Resurrection
Be Not Afraid Resurrection
Chapter 19 Resurrection
When Johannes Brahms' great Requiem was first performed in 1867, audiences were astonished. Instead of having set to music the usual prayers for the dead, the composer had borrowed verses from scripture that speak of comfort and hope.
Now you have sorrow; yet I will see you again,
and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy
no man shall take from you.
As a mother comforteth her child,
so I shall comfort you.
I have labored and toiled, yet found rest.
So you, too, shall rest.
Artistically speaking, such lyrics showed Brahms' gift for breathing new life into an old form. But there was another, more significant dimension to it. Two years
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before, his mother had died, and in choosing words that addressed his grief, he found a creative outlet for it, and a measure of healing.
Having lost both my parents two decades ago, and
still feeling the loss keenly at times, I doubt Brahms was able to "get over" his mother's death with a work of art. More probably, he went on mourning for years. Still, his Requiem reflects a truth that cannot be denied, even if there is no such thing as full closure. Though grief is a harsh, long-lasting reality, there is a greater reality to which sadness must ultimately yield, and that is hope.
Across all cultures, men and women have found consolation and courage in the belief that death is not the end, but that it is followed by another, better life to come. How this next life will come about and what form it will take are questions that have occupied the human race down the centuries – and the answers people have come up with for them would easily fill another book.
Generally speaking, the world's major religions all agree that though our bodies decompose and return to the earth, our souls are released to another plane, either returning to their source, or moving on to find another frame. As writer Clarence Bauman puts it, "Being nonphysical, our psyche is not subject to decay, but is conserved within a larger infinite spiritual accountability. Just as our decayed body
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is reabsorbed by this planet… so our mental and spiritual components are transposed into the realm that ultimately determines the origin and destiny of all knowing and being."
Explaining the same process in different terms, my grandfather, writer Eberhard Arnold, says that our flesh, blood, and bones are not, in the truest and deepest sense, our real selves. Being mortal, they die. Meanwhile the real seat of our being, the soul, passes from mortality into immortality, and from time into timelessness. It returns from the body it was breathed into back to its author, God. That is why, my grandfather says, the human soul longs perpetually for God, and why, instead of merely dying, we are "called into eternity" and reunited with him.
For those of us who call ourselves Christians, it is impossible to contemplate such a future without recalling the resurrection of Jesus, the "Son of Man," and the price he paid for it – a harrowing public execution on a Roman cross. After all, his death was not just an isolated historical event, but (as he himself indicated by saying, "Follow me") the unavoidable gateway through which each of us must pass if we want to share everlasting life with him. "Whoever tries to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses it for my sake will find it."
Be Not Afraid Resurrection
To the extent that our paths must trace Christ's, the fear of death is not only understandable, but natural. He himself cried out in anguish, "My father, why have you forsaken me?" and begged him, "Let this cup pass
me by." When I first heard the story of the crucifixion from my father, I could not stomach its cruelty, and everything in me rebelled. Why couldn't there be Easter without the horrors of Good Friday?
Over the years, however, I found an answer that I could accept: just as there can be no spring without the cold of winter that comes before it – just as the glory of a sunrise would be nothing if it did not break through the darkness of night – so the pain of suffering must precede the triumph of new life. In finding this faith, I gradually overcame my fear of dying.
Those who do not believe in a life beyond the grave sometimes dismiss the idea out of hand, and given our inability to describe the future, except in terms of vague hopes, this is understandable. But to a dying person who does have faith in resurrection, it is not just an abstraction. It is a source of courage and strength so real that it can even alter him physically. Sometimes it is a matter of something as simple as a smile; sometimes there is an unexpected burst of energy or the sudden return of mobility and speech.
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It is as if the dying one is standing on the threshold of eternity. Moments like these hint at the immortality of the soul – and the beauty that is still there in the most exhausted, decrepit body.
