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If it is true, as Plato says, that “of death there is no knowledge”, if it is probable that the future reserves for us both sadness and joy, unforeseen and problematic events, the only absolutely certain thing that awaits us is death; this fact is universal and indisputable.
Heidegger had the courage to put it in the center of his philosophy. It alone radically limits human freedom. Therefore, with this in the background, man must understand himself.
Modem pedagogy, and this is very indicative of its mentality, never speaks of death. It seems to be directed at “immortal” children; it is afraid to touch upon the mystery of death except with decorations, trimmings and lies.
Forgetfulness of death characterizes the world; with great artfulness everything is designed toward this, as if modem man could not bear the idea of it imposed too brutally; as if behind the statement that “all men are mortal”, there is hidden an unavowed and senseless thought, an obscure desire that there may be perhaps some exceptions, that this end does not immediately concern me, and in all events, it is never the opportune moment to think of it.
We bury the dead with uneasiness, almost in secret, rapidly, discreetly. The dead are spoilsports; they disturb those who are enjoying life. Certain cemeteries in their almost hideous monotony give the horrible idea of a death that has become industrialized as it were, and of forgetfulness in the anonymity of a common fate. For those who remember, their memories refer to what no longer exists; the poetry of their sadness comes from a dead past. On the contrary, memory itself depends on life, and it keeps the past entirely present. Each one of the dead is a singular and irreplaceable being, living eternally in the memory of God. The Church in her prayers for the dead asks this of God, as she asks also for the grace of the constant remembrance of death. St. Benedict's rule prescribes having it before one's eyes every day.
In existentialism, death conditions the famous “transcendence”, but the latter is proved to be powerless since it does not transcend death. It is the living being who is transcendent toward death (Sein zum Tode). Certainly, such a dialectic vigorously presents the problem, but at the same time it shows its insufficiency. The end and nothingness are granted, but no light is shed here on the meaning of death. A stoppage or lessening of reflection such as this leads one at the most to say: the one who wishes nothingness will have it. Simone de Beauvoir fails when she tries “to conjure death with words”.22.43 True transcendence ought to affirm the contrary: it is not life that is a phenomenon of death, but it is death that is an episodic and passing phenomenon of life. Only in this perspective does death receive a significance that is luminous in meaning.
The profound pessimism of Freud and Heidegger appears to have been formed naturally, as soon as we reflect on life in relation to its end. To recognize and to accept this end is already a deep and true philosophic attitude, for as Julien Green remarks: “No one speaks so well of life as death does.” Indeed an infinite duration in the conditions of this earthly life, time being cut off from its ending, would deprive existence of all meaning. In Tous les hommes sont mortels Simone de Beauvoir is in accord with Berdyaev and expresses a just intuition: the indefinite duration of biological ex- istence would culminate in infinite boredom. We can add that the horror of an infernal fate comes exactly from such a boredom being made eternal. For the Fathers of the Church, life without end in earthly conditions could only be a demoniacal nightmare. The love of God for his creatures hinders the eternalization of such a state of life that would be only a suspended death.
The meaning of history, even its possibility, is in direct relation to its end, its balance sheet, its transcendence, more inevitable than death itself toward “the wholly other”. “The last enemy to be destroyed will be death,”22.44 St. Paul energetically declares. The final evil is pregnant with the ultimate solution of the human condition. Death, “the king of terrors”, according to Job, causes legitimate anguish, puts a stop to what is habitually profaned by forgetfulness, and in its depth strikes in all cases by the greatness of its mystery. At the beginning of his life, St. Augustine wept for the death of a friend, confessing: “Having become an enigma to myself, I questioned my soul.”22.45
The value of a human being is measured by his attitude toward death. Plato taught that philosophy was the art of dying well, but philosophy does not know of the victory over death; it can postulate it, but it cannot teach how one must die in the resurrection. It only affirms, and in this is its greatness, that time cannot contain eternity, that time without its end would be more absurd than death, and that this world which kills Socrates the Just is not the true world. Even more, its crimes testify to another world where justice reigns, and where Socrates lives forever young and beautiful. For St. Justin, the fate of Socrates prefigured the destiny of Christ who died and rose and in whom Socrates was born again for eternity.
