Dad's Dead

The grace and whimsy of witnessing death.

My father was a good man. I have already met people who told me he saved their life, saved their marriage, baptized their children, officiated their weddings, and sat with the bereaved as they lost their own loved ones. He embodied the work of a Christian pastor in the most genuine way and even though I no longer consider myself Christian, he was an exemplar in his ministry. He was intelligent, engaged in politics, and a good conversation partner about the labor of higher education. He never failed to celebrate my own learning and academic accomplishments. But it was also complicated.

I’ve written about the choices my father made and how that impacted my experiences as a young person here: (On James Dobson) My parents went from Carter Democrats to Reagan Evangelicals in the 1980s, situating my early family life in the shadow of the religious right. He was devoutly pro-life, he campaigned against pornography, and believed that the family was the foundation of our national and personal well-being.

My love for him and the life he gave me has made me a better scholar, one who is able to engage these topics in all their complexity, always remembering that some who align with conservative politics do so out of genuine faith and kindness, a rare combination these days. The example he set by dedicating a life to caring for hurting people cultivated my own commitment to justice-seeking, including the right of all people to have the resources they need to both live and thrive in a broken world. Though he shared many of the same beliefs as those who embrace White Christian Nationalism, he could never be persuaded by the coercive nature of authoritarianism. It simply wasn’t in him to do so.

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The day of his passing was full of grace and special moments. Despite my wariness around Christian practices and beliefs, I felt held by a sacred presence and a kinship with all who came to witness his passing. My brother, a physician, shared with us the Indigenous Hawaiian practice of Ho’oponopo which asks the living to share four sentiments with the dying: Repentance, Forgiveness, Gratitude, and Love. Each of us revised this model for our own words of goodbye. His eyes fluttered and opened briefly while we spoke to him. I can’t speak for my siblings, but I felt loved and recognized by his gaze even in spite of his weakening body. I told him that he had done wonderful work in the world and it was now his time to rest. I was glad for my brother’s contribution to this moment, even though he later confessed that he learned the ritual from watching The Pitt. Still, I was grateful to have some place to start my goodbyes. For my sister’s part, said many lovely things, including confessing to stealing quarters from his wallet so she could go to the corner store to buy her favorite Little Debbie snack cakes.

I am feeling so grateful to all four of my four siblings for the the work we’ve done to determine how and when he would pass in accordance with his wishes, the planning of his funeral services, keeping our extended family up to date, and now discussing the future of my mother’s care. I made a joke about being raised Presbyterian and therefore we know how to committee with efficacy. The work has been grueling, with the weight of grief heavy upon us, but I’m so glad to spend this time with my sister and three brothers, all of whom have shown up as their best selves in the last few days.

My father was an Antiochian Orthodox Priest, a church he converted to over ten years ago following my mother who had done so a decade prior. He re-trained and earned a degree from Damascus University as part of his preparation for the priesthood. There will be two days of ritual to commemorate his passing, including his internment at the Orthodox Monastery of Transfiguration just five minutes from his home. Tomorrow, his body will be prepared for burial by his priest colleagues. According to church tradition, he will buried in the vestments he was ordained in.

Delivering Dad’s vestment to the funeral home.

Because of my father, I have learned to honor my own experiences, including my religious trauma, as well as maintain a respect for those Christians who live out their beliefs with compassion and integrity. This has allowed me remain faithful to my own spiritual commitments and given me permission to pursue my own understanding of how religion can hurt, both as an academic and as a former evangelical Christian.

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You may find the title of the article a bit jarring, but I wanted to offer some insight into my favorite people in the world, my siblings. As we sat around my parent’s dining room table making decisions about end of life care, I started quoting the episode of Rosanne in which she and her sister, Aunt Jackie, have to contact family members to inform them of their father’s death. My sister immediately began quoting it back to me and soon were were yelling, “Dad’s dead!” This is the same family that once serenaded my Grandmother at a holiday family gathering with “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.” My dad was full of whimsy and encouraged us all to join in. Just yesterday my cousin reminded me of his favorite song, one I had long forgotten. So I will end by sharing that here:

As I was walking down the street one dark and dreary day

I came upon a billboard and much to my dismay

The sign was torn and tattered from the storm the night before

The wind and rain had done it’s job and this is what I saw:

Smoke Pepsi-Cola cigarettes. Chew Wrigley Spearmint beer.

Ken-al Ration Dog keeps your complexion clear.

Simonize your baby with a Hersey’s candy bar.

Texaco’s the beauty cream that’s used by all the stars.

Take your next vacation in a brand new frigidaire.

Learn to play the piano in your grandma’s underwear.

People say that babies should smoke until they’re three

And people over 65 should bath in Lipton Tea-luke warm!

Click here for Dad's Obituary which he prepared for himself along with all the other details of his and my mother's passing. One of the many acts of love he showed my siblings and me.