I Feel The Sting Of Death

Looking across and about the sanctuary from where I stood yesterday, speaking words of honor, appreciation, love, and thanksgiving for my beloved friend and brother in Christ, I saw the span of at least three generations, gathered together, memorializing David's person and living. A myriad of expressions filling the place. 

I have awakened very early this morning to the unanswerable, yet rhetorical question: how many of those, old or young, have or will, ever give thought to when they might die? How odd a thought, you have, Bill? Now gives recollection of reading where two Scandinavian researchers who believe they have come up with a questionnaire that can measure a person’s chances of dying within the next four years. According to the one of the test’s designers, it is reported to be roughly 81 percent accurate among those who are 50 years or older. Their report, which was published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, claims the assessment will be useful to doctors in offering prognostic information and to patients who want a more determined look at the future. Interesting, I don't think the question hardly arises in my own mind. On the other hand, I persistently asked David, "what did the doctor say, about your condition?"  It's the first thing I ask Bettyann after she's been to her physician. Is it a subliminal thing with me? But regardless of the questionnaire’s effectiveness, however, the headline still strikes me as ironic: “Test Helps You Predict Chances of Dying.” And immediately brings to mind a line, I just read while in preparation of my thoughts last week, of Emily Dickinson, “Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me.”  Now, I don't need a test to tell me my chances of dying, do I?  

It was the avower atheist, Roy Hattersley, after attending a funeral, said it almost converted him to the belief that funeral services–of which he has disapproved for years–ought to be encouraged. His conclusion was forged as he sang the hymns and studied the proclamations of a crowd that seemed sincere: “ the church is so much better at staging last farewells than non-believers could ever be,” he added. He continued, reported in the article, “‘Death where is thy sting, grave where is thy victory?’ are stupid questions. But even those of us who do not expect salvation find a note of triumph in the burial service. There could be a godless thanksgiving for and celebration of the life of whomever. The music might be much the same. But it would not have the uplifting effect without the magnificent, meaningless, words.”

I have officiated at many funerals and memorial services, attended more visitations and wakes that I could not help but give intentional prayer for Carol, Leslie and Barbie and imagined the meticulous way in which they moved through the planning stages. I remember the note sent to me the week after David's death telling me of her desire that "David be honored and Jesus glorified." I'm convinced beyond measure, this morning, that was exactly what happened yesterday in that gathering.  

I'm realizing, also that something fresh happened to me yesterday not unlike happens to me each and every time I attend a funeral, memorialor service graveside. I get this notification of reality. Like the sting of death is a running commentary on the futility of my life and fleeting nature of my humanity. I'm slapped upon the side of the head with, “For who knows what is good for a man in life during the few and meaningless days he passes through like a shadow?” asked Solomon. “Surely the people are grass,” wrote Isaiah. I've been possessed  for the last eighteen or so hours like no other by the awareness of my own transience.

But sitting here, I'm finding an incredible paradox in this looming experience of death’s repetitive sting. With it comes the unnaturalness of the process all over again—a body at the front of the altar or the picture on the easel, a hole dug deeply or the mausoleum wall, a coffin lowered or vessel placed . Yet as death rears it's ugly head in my own head and it's futile to stop it, the words spoken in memorial have not become futile. On the contrary, they are growing all the more resounding. The words spoken yesterday were not spoken to soften the blow, but rather, to affirm the offense, to acknowledge the sting of death in all of its aberrancy–and to name the One who came to reverse it, having gone through it Himself.

It's fact that we human beings are the only creatures who have ever ceremoniously buried their dead, who speak words over bodies, and carry and place them in the grave. Why is it that death never ceases to seem unnatural even despite any worldview anyone brought to the memorial yesterday? What is it about my spirit that does not stop, that refuses to be reconciled to the loss of my loved ones, giving death the last word?  What is it that makes me cry out to my Creator; Someone beyond myself?  St Paul admonishes me: “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men.” 

I wonder if Hattersley really looked into the depths of his concluding observations with the comment: “Dull would he be of soul (or the humanist equivalent) who is not moved to tears by the exhortation, ‘He died to make us holy, let us live to make men free.'” Such are the final lines he utters as I read in his article of: A Decent Send-off. 

Father, God, I thank You for the inherent logic that has taken me to think and reiterate words and longings hints of a transcendent memory that David's life was never intended to be cut short nor will mine. That death will be overcome. That my last farewell to David is not the final word! Rather: I am the resurrection and the life. He who comes to me will live, even though he dies.