Death is not an instant; it coexists and accompanies man all along the path of his life. It is present in all things as their evident limit. Time and space, instants that vanish and distances that separate, are so many breaks or partial deaths. Every goodbye, change, forgetfulness, the fact that nothing can ever be reproduced exactly--all bring the breath of death even to the heart of life and rock us in anguish. Every departure of a loved one, the end of every passion, the traces of time on a human face, the last look at a city or a landscape that we shall never see again, or simply a faded flower--all arouse a profound melancholy, an immediate experience of our anticipated death.
Nature does not know any personal immortality; it knows only the survival of the species. Atheists can dream only of survival in their works or in the memory of the generations to come; it is a dreary dictionary--immortality at best.
The virulence of death can be neutralized only by its own negation. That is why the cross is raised in the center of the world, and life freely accepts passing through death in order to shatter it and bring it to nothingness. “By death, you have conquered death,” sings the Church on the Vigil of Easter. Origen reports a tradition according to which the body of Adam was buried where Christ was crucified.22.46 Another tradition has it that the wood of the cross had its origin in a tree in Eden. The Bible knows nothing of natural immortality and reveals the resurrection as coming from beyond--from the death and resurrection of the God-Man. Thus Christianity alone accepts the tragedy of death, and looks at it face to face, for God has passed along that road and all follow him.
If philosophy brings knowledge of death, Christian ascesis offers the art of going beyond it and thus anticipating the resurrection. Indeed, death is entirely in time. For those around a dying person, his death is dated, but for the one who has just died, it has no date, for he already finds himself in another dimension. Just as the end of the world will have no earthly tomorrow, death is not a day on the calendar for anyone; this is why the death of each one, like the end of the world, is for today. Likewise it is not tomorrow but the very day of the eucharistic repast when one enters into the kingdom.
For a man whose spirit has been rendered immortal, the nonexistence of death is evident, because it is on this side, while he is on the other. As an element of time, death is behind us; before us is found what has already been experienced in baptism: the “little resurrection”, and in the eucharist: life eternal. The one who follows Christ “does not come to judgment, but has passed from death to life”. “The one who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life.” The final reality of ourselves lives on the threshold of this paschal passage; the act of faith discovers it and sees things “that are not seen”, according to St. Paul.
“If anyone comes to me and does not hate... even his own life, he cannot be my disciple.”22.47 Thus, to hate means to oppose an obstacle, an excessive attachment to life here below or a fear of death--all of which makes the spirit captive. To a thoughtful man, death deprived of anguish manifests his own grandeur and nobility. It purifies and despoils the dead of what is merely accessory, inclines us to keep “a good memory” of them, to appreciate them in a disinterested way, to rectify the scale of values beyond time and in the face of eternity. The face of a dead person has for some moments a peaceful and majestic spiritual beauty: “that impenetrable smile of the dead which is in such harmony with their marvelous silence.”22.48 The presence of death has something august about it; it ennobles our feelings, and during a brief instant makes each one truer and greater. The death of another is a trial, and the one who experiences this receives the dignity of surviving and of preparing himself for the mystery of his own accounting.
Normally death is the time of harvest for a life “laden with days”, and ripe for eternity. According to the beautiful words of ancient martyrologies, it is the dies natalis, the birthday, and only God knows this day and the hour. The words of Pascal, “One dies alone,”22.49 and those of Kierkegaard, “That I die is not a generality for me,”22.50 mean that each one of us totally assumes his death. Man is the priest of his death; he is what he makes of his death. The last anointing admirably introduces us into this priesthood, offering “an oil of gladness” and an exaltation of heart above the agony of the body.
Diadochus22.51 remarks that grave illnesses take the place of martyrdom. Even more, to each one is given the grace, the charism of martyrdom, when, in the face of death that replaces the executioner, man can still call it “our Sister Death”, and confess the Credo, evidence that he has already passed from death to life (cf. Col. 2, 12; John 5, 24). Great spiritual men have often lain in their own coffins, as if they were in a nuptial bed, manifesting a brotherly familiarity, an intimacy with death, that is only a passage and a definitive point of departure. Erasmus observed this intimacy in the saints and thought it constituted a second nature that had dislodged the first.
St. Seraphim of Sarov used to teach “joyful dying”. “For us, to die will be a joy,” he was accustomed to say to his disciples. That is why he addressed each person he met with the paschal salutation: “My joy, Christ is risen”; death is non-existent and life reigns.
In his letter to the Corinthians, St. Paul presents an astounding vision: “All things are yours... life or death... all are yours,”22.52 both with the same claim.