possible goals.

Thus, I began polling people about their goals. I recently had a conversation with an acquaintance who stated their goal for 2024 was to add days to their family vacation. And then I sat there waiting in silence until it became uncomfortable, and I realized that was all they were going to say. I found myself in awe. I did not know what to say or how to respond as my mind whirled out of control with the list of goals I had set just because it’s TODAY and tomorrow isn’t promised!

My mind thought of my weightlifting, cardio, yoga, nutrition and meditation goals, the stack of books I plan to read, the podcast episodes and blog articles I want to do, the networking organizations and business researching, and any new certifications I think will benefit myself or my staff. Every year I want to see an increase in business profits. This breaks down to clients, social media and marketing goals, community outreach, pro-bono work.

As a member of my religion’s clergy, I have personal spiritual preparation and educational goals. Then there are relationships, family, and travel goals. And, underlying it all, my goal is to just handle what I’ve got scheduled and NOT take on any other GOALS!!!

I realized making New Year’s Goals is passe when I attended a business networking group recently, the host asked, “For those of you that are still into it, raise your hand if you’ve set goals for 2024?” Only about a third of the people raised their hand.

As a 2023 volunteer service goal, I committed to hosting monthly, virtual, Death Cafe meetings. For more information go to DeathCafe, According to the Death Cafe rules for these meetings, the only requirement is not to have a plan or agenda and to simply to hold space for the conversation. These are often sacred and sincere moments where people are vulnerable and share their thoughts and experiences. That required a personal commitment to do so. I see goals as personal commitments for growth, if you are not growing and learning you are stagnating.

One of my yoga certifications is in Brain Longevity Therapy Training. One of the tenets to a healthy aging brain is to keep it active. Activities like learning new skills, reading, socializing, movement work like balance and exercise all affect the brain. The brain and body need to be challenged to keep them working at optimal levels. However, growth is often a process that occurs even during dying and all the way through death. I often look at death, not only as transition but as an initiation. Death is an unknown and it takes preparation to face it in peace. Physician-assisted suicide, or “medical aid in dying”, is legal in eleven jurisdictions, the Commonwealth of Virginia is not one of them. As a Death Doula, I have been bedside with several people as they were actively dying. Some are aware and some are not, while all these deaths were medically regarded as peaceful. I do not know that they would classify as a “good death” if it were my own.

Holding space for Death is a growth experience. My ultimate goal is to have a good death and all my other goals reflect that. No, I am not actively dying, I am actively living. I am acutely aware of the fact that tomorrow is not promised and that gives the simplest of moments a glamor that most people do not see.

For example, walking my very elderly dog is its own growth experience in mindfulness. We walk slowly and methodically. Her eyes are not as clear now and it is obvious she has become mostly deaf. She avoids stairs or steep hills. She demands pets from any stranger and wants to sniff any friendly dog. She takes long pauses to sniff thoroughly between bushes and under benches. I have time to notice the clarity of the stars above and watch the diamonds of frost begin to form as we stand silently on the abandoned sidewalks in the winter darkness. The sweeping mantle of cold (or possibly arthritic joints) makes her knees tremble slightly.

We slowly walk along, allowing her to go as far as she wants and where she wants, until she spontaneously turns around and heads back. Some days she stands in the doorway to our apartment looking through as if she has forgotten where she is, cautious about entering. Other days, as she sleeps long and deeply, I will hear her whimper and look over to see her feet moving slightly, clearly dreaming of running and playing with other dogs or her humans. I know time is growing shorter for her, but we will face that together. I do not ever want her to feel alone or unloved. We can never accurately predict when a natural death will occur, so you must be ready all the time. Ushering a pet is much like a person. We sit and just be with each other. Sometimes I talk but other times it is just not needed. She just wants someone to be present and touch her. So much is conveyed through touch.

Time seems to shrink for elders. One activity, like a medical appointment or meeting a friend for coffee, can be exhausting. You think you have all the time in the world to accomplish the things you want but knowing Death can come at any time can make the experiences of life taste even more sweet. I do not like to repeat experiences, travel to the same places or even eat in the same restaurants because I might miss an opportunity! When I die, I want to know I lived my life to its fullest and took every opportunity to suck the life out of every single minute. This requires commitment, planning and setting goals.

Take a minute to consider if you knew you only had one year left to live. How would you live differently? What would take importance? Do you have the cash? Make it happen. Set those goals! Say the things that need to be said! Do the things you need to do! Heal the things that need attention! Let go of the past and be present! It’s time to outgrow your comfortable life and move into the adventure of living fully so that when Death arrives you are ready to take that journey with her without hesitation or regret weighing you down.

