Let the gods bury the gods

There Are Mortals and Then There Were Gods

Five years ago my father died. I miss him. However, you probably don't. He died a mere mortal. Almost no one cares. He is not the only mortal to die. Mortals die every day. Jane, Bill, Amy, Bob. Yesterday they were here and today they are gone. We hardly notice, unless of course, it is my Jane or my Bob. Then it is my pain. Everyone empathizes. At least when I talk about it. But death is a pretty comfortable thought for most of us, as long as it is someone else's death.

Every day the news tells of more nameless people dying thousands of miles away or at least in someone else's neighborhood. Someone else's Jane or Bob, or Maria, or Neda, or Svetlana. And we passingly notice, and then we turn back to the life we live as a mortal.

We are so comfortable with death we entertain ourselves with it. Movie after game after TV program show death or finding the murderer. Our culture is filled with books and more that showcase death and dying.

We are not too keen on our own death. Receive a diagnosis of cancer, or AIDS. Face death in the face. Turn from entertainment to courage. Then many of us our cowards. We want life. We do not want to face the inevitability of our own death.

Death has another fascinating grip on us. Let a god die. Suddenly we hear no end of commiseration about death. Maybe our god is an innocent teenager gunned down by gang violence. Now we hear of how loving the innocent was. We eulogize the life wasted, the societal contribution lost, the joy we are deprived. But let our god be a celebrity, an actor, a musician, a singer, a superstar and we weep so much louder. We wail over the tragedy. We wave banners, print shirts, mark our cars. Our public grief approaches a spectacle of its own.

Why this anguish over the death of a celebrity and nonchalance over the death of nameless Bob around the corner? Do we really mourn the death of either or just our own loss? When a musician or actor dies, we lose the entertainment they provided. We lose our pleasure. We mourn the decrease in our daily source of pleasure. But Jim or Bob or Svetlana on the next street gave us less distraction. We did not pay to see Bob juggle pineapples in the street or Jane tell her own jokes on the porch. Their death, although closer to us, and probably a lot more significant to us, is less meaningful to us.

How is it that we are the world’s best country, its beacon of freedom and morality, human rights and decency, and yet we react to death more by the pleasure lost than the real value of the person?

My father was a gifted and unique person. He was intelligent and engaging. He saw the world in a way no one else I ever met does. My life is and always has been immensely better for knowing my father. He is the single greatest influence in my life. I thank him for the sweat and courage, the individuality and patience he heroized for me. No other person’s death has or over will mean as much to me. My loss can never be filled. Understood and accepted, it is still cold reality. The challenge to be a man with feet as big as my father's shoes will be one of the great legacies to me.

As unique as my father is in my eyes, he was an ordinary man. My Dave dies little different than your Bob. They were both mortals. But in dedicating their lives to us, they are the real heroes of our age. Their's are the deaths that deserve honor. They were the ones that spent time with us, watched out for us, prayed for us, loved us. That is the world's most important work. When skyscrapers and spaceships deteriorate, when computers crash and metals melt, when concerts and movies are forgotten, fathers will still be raising boys and girls. Mothers will still give their time and themselves for their children.

So I have a proposal. Let the gods bury the gods. Let the rest of us mortals go back to the most important business for us mortals in the world: living as mortals, and honoring the deaths of our own.