2 - UNPACKING THE VAGARIES OF DEATH
They are called: matryoshka dolls, but most English-speaking
people just refer to them as ‘Russian’ dolls and are a hoot to unpack starting
with the large outer doll and continuing until the last wee one is got to.
Fascinating that it is only the last one, the smallest one,
which is solid. All the others are by necessity hollow so that they may contain
each subsequent doll.
When I was a boy, clocks were made of moving parts, radios
were filled with tubes and boys would be delighted when a clock was worn out or
a radio failed because we could unpack same, discover the wonder of the
heretofore hidden parts that made the thing work.
Of course, any boy’s sister was less than happy should we
decide to take apart some doll of theirs to discover what made it go ‘mama’!
This need to unpack, to see, to figure out, to understand
has remained with me my whole life and is the way I approach problems, the
reason I have a passion for history, for art, architecture, politics,
philosophy, religion, you name it.
I am old enough to have had great grandparents and uncles
and aunts rooted in the latter part of the 19th century; grandparents,
parents, aunts and uncles born before, during, immediately after the First
World War and to, in a sense, through their stories, their presence in my life,
unpack, even before reading texts about the period, the latter Victorian era,
the stark, bloody reality of World War I, the crushing dislocation of the Great
Depression.
20th
century life prior to World War II was for me a profound education and a period
about whose history and vagaries I still research, still seeking to see more
clearly, learn more deeply, understand more compassionately.
World War II, during which I was born, and the decades
since, have formed me not just by experience but again through written and oral
histories, art, music, etc., remains, as actually does each day, a reality to
be unpacked, seen, learned from, understood over and over.
For me the matryoshka doll of life is so huge I cannot shake
it to hear the rattle of the last, the solid little doll yet to be discovered.
Perhaps she is Lady Death, only to be unpacked, seen, learned
from, understood at the end of earthly life.
Like most people, I have experience of what I might call one
on one death, that is some family member or friend who dies, is waked, has a
memorial or funeral and is buried.
Anyone can scour the history of warfare and weapons and say
this or that weapon enhanced our human capacity for slaughter and, of course,
debate will be had over which of the weapons has proven the most lethal.
In the history of fraternal bloodletting, such as the
American Civil War, with the invention of the Gatling gun, precursor of the
machine gun, so lethal in World War One, through the development of gas as a
weapon, also used in WWI, latterly the development of biological weapons and
chemicals used with such evil by the Nazis in the death camps of the Holocaust,
and the development of atomic and nuclear weapons, most recently in history the
use of passenger planes, IEDS, trucks and cars as weapons, we human beings have
chosen to be death’s accomplices.
One of my great uncles, who lived with us, was gassed in WWI
and for him life, both physical and emotional, was a lingering process of
dying. He did die in the late 1940s, when also my maternal grandmother died,
then as we moved into the 1950s others died, including many peers through
things like polio.
Both in my professional life before priesthood and since
ordination, I continue to be confronted by the vagaries of the way Lady Death
reaches out, sometimes snatching through violence in all its evil anger,
sometimes more gently through illness or simple old age wearing out of the body
– granted neither of these latter are necessarily without pain or intense
struggle – and of course, the older I get the more attuned I become to her approaching
footsteps!
Not just that bloody 20th century, but this one
on the way to being bloodier still of such hatred and terrorism, of unhuman
evils like abortion, euthanasia, capital punishment, death is not anymore just
a one on one but frequently on a scale that defies comprehension, that cannot
be unpacked without pain – unless we literally are heartless.
Since much of the above is seen via tv or the internet, and
if it is becoming ‘understandable’ terrorism is what some refer to as ‘the new
normal’, then something is terribly wrong, like maybe we have lost our capacity
for empathy because we know only victims or terrorists but have become
incapable of seeing and knowing persons, that is other as one like myself.
I suspect there is within most, if not all human beings, an
aspect of Cain: irrational jealousy and fear of other.
Every human being is one like myself, intimately my brother,
my sister.
In our day, this irrationality is most visibly rooted in the
extremist interpretation of those passages in the Koran which legitimize the
murder of so-called non-believers.
In their book INSIDE ISLAM, Daniel Ali and Robert Spencer,
referencing both the Koran and Hadith, note that: “When the Muslim declares
that Islam is a religion of peace, he is either ignorant of the Koran or is
extending this ‘peace’ only to those within the Muslim community…”[p.122].