P.S. I offer a virtual Death Cafe meeting every month, for more information google “Death Cafe of Southside Virginia” or look us up on DeathCafe.com

Complete Article HERE!

Islamic Burial Rites

— How These Women Are Making a Change in US

Ramla Shaikh works with a local funeral home in Avon, Connecticut, to assist with Muslim burials.

Most funeral homes don’t know how to bury Muslims but a group of Muslim women seek to introduce a change.

By

More than a dozen women watch closely as Ida Khalil measures the length of the mannequin lying on the white table in front of her, stretching the palm of her hand and moving up from the figure’s toes to its head, HuffPost reported on Sunday.

She then measures and cuts the white shroud, the garment in which Muslims are wrapped when they are buried — three pieces of cloth for men and five for women. Muslims traditionally aren’t buried in caskets, a practice connected to the belief that everyone is equal in death and no one takes along any of the possessions, status or wealth they may have accumulated in life.

Khalil’s voice, confident and clear, reverberates in the room as she explains the rituals of how to wash and wrap a body according to the Islamic tradition. She wears blue medical gloves and a medical apron over her long black abaya, a loose garment worn by Muslim women, that she paired with a keffiyeh-print hijab. Behind her are the Palestinian and American flags, representing the large Palestinian American community in the town.

The women in the audience tilt their heads with Khalil’s every move, some taking detailed notes, others recording the demonstration on their phones. Some of the women came alone, while others came in pairs, including mothers and daughters. The women ― some in their early 20s, others in their 80s, and still others of every age in between ― sit in neat rows of folding chairs at this cultural center, their jackets hanging off the backs of seats. The sun sets, and a chilly fall wind hits the doors.

Khalil is here because she believes it’s critical for the next generation of Muslim women to learn how to wash bodies. Otherwise, she worries, the tradition may be forgotten. In Islam, death is seen not as an end but rather as a transition from one lifetime to another. It’s not a taboo subject, and Muslims are encouraged to prepare for death to come at any moment, including by learning the related traditions, rituals and spiritual elements through the Islamic faith.

Despite this, many women in the U.S. are too afraid of touching a body to learn how to prepare for their loved ones’ deaths until it’s too late, Khalil said.

“They don’t get that this is incredibly important,” she told HuffPost.

‘You’re Putting Them To Peace’

Islam, like many other religions, sets out a specific process for what should happen to a person’s body after they die. The body must be washed and not embalmed, then buried quickly, usually within 24 hours.

Men are usually washed by men, and women by women. There are a few exceptions made for relatives such as parents and children. The Islamic faith outlines the protocols for preparing the body, including washing it (starting with the right side), braiding the hair, perfuming the body and wrapping it in cotton.

Above all, there is an emphasis on dignifying the deceased. Those who wash are forbidden from relating the details of a body, and the process is meant to occur in silence. Muslims believe that washing, burying and praying for the dead are a collective duty. When a member of the community passes, all are encouraged to participate in funeral prayers and send condolences to the family.

Khalil, now 57, first learned to wash a body when she was 44.

“I said fine, let me take the class. But I’ll never do this. I’m afraid of dead people,” she said, recalling when two women came to the mosque she attended to teach others how to carry out the process.

A few months later, Khalil’s mother reached out. Her sister-in-law had died, and she wanted Khalil to wash her.

Khalil was hesitant, but she didn’t want to reject her mother’s request. She showed up to the mosque, accompanied by two other women. The room was silent and Khalil found herself washing her aunt’s body without concern. She thought she’d have trouble sleeping that night, but she slept well, knowing she could honor her mother and aunt.
Thirteen years later, Khalil has washed more than a hundred women at three mosques across New Jersey.

“I used to be afraid of dead people,” she said. “Now I could sleep next to dead people.”

Islamic Burial Rites: How These Women Are Making a Change in US
Ida Khalil demonstrates how to wash and prepare a body for burial at Beit Anan Community Center in Paterson, New Jersey, Oct. 22.

Some washes are harder than others. Khalil recalls washing and preparing the body of a 5-month-old fetus that did not make it to term. She also recalls washing the body of a domestic violence victim who was punctured with stab wounds.

