Class of 1969 55th Reunion

Memorial Service Highlights

University Chapel, May 25, 2024

Rev. Jeff von Arx's Invocation:

Let us pray.

We come before God in this Chapel with great gratitude of heart for all that has been, and for all that we have meant to each other.

This gratitude includes, of course, all of the deceased members of our class whom we remember in a special way at this memorial service.  They have a place in our hearts mediated not now by presence, but by memory, and also by hope, and ever more so, because what we hope for them we wish for ourselves, that we shall come to share what we hope for them in its fullness in the years that are ahead.

We ask God’s blessing on their memory in thanksgiving for all that has been accomplished through their efforts.  We thank God as well for all that has been accomplished in our own lives, and for all that is yet to be.

So we pray for Princeton, for this class, for our families for our country and for the world.  And in the words of the bidding prayer for the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, recited every Christmas Eve in the chapel of King’s College, Cambridge we pray for our deceased classmates:

“Lastly let us remember before God all those who rejoice with us, but upon another shore and in a greater light, that multitude which no man can number, whose hope was in the Lord their God, and with whom we for evermore are one. These prayers and praises let us humbly offer up to the throne of heaven .  .  .  “

Amen

Rabbi George Stern's sermon:

First, a little introduction—not to be counted if you are inclined to keep careful track of sermon length. You know, just as formal eulogies are meant to comfort and console the living, so, I realize, do my words today address all of us—especially since there is no one individual that we memorialize this morning. I stopped giving sermons 25 years ago, when I left pulpit work. (Even before that, I preferred to lead my congregants in discussions rather than give mere frontal presentations—but that certainly wouldn’t work today, in this filled chapel.)  

As I wrote this, I realized that, whether consciously or unconsciously, I chose a text that forced me to confront myself and my own mortality. A few months ago, Debbie and I took some workshops sponsored by our synagogue and several others on how to prepare for changes that inevitably come upon us as we age—including the prospect of living alone (which, I know, some of us here today already do). These are not explorations that are easy or fun. But I know, as I am sure you do, that they are important. Even if the only concrete result is installing shower bars in our current homes before we fall, they are worthwhile. Anyway, the thoughts that follow undoubtedly reflect my own sense of vulnerability as I age. It has, after all, been 55 years since we graduated and for me seven years since I fully retired. That volunteering and political activism fill my days doesn’t eliminate the end-time thoughts that occasionally wash over me. I suspect many of you will relate. In any case, ready, set, and here we go. 

First, I repeat some words of Psalm 90, which I just read: “In the end You return us to dust, saying: ‘Come home now, daughters and sons of Adam and Eve—you are mortal.’” (90:3) 

Today we recall 147 of our classmates who are no longer with us, as well as four honorary members of the class. That is almost 20% of those who got their diplomas on June 10, 1969. There is a good chance that someone who is no longer with us sat next to you or right behind or in front of you. Among them are some that a lot of us knew, some that very few of us knew, some whose lives have been blessings to loved ones and their community, some perhaps not always so.

How do we approach this ritual of remembrance? I think Psalm 90 can provide us with a guide.

Let me start by admitting that, while many people find solace in Psalms, these poems can be challenging to comprehend: the Hebrew itself—and therefore the translation—is sometimes unclear, the persistent male vocabulary is problematic for many (no matter their gender), and the theological swings between God’s wrath and compassion often obscure the hopeful intent of most of these ancient poems.

Let’s start with the verses about anger and fury: “We are struck by Your anger, terror-stricken by Your fury. Our sins You have before You, even ones we thought we hid shine blindingly. All our days pass away in Your wrath; we spend our years in a prolonged sigh.” (90:7-9) 

Frankly, my first inclination is to recoil from talk of God’s wrath and fury—fire and brimstone. I know that for some words such as these are motivational, pushing them to strive to behave in such ways as to avoid the heat. For me, difficult as they are, these sentences contain other truths. My own theology points to a God that dwells within—the soul-spark of divinity within me, within every one of you, and indeed in all human beings. It goes without saying that our lives are imperfect, sometimes tragically so. At times we stand punished—by courts, by people close to us, and by God, that soul-spark within. 

What the Psalmist calls God’s anger is, in my way of thinking, the piercing arrow of our own self-awareness and self-judgment, which, when we are lucky, compels us to take specific steps to apologize, repent, and reverse course. In my tradition, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, provides a framework for self-awareness and repentance—with a clear insistence that all the words we recite mean nothing until we have truly confronted our own behavior and made amends directly to those whom we have hurt. The liturgy teaches, “For transgressions against God, the Day of Atonement atones, but for transgressions of one human being against another, the Day of Atonement does not atone until they have made peace with one another.”  If among our deceased classmates there are any for whom you hold anger, try to imagine that in one way or another, they ultimately had the self-awareness to want to make amends, even if they did not directly do so. And if, among them, there are any whom you wronged, take a moment to send healing thoughts to them—and forgive yourself.

This psalm clearly emphasizes our mortality. At the very beginning we read, “In the end You return us to dust, saying: ‘Come home now, daughters and sons of Adam and Eve—you are mortal.’” (90:3) Indeed—and I quote—“A human life may be three score years and ten; or four score years, for those blessed with strength.”  (90:10) Among our deceased classmates, some had lives cut short well before their seventieth birthdays; four didn’t make it to graduation. As the psalm says, “too soon we go into the dark.” (90:10) Even those of us here today can’t be sure we will reach “four score.” Tough as it may seem, it is more important to think of the quality of a life than the quantity of its days: “So teach us to number our days, that we may bring home a heart of wisdom.” (90:12) Whenever the end comes, it is most easily accepted when both the dying and their loved ones can appreciate life’s successes and goodness. It is no accident that eulogies dwell upon positive traits and events.   

Though we may spend our lives striving for perfection, it is not truly within our reach. That is why our rituals of atonement are not one-offs but repeat and repeat. (For Jews, for example, Yom Kippur comes annually; and in fact the daily prayer service includes a specific reference to the need for repentance.) When we look back on a life—someone else’s or our own—we must do so prepared to accept imperfection, precisely because of our mortality.  At the end of life, we are called back to where we started—innocent and filled with potential for good. So think for a moment of classmates you especially remember today with much love and appreciation, happy to have been part of their lives.

Zecher tzadik livrachah. May their righteous deeds serve as blessings.    

Rev. Jeff von Arx's Benediction:

I close our class memorial service with a passage from John Henry Newman:

“May the Lord support us all the day long, till the shades lengthen and the evening comes and the busy world is hushed and the fever of life is over and our work is done.  Then is his mercy, may He give us a safe lodging and a holy rest and peace at the last.”

Lord our God, we pray for the members of our class and all our loved ones who now rest in you.  They were a part of our lives when all of us were young and beautiful, and so they remain for us still, and so they are now in your presence.  We pray in thanksgiving for what they shared with us and for the gift of self that they gave to us that has made us who we are.  Today we pray for them, and, in a sense, we pray to them as well, as the saints of our lives who intercede for us still among the communion of your saints.

Bring us all, together with them, to that safe lodging and holy rest and peace at last which they enjoy and where they await us with open arms to welcome us.  There even we, sinners that we are, will be, like them young and beautiful in your loving and forgiving eyes.  We will live with them in the communion of the saints of which our lives with them here were but a foretaste but whose fulfillment will be more than we can hope or imagine.

We make this prayer in your most holy name, the God who has made us, who is our redeemer and loves us even now.

Amen.