My father passed away during the night of Sunday, October 22nd. I know that I am very fortunate to have had–for all his flaws and struggles–a truly wonderful father. During the last year of his life, my father was the recipient of a heart transplant, effectively healing a degenerative heart condition that he had lived with for twenty years. That heart transplant gave him the chance to return to activities that he had loved and excelled at in his younger years—he once won a marathon with a time of 2hrs. 37m.—and push himself again. The last day of his life, he ran a half-marathon, placed 3rd in his age bracket, had dinner with his brother and my mother, and watched the World Series game. It was, in every respect, the perfect last day for my father. I would like to share the eulogy that I wrote for my dad. The text is below, along with a video of the service. The eulogy begins at 29:40.
Every life stretches across minutes, days, and years. Every life—my dad’s no less—ends too soon. We want more time together. But in addition to its measure in length, time has moods, it has a feel, it has variable atmospheres and climates. One day’s time differs from the next, and your mode of moving with time differs from mine. So even as I ache for more time, I want to share a few words about the intensity, the trajectory, the weight of my dad’s ﬂight through time and how it has shaped my own.
My dad never let his timeline go slack. He was always pushing further, running faster, making a bigger difference for others. From the viewpoint of the stars, he spun 24,734 circles on this earth, on his way through 67-and-a-half loops around the sun, but he pulled that line as tight as he could. His restlessly determined mood or mode of movement in time marked everything that he did. He lived hard enough that he wore out two hearts, at least two hearts.
Dad approached risk face-on and clear-eyed, without hesitation. His last day is only a perfect parable of so much that went before. Were there risks to running 3rd in his age bracket in a half-marathon, ten months out from a heart transplant? Sure. But if your new heart will pump in its cage, if your legs will regain some of their former strength, if you can train again to ﬂoat over pavement, then how can you say no? How could you say no to ﬂying, to learning Greek and Spanish, to starting a new career in your sixties, becoming a pastor and a prison chaplain? How could you say no to a heart transplant? Dad could be gracious and empathetic with others, but he always pushed himself—in physical endeavors, in moral character, in generosity—he held himself to a higher standard.
As I’ve thought about my dad over the years, and more intensely in the last week, I think that his orientation to time and to risk are among the ways that he inﬂuenced me most deeply. He would want to make this occasion count, to make
1 these moments as thick, as rich, as impactful as possible. He would want to share some message. I cannot speak for him, but I can tell you what I’ve learned from him and ask you to carry it forward. As he said often enough to my brothers and I, “Let this be a lesson to you.”
Death is not the worst thing. Death is not the enemy. It never was and it isn’t now. Dad outran the smallness of fear with a clear-eyed resolve to pull his time tight. Death is only an end, and perhaps not even a dead end. There are cramped, stingy, self-enclosed, bigoted, and fearful ways of living that make too much of death. It is a mistake, even if a very common one, to give life over to death too soon by assuming that your fate is established, that your character cannot change, that you have nothing more to offer those around you, that your fellow-travelers are too different to be neighbors. Death is not the worst thing because, for all its terrible power, it can never un-live the life that has been lived, it can never un-love the love that has been shared, it can never claw back the adventures that make us who we are, it can never rub out the lines etched across time’s surface.
I am a professional theologian—whatever that is—and some people assume that I am supposed to know things, to have answers. Mostly, I try to help people ask better questions. “Where do we go when we die?” is not, I think, a particularly helpful question. But here is what I know. Mark Paul Meyer is enfolded in the life of God. His hunger, his love, his ferocious hope, his relentless determination—they’re all too big for death to swallow. An echo of eternity among us, he lived his time with an intensity that could never be contained in his days. Death is not the worst thing, it is only an end. We, together here today, are testimony to that truth. And so, as our Eastern Orthodox sisters and brothers say, “Memory eternal, memory eternal, memory eternal.”