Poet William Blake, who was captivated by the themes of heaven, hell, time, and eternity throughout his life, said that to him dying would be no more than "moving from one room to another." According to his wife, this confidence remained with him in his final hours. He spent them lying in bed, weak but joyous, and singing one song after another.
The philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, who died at forty-three, met death with similar joy – and with the certainty that it was not just an end, but a beginning. His nephew wrote:
Never have I seen the spirit break through the earthly
husk and impart to it such a glory…He took my hand in
both of his – how small they were and thin and palely
transparent – and said, "Thank you for coming, and now
farewell." But these simple words were accompanied by
a look the match of which I have never seen. It shone
out from a sublime and blessed splendor that seemed
to me to make the whole room light. Everything was
concentrated in those eyes as the source of light and
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heartfelt love, the blissful dissolution of sadness, a
penetrating clearness of mind, and a jesting smile.
Jabez, a 92-year-old my parents got to know in England during the Second World War, faced dying with a similar joy. There was another angle to it, however. According to my father, this white-bearded patriarch was unconcerned about himself; his sights were set on something much greater. Sitting in his chair and looking out over the ripening fields, he often spoke of God's great harvest to come, and the eternal glory that would then break in on earth. Here was a man who lived in daily expectation of the coming Kingdom.
It is rare to be given such breadth of vision, and to be so detached from the worries that tend to plague the dying. But even if our vision is limited, we need not spend our last days in anxiety and fear. Remembering the last ten days of her mother's life, which she spent at her bedside, writer Dorothy Day reminds us that as long as we hold on to the proverbial mustard seed of faith, we will be led through doubt and despair.
To sit by a dying person and see their intentness on what
is happening…It is a struggle, a fearful, grim, physical
struggle, to breathe, to swallow, to live.
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It was hard to talk about dying, but every now and
then we did. I told her we could no more imagine the
life beyond the grave than a blind man could imagine
colors. But we also talked about faith, and how, because
our knowledge was like a bridge which comes to an end,
so that it does not reach the other shore, we must pray,
"I believe, O God. Help thou my unbelief." A wonderful
prayer, that.
And we must remember that for the faithful, dying
does not mean that life is taken away, but that it is
changed. For when our dwelling here is taken away, an
everlasting home still awaits us in heaven.
In a way, it requires no great leap of faith to believe in the transformation Day speaks of. It may be miraculous, but it can still be seen all around us daily, in nature – in the emergence of a butterfly from what was once a caterpillar, or a sprout from what was once a rotting seed. As for the mysteries of the hereafter, they are not entirely closed to us either. Having witnessed the final moments of many dying people, I have sensed the nearness of another place – call it eternity, heaven, the kingdom of God, or whatever – and according to hospice workers and others quoted in the book Final Gifts, this is a common experience among those who provide end-of-life care.
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Dying people may see a bright light or another place.
Some review their lives and come to a more complete
understanding of life's meaning…They are frequently
given glimpses into another world and those waiting in
it. Although they provide few details, they speak with
awe and wonder of the peace and beauty they see in this
other place. They tell of talking with people we cannot
see…people they have known or loved. They may even
tell us when their deaths will occur.
Nick, whom I quoted in the previous chapter, says that as his brother Matt drew his last breaths, he was given such a glimpse, after becoming aware of another presence or dimension in the room:
Right after Matt went, his wife said that she could hear
music or something like it. She said it was like singing,
but more of a loud rushing sound. It's funny, but I swear
that when she said that, I listened and I could hear
something too. It's brought me to a different level of
thinking about everything. I think we're so much more
interconnected with the other world, as you might call
it, than we sometimes assume. We have our little plans
and go on with our little lives, but there's always that
connection.
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Bound as we are by the limits of time and space, we can only guess at what such things might mean; as the Apostle Paul says, we can only see "through a glass darkly." All the same, an inkling of eternity can – as
Nick found – change our worldview in a significant way, and remind us that heaven is not just "pie in the sky." It is a reality here and now, even if a mysterious one.