Islamists for centuries have spilled the blood of both their
Muslim brothers and sisters who do not agree with their 7th century
understanding of human beings and life, hating those who do not ‘believe’ as
they do – such belief should not be confused with faith – their hatred as well
resulting in the spilling of the blood of non-Muslims.
When, not that long after 9/11, accompanied by a New York
firefighter friend, I stood on the edge of that massive pit-tomb, it was at
first difficult to remember the towers, which I had visited on previous trips
to New York.
More difficult was trying to unpack and comprehend the
intensity of the hatred, the murderous evil which slaughtered so many innocents
there and at the Pentagon.
Only the courageous
first responders entering the towers and the passengers on flight 93 were the
real martyrs that day.
The terrorists were, and Islamists since that day who just
recently slaughtered many in Manchester and London, are delusional if they
think they are martyrs.
Real martyrdom as taught by Jesus is the reality of laying
down my life for love of, to save another [Jn.15:13].
“The joys and the hopes, the griefs and the anxieties of the
men of this age, especially those who are poor or in any way afflicted, these
are the joys and hopes, the griefs and anxieties of the followers of Christ.
Indeed, nothing genuinely human fails to raise an echo in their hearts…… In our
generation when men continue to be afflicted by acute hardships and anxieties
arising from the ravages of war or the threat of it, the whole human family
faces an hour of supreme crisis in its advance toward maturity. Moving gradually
together and everywhere more conscious already of its unity, this family cannot
accomplish its task of constructing for all men everywhere a world more
genuinely human unless each person devotes himself to the cause of peace with
renewed vigor…… the Council wishes passionately to summon Christians to
cooperate, under the help of Christ the author of peace, with all men in
securing among themselves a peace based on justice and love and in setting up
the instruments of peace…….unless enmities and hatred are put away and firm,
honest agreements concerning world peace are reached in the future, humanity,
which already is in the middle of a grave crisis, even though it is endowed
with remarkable knowledge, will perhaps be brought to that dismal hour in which
it will experience no peace other than the dreadful peace of death….”[ cf.
Gaudium et Spes, The Church in the Modern World, Vatican Council.: paras. 1,
77, 82]
In his book A SONG FOR NAGASAKI, telling the life story of
Takashi Nagai, a survivor of the atomic bomb, Fr. Paul Glynn, quotes this from
Nagai: “We are inheritors of Adam’s sin…of Cain’s sin. He killed his brother.
Yes, we have forgotten we are God’s children. We have turned to idols and
forgotten love. Hating one another, killing one another, joyfully killing one
another! [p.189]
There is truth and comfort to be found in the Church’s
teaching on death: “Because of Christ, Christian death has a positive meaning:
"For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain." "The saying
is sure: if we have died with him, we will also live with him. What is
essentially new about Christian death is this: through Baptism, the Christian
has already "died with Christ" sacramentally, in order to live a new
life; and if we die in Christ's grace, physical death completes this
"dying with Christ" and so completes our incorporation into him in
his redeeming act….the Christian can experience a desire for death like St.
Paul's: "My desire is to depart and be with Christ. “ He can transform his
own death into an act of obedience and love towards the Father, after the
example of Christ: My earthly desire has been crucified; . . . there is living
water in me, water that murmurs and says within me: Come to the Father. I want
to see God and, in order to see him, I must die. I am not dying; I am entering
life. The Christian vision of death receives privileged expression in the
liturgy of the Church: Lord, for your faithful people life is changed, not
ended. When the body of our earthly dwelling lies in death we gain an everlasting
dwelling place in heaven. Death is the end of man's earthly pilgrimage, of the
time of grace and mercy which God offers him so as to work out his earthly life
in keeping with the divine plan, and to decide his ultimate destiny. When
"the single course of our earthly life" is completed, we shall not
return to other earthly lives: "It is appointed for men to die once."
There is no "reincarnation" after death.” [cf. Catechism of the
Catholic Church 1010-1014]
It was common when I was a boy, and a family member died,
for the body to be laid out in the open coffin and waked in the home. A black
wreath would hang on the front door of the house, or flat in the tenement
building. When the day of the funeral arrived, we would walk behind the hearse
to the Church. Black vestments were worn and, in the Jansenistic atmosphere of
the times before Vatican II little was heard about mercy and resurrection, a
lot about the urgency to pray for the soul of the deceased as the assumption
was – if you were lucky! – everyone ended up in purgatory!