At the cultural center where Khalil taught her class, she demonstrated the Islamic pre-ritual wash conducted before prayers, washing between the mannequin’s fingers, face and feet up to the ankles. She used warm water, as she always does. She told her audience that she tells the families of the deceased to bring their loved one’s favorite soaps and shampoos.

Khalil told the women in the class to think about themselves and treat the body as they would want to be treated.

“It’s their last bath,” she told her audience. “Picture yourself.”

Some women asked if nail polish and piercings should be removed. Yes, Khalil said. The majority of women said it was their first time taking Khalil’s class, though some said they’d taken one before.

Naemeh Asfour, 25, attended Khalil’s class with her mother. It was her first time. Asfour and her mother had promised that whoever died first would wash the other.

“Everyone’s a little scared seeing someone dead, or seeing someone you love in that position,” she said. “But in reality, it’s very peaceful when you think about it. You’re giving someone that final bath and you’re putting them to peace.”

‘We’ll Have To Step Up’

In Muslim-majority countries, funeral homes abide by the burial customs of the faith, a process that emphasizes minimalism. After the bodies are washed and wrapped with the white shroud, the deceased are buried facing toward Mecca, the city Muslims face to pray.

But many funeral homes in the U.S. aren’t aware of Islamic traditions, or well equipped to carry them out.

Ramla Shaikh recognized this immediately after moving to the U.S. in 1987. She noticed that the majority of funeral homes embalmed their dead ― the process of preserving a corpse by treating it with chemicals, which is forbidden by the Islamic faith ― or cremated them.

Islamic Burial Rites: How These Women Are Making a Change in US
Khalil giving a demonstration at Beit Anan Community Center, Oct. 22.

So Shaikh, who lives in Avon, Connecticut, now collaborates with a local funeral home when someone in the area’s Muslim community dies. If the body of a Muslim person is brought to the funeral home, they call Shaikh to make sure a Muslim, sometimes Shaikh herself, washes the body.

Shaikh has also negotiated prices with the funeral home on the mosque’s behalf. Traditional services, which include embalming and holding a body for an extended period of time, cost approximately $10,000. But since Muslims prohibit embalming and bury their dead within 24 hours of their passing, Shaikh was able to reduce that cost to just $3,000. (The process is often paid for by social services in Muslim-majority countries, but in the U.S., people from a community band together to cover the costs. Shaikh’s mosque will help families cover expenses if they can’t afford them.)

“If somebody passes away in this country, a Muslim woman or a man, there isn’t a service or aren’t any professionals who can do it here like for the Christians, Jews, or other religions,” she said. “We don’t have that, so we’ll have to step up and do it for our own.”
Shaikh has created a WhatsApp group to coordinate whenever someone in the community dies. She’s been able to help people all over the state.

Islamic Burial Rites: How These Women Are Making a Change in US
Audience members observe Khalil’s demonstration.

Shaikh first washed a body in 2004, when her mother died. She has since washed many more, including those of her mother-in-law and friends of friends, and she persuades other women to get involved with the practice.

“I needed to teach other people so when it comes my time, and I go, somebody will be there to wash me,” she said.

Safwan Shaikh ― the imam at Ramla’s mosque, and no relation to her ― said his community is grateful to have Ramla to streamline the washing and shrouding for their members. Not all mosques are as organized, and the imam said those mosque administrators need to uphold their obligations to the community. In addition to offering religious guidance to the body washers, Safwan ensures that families of the deceased have access to the mosque’s resources, including a memorial service and assistance with expenses.

“It’s something that’s a necessity,” Safwan said, “and I can’t imagine the community not having these for both men and women.”

The mosque had a women’s washing team, headed by Ramla, before there was one for men.

“Muslim women have a lot of rights and responsibilities,” she said. “They are portrayed in front of the world that they are oppressed, but they are leaders in every way.”

Back in Paterson, Khalil hasn’t taken a penny for her work. She never plans to.

“I would do it [for free], even if I’m poor and I have nothing to eat and I have to beg,” Khalil said.

She said the experience has been life-changing. It’s made her reflect on the shortness of life and her purpose in this world. Her demeanor fluctuates between patience and a somber acceptance, as she’s no longer stressing over the small mishaps in life.

She’s silent when she attends funerals and burials, and demands the same from those around her. A few weeks ago, she scolded funeral attendees who were being disruptive and making unnecessary small talk. Respecting the deceased means acknowledging what is to come, for her and for everyone else in that room.

“We’re all going to be in this position,” Khalil said. “It’s a part of life.”

Complete Article HERE!