A lesson from the death of Sears

By Jeff Long

With the Christmas season over, observant Christians turn their attention forward to Lent, beginning with Ash Wednesday on March 6. It's mental gymnastics to veer from Jesus' birth to dealing with death so quickly. Life is like this, though. Conversations at funeral homes sometimes include the statement: "I was just talking to him at the supermarket and here we are at his wake. Wow." Although we know better, we somehow expect that people will go on living indefinitely.

Any cursory examination of the Christmas story reveals that the seeds of Jesus' death can be found in his birth. The Magi, those ancient astronomers mentioned only by St. Matthew, brought gifts to the baby Jesus. Among the offerings of the Wise Men was a burial spice: myrrh. Even at Christmas, then, the story points us toward what's inevitably coming.

People die. Companies die.

When I was growing up, and many readers will surely identify with this, Sears -- formerly known as Sears Roebuck -- was a retail behemoth. The stores were huge and the catalogs that arrived in American homes were monstrously large tomes. Going to Sears was an event in the 1960s. It seemingly had everything. Kenmore washers. Craftsman tools. Sears was the largest and most prosperous retailer in the U.S. until it was surpassed by Walmart in 1989. The company built the 110-story Sears Tower in Chicago in 1974 and for a time the skyscraper held the status of the world's tallest building.

Now, Sears is all but dead. A last-ditch effort to save it by company chairman Eddie Lampert was still a long-shot possibility at the time this column was written. It seems, though, that Sears is circling the drain, doing the death dance, use whatever metaphor most resonates. It's a sad state of affairs.

What is the true lesson of Sears? Everything and everyone eventually die. There are historical precedents in business. A.B. Dick, another Chicago-based company, made wonderful mimeograph machines. The first church I served out of seminary used A.B. Dick stencils. A.B. Dick was defunct by 2004, pushed aside by a company called Xerox, makers of copiers. A.B. Dick decided not to invest in new technology. The moment it chose to stand pat, a corporate burial spice began to waft through the air. Decisions not to innovate, either by omission or commission, are almost always fatal. When they did not adapt to a changing world, they were eventually overcome. Sears was overcome -- and others may reasonably dispute this -- by the Internet. It's a lot easier to shop via Amazon than go to a store. Is it better? That's a matter that can be disputed.

Companies die. You and I will die. That's inevitable. But I offer the words of a Catholic priest, heard at Ford & Sons Funeral Home the other night during parish prayers. Over and over he said, "Our true home is heaven."

Friends, I'm persuaded he's right. Heaven is where I'm pointed. I've got to die to get there. With no desire to get there quickly, with the timing and the manner out of my hands, I'm fairly convinced that when I shrug off this mortal coil, I will immediately innovate personally and become better than I've ever been. As the late Billy Graham said, "When you hear that Billy Graham is dead, don't you believe it. I'll be more alive then than I've ever been."

Death is inevitable. The passing of loved ones confirms it. The extinction of seemingly invincible companies like Sears verifies it. But death is not the end. Our true home is heaven.