One of the liveliest group discussions Sergio Chois joined this academic year focused on death.
“I was incredibly surprised,” says Chois, about his first Emory Death Café in October. “If you were to get a transcript of our meeting, you’d see that the facilitator asked just one question, at the very beginning.”
That question was, “What brings you here?”
“Everyone spoke,” Chois says. “You can just sit and listen, but everyone felt like they had something to contribute.”
Thoughts on one’s own mortality. The death of a loved one. Or another kind of ending, like the loss of one’s faith. It’s all fair game. The hourlong conversation invites people to enjoy cake, coffee or tea as they talk.
The next Death Café, which is free and open to Emory students, faculty and staff, is set for Monday, Feb. 23, at 7 p.m. in Kaldi’s Lounge at the Emory Student Center. It is sponsored by the Candler Foundry, which seeks to make theological education accessible to everyone.
Chois, who is pursuing his master of theological studies at Candler School of Theology, is co-organizing the event with his roommate, Casson Hughes, a master of divinity student at Candler.
Elizabeth Arnold, a scholar-in-residence at the Candler Foundry, will co-facilitate the conversation with her husband, Adam Arnold, a social worker.
Chois first learned about Death Cafés, grassroots events that anyone can hold, from a podcast. When he told Hughes about them, his roommate was “fascinated.”
Shortly after attending a Death Café together off campus, the two pitched the idea of hosting the get-togethers twice a year to the Candler Foundry.
“They were on board,” says Chois, “and the rest is history.”
Breaking the ice on a taboo topic
Death Cafés got their start in Switzerland in 2004; since then, people in dozens of countries have held thousands of events, according to a website run by some of the early advocates.
The popularity of these gatherings may be ascribed to their light touch — the refreshments that accompany discussions, for example. At Emory’s first event, which took place close to Halloween, Chois and Hughes served slices of a cake shaped like Frankenstein.
A Death Café is not considered a bereavement group or therapy session. Rather, “it’s a space to break the ice about grief and death,” says Hughes.
He notes that research indicates talking about mortality is healthier than avoiding the subject.
“There's a level of self-awareness that comes about,” says Chois, “a sense that ‘I'm not exempt from this very real thing.’”
“Talking about death invites us into meaningful activity that we are sometimes scared of,” adds Hughes, who interns as a chaplain at Emory Decatur Hospital. “It calls us to certain forms of reconciliation or risk-taking in our lives. Sometimes, we’re afraid of the challenge to live life fully. This event invites us to consider all of this.”
Meaningful connections
October's inaugural Death Café struck a chord witih attendees, says Chois. “For young people today,” he says, “death is very real,” whether experienced in close proximity during the COVID-19 pandemic or seen on the news.
Unlike discussions on social media, adds Hughes, face-to-face gatherings offer an opportunity to let one’s guard down.
“Instead of talking about beliefs or staking claims about what life after death is, [Death Cafés are] really just people sharing stories about their lives,” he says. “And the vulnerability in that is really, really meaningful.”
Participants are free to stick around after the initial hour to grab more cake or just chat.
“And that’s one of my favorite things,” say Hughes. “When we’re done, strangers are shaking hands or hugging and exchanging contact information. Real connections are being formed out of this time.”
Image from Getty Images, D-Keine.