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(Zach Arnold was a member of many improvisation troupes around Richmond. He died unexpectedly in late May, 2014. I was honored to be one of the speakers at his funeral. At the request of several people attending, have posted my reflections from that day.)
I was reading Zach’s Facebook page, when I ran across something he wrote in December about his friend and fellow improviser, Thomas George, a year after Thomas died. He said,
I’m still angry about it. There are times where I get to thinking about him, what he accomplished, what he had yet to accomplish, and I just want to tear my clothes, punch a wall. Question whatever higher power there is about why take him, what was the point. It feels senseless and cruel.
I tell myself there’s a reason behind it. Some sort of grand plan. But there are those moments where “There is a reason” shifts into “There better be a reason, and a damn good one.”
Overall, I just don’t understand. And maybe I never will…..
How ironic that we are all here today, feeling many of the same emotions about losing Zach.
Let me first say, I’m not a great believer that everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe in a grand plan when we are faced with this kind of loss, because that would imply that someone, somewhere wrote a script for our lives, a script that someone, somewhere knows all about, but we aren’t permitted to read it or edit it. So we end up in a double bind – either we follow a script we are guessing at and play our part even in the face of annihilation or we choose not to follow the script and are punished with – you guessed it – annihilation.
Does this sound like a loving God to you, that this God would do such a thing to his own creation? A loving parent wouldn’t do this to a child, so why would we ascribe this kind of behavior to the Creator of the Universe, the one who is the very embodiment of love?
The reason Zach died isn’t some higher purpose we aren’t in on. He died because he lost oxygen to his brain for too long. We are all such frail creatures. Six minutes without oxygen is all it takes – one commercial break, the time it takes to microwave a potato, less than half the time it takes to change your auto insurance. His death is senseless, and our loss is permanent.
So where is the hope? Where is the meaning we need to get through this? If no one has a grand plan, how do we know everything is going to be alright?
Our hope lies in two words: “Yes….and.”
“Yes…and” is the first rule of improvisation. When two players are on a stage performing improv, the first player throws down a stake in a story to set it up, saying something like, “What a nice place for a picnic.” The second player then must say “Yes, it is a nice place for a picnic, and I brought a basket full of peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.” If the second player says “No…but” the story cannot continue. If the player says “Yes…but” the story cannot continue. The second player must, in one way or another accept what the first player brings to the story, then the second player must add to the story with their own creative spin. There is no script, as in a play, so it’s new and fresh and completely unpredictable. The story continues not because somebody wrote it down to be acted over and over again, always beginning and ending exactly as expected. The story continues because of the relationship between two people on one stage who agree to keep accepting and adding to a plot that is inventing itself as they go.
And here is where our hope lies – in a God who is a master improviser, calling all of us to the world stage so we can play in a life filled with the unexpected, the surprising, and the unknowable. Our hope lies not in a pre-ordained history, but in a God who chooses to say yes…and, even when we throw a curve ball. Perhaps God’s power isn’t in owning the future, but in knowing each and every one of us and being able to see the bigger picture of how each of our stories weaves into the whole of creation, as it is being created, as we are still being created moment by moment, turning bad story lines into something good, which, given the loss and pain our lives sometimes create, is nothing short of miraculous. It’s our job to play back, to say yes…and, to be co-creators in a world desperate for miracles.
Life doesn’t have a script. It requires relationship on this stage. We know everything is going to be alright because we can trust that our Master Improviser loves us and wants this story to continue.
Our story doesn’t stop with death. Obviously, we all continue in this world without Zach, as long as we learn to accept the reality of what we’ve been given, and move forward with the story.
Zach’s story continues as well. Zach is no longer limited to this story. He’s on another stage somewhere, with his grandfathers, with Thomas and Shan, with the one who created him and you can bet your life he’s saying yes…and.
So how will we play this story out? Acceptance is only half of it. We must add to it. What are we going to add that gives meaning to Zach’s life as well as his death?
Zach wrote of his grandfather’s death in 2011. He honored a great man with many words, but he ended with this challenge to us all. I’d like to end with his words:
Love is fantastic. It’s a credit card without limit. Spend that love as much as you can. Spend it with your friends, your family. Spend it with those who you don’t even think you should spend it on. It’s love for ourselves and love for each other that help make this world a better place to live.
There will be hard times. But what truly makes you special is the ability you have to meet those hard times head-on, and say “Alright, bring it. I am a strong person. I am a loving person. And I will prevail despite what is thrown at me.”
You are amazing. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes it feels that nothing in life is right. But press on.
You will prevail.
And everyone says, “Yes….and.”
Thank you, Zach. Amen.
This was amazing! Thanks for sharing! What a wonderful tribute to a man who was loved very much with a large personality! My loss not knowing him. Linda Avery