“God did not make death…” –Wisdom 1:13
A meditation for the
Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
This past Sunday we had that interesting reading from
Wisdom. It tells us with striking
simplicity that “God did not make death…”
And yet there it is. What are we supposed to do with such a statement? We might have the urge to rush to some kind
of allegorical understanding (for instance something involving Paul’s comment
about the wages of sin… cf..Romans
6:23) but before we do, I think it is always best to spend a little time
contemplating the actuality of what is said.
What if it actually means what it says? What are the implications about
death, about God, perhaps even about sin? And yet, I am unable to let go of the
actuality of death itself; the death of an actual person and the repercussions
that follow. I wonder what these words might mean in the light of that.
About a year and a half ago, my brother Bobby died. He had lung cancer and was sure it was caused
by working in old attics filled with asbestos insulation. He was an a/c
repairman. When he found out about the
cancer, he started paying attention to those TV lawyer commercials; certain
that someone owed him something for this.
But, on the other hand, he bragged that before he started coughing up
blood, he hadn’t been to a doctor in close to 30 years. He had no insurance and never had. Instead his medical plan was to self-medicate
–in every meaning of that term. And most of the time, it worked well enough for
him. But if it didn’t, he turned away
from the world and handled the problem as best he could on his own. I imagine him even doing his own dental work
when necessary. That was the kind of guy
he was.
The last day I spent with him we sat in an emergency exam room
in Galveston waiting to hear if he was getting checked into the hospital next
door or sent home. Most of the time we
sat in silence broken only by moments of awkward conversation. Before the
cancer, we had not seen much of each other over the past 25 years. And sitting there waiting to find out how
soon he would die, it was an odd time and place to catch up. Mostly our talk turned back to the subject of
his dog and how much he wanted to get back to her. At one point, after a long silence, he
suddenly announced that he was done with all this. He couldn’t do the hospital
stuff anymore. All he wanted was to go home and sit with his dog.
Up to that moment, what conversations we’d had dealt mainly with
survival: money issues and oxygen tanks, plans for what his life would look
like with only one lung (or less). At
that moment, though, it seemed that he understood his problems were more
serious than finding somebody to buy him groceries. Yet, when a doctor came in
and told him that tests showed the cancer had spread and then asked him about a
DNR. Bob seemed stunned. He looked at
me. He didn’t seem to know what to say. The doctor explained: “We just need to
know. If something happens, do you want us to attempt to resuscitate you or
not?”
Still looking at me instead of the doctor, Bob said, “Well, hell[1],
of course, I want to be resuscitated.”
The doctor looked at me, also. He seemed as confused as I
was. Up to that moment, I think we were thinking
the patient was done with all this medical stuff… but clearly not. After some silence, he noted something on his
clipboard and left.
We sat there in more silence, Bob looking away; his head
shaking, like he was still saying no to something he couldn’t understand. Until that moment, I don’t think I had ever
seen my brother cry. He had been a hard
boy and had grown into a hard man. But
there were tears falling on his jeans as he stared at the floor and kept
shaking his head. Finally, he spoke: “Well
(something colorful) [2]
now, I don’t know whether to shit or
wind my watch.” That little
paraphrase from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was one of the last things I
heard my brother say. He was moved to
the hospital right after that. And I was
out of town when he died at home just a few days later.
Bob had lived hard and worked hard and played hard and
rarely seemed to consider the consequences, unless beer (or his dog) was
involved. And at the end that was where he got to be. Home with his dog
(Shirley) and his beer. He was there on the couch with both nearby when he
died.
I’ve been thinking about my brother a lot lately. Praying
for him in my Rosary. Asking him to pray for me. And thinking about how it must have felt to
know you were dying… not theoretically, but imminently. It is a hard thought.
Then, yesterday morning, as I came out for my morning walk,
I met a neighbor I rarely see anymore. She was entangled in the leashes of her
three dogs when we greeted each other. But instead of just going on her way,
she came toward me, because she had something she needed to tell me. Her son
had died. He was 42 years old, married to his college sweetheart, two children;
they were living in England; and there was a motorcycle accident. Just like
that she knew the terrible sadness of a mother who outlives her son. As we
stood there in the street, she told me she knew I was someone who prayed and
she wanted me to pray for her and for her son and for her daughter in law. I was standing there with my Rosary in my hand
and said of course. I would love to. In
fact, I have to say, I was honored that she asked.
Lead by the dogs, we started down the street together toward
her house –not my normal direction, but… As we walked, she told me about the funeral. How
many people were there and how loved her son had been –by so many people. Pausing
to untangle herself from the leashes, she smiled and told me how she had been
asked to speak at her son’s funeral. At first, she was shocked that they asked.
And she was certain she wouldn’t be able to do it. That would be impossible.
Too much. And yet –in the end—she did, and how glad she was that she had. How good she felt afterwards.
That morning, she was going back to work for the first time
since she returned from England. And her main concern right then was the people
at work who would be nervous and wouldn’t know what to say. But, she shrugged, she
was kind of amazed that she didn’t really feel that bad. Maybe it’s the prayers,
she speculated. “A lot of people are praying for me.”
Death frightens us –all of us. Despite all the science and
the inevitability, it seems a little unnatural.
This life, whether it is a happy one or a hard one –it’s all we know. It’s
what we know. And change is hard… even
just the direction of your morning walk (for some of us)…
Change is hard and death is about as big a change as we can
imagine. Last night, I learned of the death of a friend’s husband. Change
is hard and it just keeps coming. And I
don’t know what to say or do or write…
But I keep thinking about my brother, and my neighbor, and my friend and
I keep asking: why.
I don’t have an answer.
St. Paul says that death is the wages of sin (cf. Romans 6:23). Possibly. I think the temptation story in Genesis
would support that (cf. 2:17). But there is solace in the fact
that death is not part of God’s creation; it is not something that brings Him
delight. In fact, the Love of God overcomes
it. As Paul also says, through Jesus
Christ, God conquered death (cf. 1 Corinthians 15:55-57). If we look
at the Gospels, I think we see that could easily be the only thing Jesus
actually does during His entire public ministry; He goes from one kind of death
to another and brings only life: to the blind, to the hungry, to the outcast,
to the sinner, to the sick, to the widow’s son, to Lazarus, and to the little
girl –the daughter of Jairus—he brings life. I remember how I have always been
struck by what Jesus says to the little girl: Talitha koum –Little girl, arise (cf. Mk 5:41).
Its as if death were no more than a moment’s sleep. And the Lord calls us to wake up. Come to think of it, that’s what I saw in my
neighbor’s smile even as she talked of her pain and sadness, I saw the simple
beauty of someone fully alive; someone fully awake. And that’s what I pray my
brother found as he fell asleep not alone in a hospital bed, but at home on his
couch with his dog by his side. I pray
that what he heard as he drifted off was the sound of love calling to him: my beloved son, arise.
