By Lesley Machon, JFSC Community Chaplain
(AJNews) – Nearly a decade ago, David Brooks popularized the distinction between résumé virtues and the eulogy virtues in an op-ed in The New York Times titled, “The Moral Bucket List.”
The résumé virtues are what you find on LinkedIn profiles whereas the eulogy virtues are the ones you hear spoken about during funerals.
Brooks reflected, “We all know that the eulogy virtues are more important than the résumé ones. But our culture and our educational systems spend more time teaching the skills and strategies you need for career success than the qualities you need to radiate that sort of inner light. Many of us are clearer on how to build an external career than on how to build inner character.”
The distinction captivated me, both as someone who has been interested in the obituary section of newspapers since childhood and as an educator who is keen to invite students to lead lives of meaning and resilience.
When I recall flipping through the obituaries as a kid, I remember searching for the person’s age and being curious about the causes to which the person or family proposed donations be directed in the memory of the deceased. I even kept a scrapbook of obituaries for people who struck me as having lived lives of passion and purpose. My parents were understandably a little concerned. However, for me, it was not morbid—it was about connecting with people’s lives and being interested in their stories in a way that affirmed they were not wholly gone.
As I grew older, my focus shifted to the small details in obituaries—the unique facts that revealed who each person truly was, beyond those “résumé virtues” of which Brooks speaks. While many of these details were traditional and perfunctory, others struck me as remarkable for how they revealed each person’s uniqueness. These details are what often left with a feeling of loss — not only because the person had died, but because I had not had the opportunity to know them. Perhaps what affected me the most, however, was how these in-depth and detailed tributes invited the reader to reflect on how one’s own life story might be told.
I have studied to become a palliative chaplain and death midwife, with thanatology certification. One of the many exercises during my training involved writing our own obituaries, which surprised me for being such a worthwhile experiment. It was not just about reflecting on the end of life, but also about refocusing on what truly matters in the present. What do I see as my defining characteristics? What is most important to me? What brings me joy? What relationships have had the biggest impact on my character? All of these questions paved the path for me as I wrote the synopsis of my life to date.
Most people do not write their own obituaries, and there is something significant to learn from this genre. In the vast majority of cases, an obituary is written by loved ones. And, in many cases, even when the relationships are close and strong, what a person may say about someone else after their death may differ quite dramatically from how a person saw him or herself. In fact, there seems to me to be a way in which others have the capacity to be particularly gracious in their regard toward those who have died. Old hostilities fade or disappear altogether, leaving a sense of purification that cuts down to what is essential—and perhaps, to what is most true.
As both a teacher and a student of thanatology, I am passionate about death literacy. Because of the effect this exercise had on me, I invited the high schoolers in my Philosophy class, during the Death and Dying unit, to write their own obituaries. At first, they were uncomfortable with the idea but eventually they embraced it. Some of them even allowed me to share their work here with you. The exercise pushed them to think about their lives in a way most teenagers probably would not. While I expected that each student would approach this slightly differently, I was pleasantly surprised at how clearly their uniqueness shone through.
Here are some of the things the students wrote:
“He attributed a lifelong love of the outdoors to his parents and hoped that they would remember him fondly every time they found his socks misplaced around the house.”
“He enjoyed writing about space and imaginative science fiction novels, shows, and movies. He was a massive fan of the Star Wars Universe, staying up until 3:00 a.m. to watch the first episode of the Bad Batch and watching the finale through a chemistry lesson.”
“He wanted to be remembered for his kind-hearted actions towards others. Throughout his teenage years, he was introverted and very quiet, but he evolved like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. What he truly wanted to be remembered for was having a positive impact on people’s lives just by having met him.”
The practice of writing your own obituary can bring a great deal of clarity. It compels you to think about how you want to live your life now so that your actions today align with the legacy you hope to leave behind. It also helps you appreciate the present moment, knowing that each day contributes to the bigger picture of your life.
I invite you to ponder your own obituary and consider these words of Rabbi Howard Voss-Altman from his Erev Rosh Hashanah sermon: “As we start this New Year of 5785, it is my prayer for each of you to look for the magic in your life. It doesn’t matter how old or young you may be, because all of us are surrounded by magic almost all the time. And it begins by asking yourself this question: What makes my life worth living? What experiences, what sensations, what moments, give me the feeling of when I am most myself?”
When you begin to attend to these questions, you are well on your way to writing the story of your life.
Monthly Recommendation:
This month, I recommend A Still Small Voice, a moving documentary that has earned numerous awards and acclaim. The film follows Mati, a Jewish chaplain, as she navigates her residency in spiritual care at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. As she supports patients and their families through trauma, grief, and death, the documentary offers a glimpse into how we search for meaning in the midst of suffering, uncertainty, and loss. Deeply human and affirming, A Still Small Voice is a must-watch. Available to watch on Apple TV.
“The holy water is in a Styrofoam cup. Somewhere, a door slams. It’s human and messy — and it’s divine.”- New York Times
Lesley Machon is the JFSC Community Chaplain. She can be reached at lesleym@jfsc.org
Wow, so thoughtful and impactful! Once again your words hit the very core of our being.
Well done Lesley!