I opened this book with the story of my sister Marianne, who died when I was six. But that was not actually the first death in our family. Eight years earlier, my parents had lost another daughter, Emmy – their first child –when she was three months old. The following notes from my mother's diary reveal the depths of her anguish. Yet they also reflect a deep trust in the promise of resurrection, and because of that I would like to close the book with them. Standing as a reminder that love is greater than fear, and life more powerful than death, they have always given me hope:
The last few days of our baby's life were hard for us
to bear, yet still great and powerful, and filled with
promise because of the nearness of Christ. Each time
we interceded for our little one and gathered ourselves
inwardly, the powers of death withdrew, and she revived.
Be Not Afraid Resurrection
Whereas before she lay apathetic and unresponsive,
with half-open eyes, shallow breath, and a very weak
pulse, now she would suddenly open her eyes, look at us,
and cry, moving her hands and turning her head when
she was touched…
There was an atmosphere of love in her room that
went out from her and filled the whole house, and
united us in love to each other. We took turns watching
her. It was a hard fight, and she struggled so valiantly, it
seemed incredible that she was only a tiny baby…
Just before the end she opened her eyes wide, wider
than ever before. Then, with a clear, otherworldly gaze,
she looked at both of us for a long time. There was no
sorrow and no suffering left in those eyes, but a message
from the other world – a message of joy. Her eyes were
not dull and clouded but bright and shining. She could
not tell us anything in words, of course, but her eyes bore
witness to heavenly splendor and to the unspeakable joy
there is with Christ. With this gaze, our dear baby took
leave of us. I shall never forget her radiant eyes.
Be Not Afraid Epilogue
EpIlOGuE
It is clear that when a person dies, eternity knocks at his door. Yet doesn't it knock for each of us, all the time? If we are elderly or ill, this isn't hard to imagine. It is much harder for those of us who are in good health, or in the prime of life. Then we are far more likely to see death as a negative thing, and to push it away as an unwanted reminder that not every dream of a long, happy life comes true. But even if we push it away, we can never know, when we get up in the morning, whether we have decades in front of us, or only days.
Just weeks ago my 32-year-old niece Carmen, a second-grade teacher and mother of four, was busy balancing the demands of parenthood and work; in the meantime she's been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, and can neither stand at a blackboard nor give her baby a bath. Just weeks ago she was playing her viola at my youngest daughter's wedding; now she is so weak she can barely raise her head. Given the nature of her illness, Carmen could be on her feet again soon. But she could also find herself wheelchair-bound for the rest of her life.
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Then there's my cousin Ben, sixty-eight, who was recently stricken by cancer. It spread so aggressively that by the time he was diagnosed, both surgery and chemo were ruled out as ineffective options for
treatment. Though stable at the moment and buying time with painkillers and hormone blockers, he could go downhill at any time – something he's painfully aware of, especially on bad days. At the same time he is generally so upbeat that one would never guess what he is dealing with privately: nausea, fevers, restless nights, and moments when the thought of being separated from his wife of forty years becomes too much to bear without tears.
Because of Ben's medical condition, he is daily forced to confront the thought of death – and, when it attacks him, the demon of fear. But even if someone like him is far more conscious of his mortality than you or I, aren't all of us equally fragile in God's eyes? Given the uncertainty of any life from one week to the next, shouldn't every illness, every death speak to us and challenge our complacency? As Joseph Conrad reminds us in Lord Jim, our days are numbered whether we like it or not, and there is "never time to say our last word – the last word of our love, or our desire, faith, remorse…"
To watch someone die is always a shaking experience. But death need not have the final word.
