Lisa Colón DeLay

This is Part II of my interview with 6th generation funeral director Caleb Wilde.

Caleb Wilde, Part II (click)

PLUS.

There is also Bonus Video material I decided to upload that largely contains my own thoughts on how we tend to wrongly respond to grief and suffering, followed by Caleb’s response.

It is an unbroken 4:24 min clip. This is also very unusual, as I usually feature very few of my own thoughts in Ninja Interviews. So, I didn’t even add the Ninja graphics into this clip.

Being that this is the season of Lent, it might be nice to hear your reflections on mortality. If you’d like to share you own thoughts about the theme of Lent, or what you’ve heard through watching the video, I’d love to hear them. (You can leave them either at the youtube channel, or here. Click the comments link at the top of the post, then scroll down to the comment field.)

Heads up, friends, readers, and fans,

I’m working on a personal interview with soon-to-be author Caleb Wilde, a 6th generation Funeral Director, and seminary student. Caleb has a fascinating perspective on life, death/dying, and God, that I’d like you to hear.

More on Caleb, and his upcoming book Confessions of  Funeral Director, here.

What questions would you ask a funeral director?

It’s not so much a matter of who we are, but who we belong to.
This poem was written by a man who would soon die at the hands of his Nazi captors. At the end of his life, he could question who he was, and who he had been, but his resolution to all of that rests in Theological principle, in worldview.

Please enjoy, and feel free to comment.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Who Am I?


by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Dietrich Bonhöffer, a young theologian of great promise, was martyred by the Nazis for his participation in a plot against the life of Adolf Hitler. His writings have greatly influenced recent theological thought. [This article appeared in the Journal Christianity and Crisis, March 4, 1946. Used by permission. This article was prepared for Religion Online by Ted & Winnie Brock.]

Who am I?
They often tell me

I stepped from my cell’s confinement

Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,

Like a squire from his country-house.

Who am I? They often tell me

I used to speak to my warders

Freely and friendly and clearly,

As though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me

I bore the days of misfortune

Equally, smilingly, proudly,

Like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of?

Or am I only what I myself know of myself?

Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,

Struggling for breath, as though hands were

compressing my throat,

Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,

Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,

Tossing in expectation of great events,

Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,

Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,

Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?

Am I one person today and tomorrow another?

Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,

And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?

Or is something within me still like a beaten army,

Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.

Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God, I am Thine!