Their memorial is perished with them.

Do unto them as unto the Midianites; as to Sisera, as to Jabin, at the brook of Kison: / Which perished at Endor: they became as dung for the earth.

Then they also which are fallen asleep in Christ are perished.

We have shot at them; Heshbon is perished even unto Dibon, and we have laid them waste even unto Nophah, which reacheth unto Medeba.

Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we're still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It's all the same impulse. What do we hope from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention, of any kind we can get?
At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down.

We cannot have divisiveness at the center of our memorial.