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And if it seems like it does, perhaps that is because we spend too much time focusing on our fear of it. Like animals frozen in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, we are so mesmerized by death that we forget
the promise of eternal life that follows it. Bonhoeffer rightly admonishes:
We pay more attention to dying than to death. We're more
concerned to get over the act of dying than to overcome
death. Socrates mastered the art of dying; Christ overcame
death as the last enemy. There is a real difference
betweenthetwothings;theoneiswithinthescopeofhuman
possibilities, the other means resurrection. It's not by
virtue of ars moriendi – the art of dying – that a new and
purifying wind can blow through our present world. Only
the resurrection of Christ can bring that about. Here is the
answer to Archimedes' challenge: "Give me somewhere
to stand, and I will move the earth." If only a few people
really believed that and acted on it in their daily lives, a
great deal would be changed…That is what living in the
light of resurrection means.
Bonhoeffer, a modern martyr who refused to bend his conscience to fit the demands of Hitler's Third Reich, went to the gallows fearlessly, and to me, these words
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contain a key to his boldness. They also contain a vital kernel of wisdom: the thought that the best way – the only way – to truly overcome the fear of death is to live life in such a way that its meaning cannot be taken
away by death.
This sounds grandiose, but it is really very simple. It means fighting the impulse to live for ourselves, instead of for others. It means choosing generosity over greed. It also means living humbly, rather than seeking influence and power. Finally, it means being ready to die again and again – to ourselves, and to every self-serving opinion or agenda.
In Dickens's Christmas Carol, the bitter old accountant Scrooge provides a memorable illustration. Tight-fisted and grasping, he goes through life dragging a chain that he himself has forged, link by link, with each miserly deed. Having closed himself to human kindness, he lives in a universe so calculating and cold that no one escapes his suspicion. Before long he begins to despise himself and look for a way out of his misery. But he cannot find one. He is trapped – trapped in the prison of self. Worse, he is haunted at night by dreams of death and dreads its approach.
Then he changes. Loosened by those same dreams, the scales fall from his eyes, and he sees a way out: "It is time to make amends." No longer consumed with his
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own needs, he is free to love. And as he runs from one old acquaintance to another, he rediscovers the world around him with the unselfconscious happiness of a child.
Such happiness can be ours, too, if we live for love. By "love" I am not speaking simply of the emotion, nor of some grand, abstract ideal, but of the life-changing power Jesus speaks of when he says:
I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and
you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed
me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you
visited me, I was in prison and you came to me. (Mt. 25:
35–36)
Love is a tangible reality. Sometimes it is born of passion or devotion; sometimes it is a hard-won fruit, requiring work and sacrifice. Its source is unimportant. But unless we live for love, we will not be able to meet death confidently when it comes. I say this because I am certain that when our last breath is drawn and our soul meets God, we will not be asked how much we have accomplished. We will be asked whether we have loved enough. To quote John of the Cross, "In the evening of life you shall be judged on love."
Be Not Afraid Epilogue
As my great-aunt Else lay dying of tuberculosis, a friend asked her if she had one last wish. She replied, "Only to love more." If we live our lives in love, we will know peace at the hour of death. And we will not be
afraid.
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THE AuTHOR
People have come to expect sound advice from Johann Christoph Arnold, an award-winning author whose recent books on sexuality, marriage, raising children, facing death, forgiving, and finding peace have sold over 300,000 copies in English and have been translated into 19 foreign languages.
In thirty years as a pastor and counselor, Arnold has advised thousands of families and individuals, including the terminally ill, prison inmates, and teenagers. A native of Britain and father of eight grown children, he lives with his wife Verena in upstate New York, where he serves as senior minister for the Bruderhof - an international communal movement dedicated to a life of simplicity, service, and nonviolence. Arnold has been a guest on hundreds of talk shows, and a speaker at numerous colleges and high schools.
An outspoken social critic, Arnold advocates a consistent reverence for life and has worked together with other renowned peacemakers for reconciliation and justice in many of the world's conflict zones. Recent journeys have taken him to Northern Ireland,
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the Middle East, and Central America - and into schools, hospitals, refugee camps and prisons.