No wonder between the last snows of winter and the heavy
frosts of summer’s end, families frequently went to the cemetery to put fresh
flowers, light a votive candle at the grave. Yes, often too a picnic would
follow right there at the grave. This was more than a grieving process, it was
also a profound understanding, if missing from the funeral sermon, the deceased
was not definitively dead, only the body had ceased breathing. The loved one
remained with us – hopefully out of purgatory after all those months!
One of the favourite places for my peers and I to adventure
during the halcyon weeks of break from school between June’s warmth and
September’s chill, was along the docks and in the sheds of the waterfront.
Combined with the newsreels of Saturday matinees, and the
‘dps’ [displaced people] arriving by steamer from Europe, those were the days
when I first saw the tattooed numbers on the arms of real people, some not much
older than myself.
To this day I have a visceral aversion to tattoos, finding
the current trend of almost total body tattooing, a disproportionate number of
the tattoos symbolic of death and evil, sad.
There is a deep connection between the loss of the awareness
of my intrinsic dignity as a child of God and this inking of my body to what?
Be seen, known?
In the seminary, I would attend a powerful lecture by a
Rabbi, child of holocaust survivors, on the theological, the faith challenges
many faced because of that horror.
Many years before that I attended an art exhibit of almost
childlike memory paintings by men and women who had lived through the atomic
destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Combined with what fighting in war did to members of family:
my father, uncles, along with the newsreels of the war and the death-camps,
meeting survivors, I have been deeply anti-war.
Perhaps it appears a paradox then that I am deeply
respectful of, proud of, our military and police.
The stark truth is that we need both police and military, otherwise
society will become a place where unhindered the weak will be preyed upon, indeed
be fodder for, perpetrators of all forms of evil.
So long as there is a criminal element in society, the evil
of terrorism, men and women willing to put their lives on the line for our
protection are as needed as the Angels who protect us in spiritual warfare.
There are many other examples of the stark reality and
vagaries of death I could write about, however the following two stand out
above all others: the death of one of my sisters and the death of the unknown
man.
I had started my second year in the seminary when the call
came from my father that my sister was dying and I had better arrange to see
her.
The rector of the seminary gave permission.
Of my four sisters, she was the one I was closest too. She
was a wife and mother of two young sons.
When I arrived at the hospital there was intense grief.
We were keeping vigil with her and I offered to take the
post midnight time so her husband and the rest of the family could rest. Her
two boys, at her request, who had last seen their mother before she entered the
hospital and looked to them as she always had, because they were so young, were
kept away.
She wanted their last memory of her to be the one where they
chatted and she held them with love.
Once I was alone with her, she had slipped into a coma, I
had a rather cantankerous few minutes of interior prayer because I was the
oldest of her brothers and from this could neither protect nor save her, so I
threw down a gauntlet before God, saying if He cared at all for her or for me,
and since it was my birthday He could prove it with the one gift I cared about:
“End her suffering!”
She opened her eyes, squeezed my hand, smiled and died with
a peaceful expression.
Many years before I entered the seminary I was on the
graveyard shift and the homicide squad put the word around that everyone on the
shift should try and find time to stop by the morgue and see if they could help
identify a body, a body of a young man, perhaps less than twenty-five years
old.
He had been found in the river, beaten, tortured, teeth and
finger tips removed.
This was in the days before DNA when often dental records
and fingertips would be relied upon to make an ID.
It was around two in the morning when I, at the time an
atheistic-hedonist, could go to the morgue.
Looking down at what had once been a human being – someone’s
son, brother, perhaps even father or lover – I had no idea what his identity
may have been.
Suddenly deep within my being, or so it seemed, I felt
almost more than heard: “At your first Mass you will remember him.”
I couldn’t get out of the morgue fast enough and even though
still on duty, stopped at the nearest bar and had a couple of stiff drinks.
Some fifteen years later, concelebrating with my bishop, my
fellow ordinands and priests of our diocese, I remembered that young man and
prayed for his soul.
Where, O death, is
your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? [I Cor. 15:55]
(C) 2017
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