I have been trying to meaningfully write about death for a long time and what I have to show for it is dozens of paragraphs of treacly anecdotes from my work as a hospital chaplain, none of which deserve to see the light of day. Writing about death is easy when you haven’t seen so much of it. What makes it difficult for me to tackle is that there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of things that I can say about it. There are a lot of unhelpful and lazy ways to speak about death but only a very few ways to do the subject justice. In my former role as hospital chaplain, I watched a lot of people die. When I began that work, I had no idea how I would manage all the death and suffering. Being so close to death, be it sudden and tragic or gradual and merciful, I compartmentalized much of it so I could continue to provide comfort to the grieving families and discouraged staff. Digging out of the compartments is like unpacking after a move. Every box you open has surprises, some good and some bad. I prefer to leave the compartments alone and deal with them as I need to.
We are all going to die, right? Most of us are going to die blissfully unaware of what is going on around us. We will be medicated and spared the slow demise of a body, a body whose firmware directs it to fight to survive. Long before the rales and shallow breaths, the human body begins to fade, slowly and imperceptibly. It is as if the soul is walking through the body one last time, turning off the lights, before moving out to live in some other space.
One hurdle I encounter in writing about death is that Christianity, the faith I have chosen to follow, has at its theological foundation, Christ destroying Death. In this paradigm, death is an enemy that has been vanquished. I’m not content with death as an enemy. So, Christ destroys death, but what can’t be ignored in this, however, is that Jesus died. To believe otherwise is heretical and out of line with the core Christian belief that Jesus was fully human and fully divine. We profess that he was “crucified under Pontius Pilate, he suffered and was buried.” Death came for God, and he died. Full stop. No metaphysical sidestepping of death, even for God. Even when my faith is at its weakest, I can look at Jesus and the way he faces his imminent death in the most human ways imaginable. Jesus met Death in the Garden of Gethsemane as he prayed. He felt fear and frustration and, in the end, left the garden resolved to face his end. This is a good death.
In the chaplaincy, I had opportunities to witness good deaths, that is, deaths in which the dying person was resolved to face the end of life and to depart from their loved ones, happy to have had them in their life. A good death is a peaceful parting and not a wild clawing back at something slipping away. What made them good deaths was that the dying person and their family had met Death before the end and made peace with it.
The 1957 film, The Seventh Seal is, in my opinion, the single best depiction of a person making peace with Death. As Antonius Block, a Crusader returning to Sweden, plays chess with Death amid the Black Plague, he asks Death, “Who are you?”
Death: “I am Death.”
Antonius: “Have you come for me?”
Death: “I have long walked by your side.”
Antonius: “So I have noticed.”
I suppose all I am suggesting is that we notice Death walking by our side and instead of making Death our enemy, recognize that the same Death that walked with our deceased loved ones will be with us at the end of our lives too.
Death is the Undiscovered Country. It is the Untimely Frost, the Good Night, the Great Majority, and endless other poetic constructions that push the reality of death far away from us. But Death needn’t be a mystery.
Death isn’t a wispy form obscured by an opaque membrane. Death is a sagacious companion who travels with you, tugging at your sleeve at times with some wisdom to see the world more clearly.
Death is the early bird that squawks in the morning glow as you try to sleep, stirring you awake from your sleep.
Death is a sign you see at every crossroads that reads, ΓΝΩΘΙ ΣΑΥΤΟΝ [“Know Thyself”].
It isn’t courage that compels some to overcome adversity, it is Death who writes a song of victory, sung only for you, and reminds you, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
Death is a large rock, engraved with MEMENTO MORI [Remember Death] that blocks your way to the mountaintop, a precarious peak named Hubris, from which you will certainly fall.
Don’t be afraid of Death. No matter what you believe about the soul or heaven or hell, none of that confronts the reality that you will die. Meet Death and make friends with it because long has it walked by your side asking you to notice it.
Thanks for recognizing it as a contribution to the subject and not the last word. I believe that religion, when it is at its best, is a means for expanding our understanding, not for narrowing our perspective. I'm trying to expand and contribute, perhaps, a germ or granule of perspective to our world.
BTW, I love the "Master of Transition." I'm filing that away. It's a useful way of describing what I call God.
Glad you survived your accident and I'm happy that we have found each other here.
Thanks, Gary. I don't mind being recognized twice for the same thing.