Reflection on a Death

In my first month as a curate at Holy Spirit Anglican Church, I went on a house call with the rector.  We were going to visit a couple with whom was living one of their mothers.  The mother was close to death and had been for some time.  It was explained to me that we were going to be with the couple, in order to care for them as they continue to care for the mother.  When we arrived, the wife informed us that the nurse had just left and that the mother would not last the night.  She told us that she has started the 'death rattle'.  I was not entirely sure what that meant, but I did get the sense that our visit would be very different from what I had originally expected.  

We went into the room, where the husband was with his mother, with his hand on her arm.  The mother was lying in a home hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling, and as we approached, I understood what the death rattle was.  It is the sound that a person makes as the approach their last moments and fluid comes into their lungs. This produces a rasp as they breathe.  We talked for a few minutes, but our conversation grew short as the mother's breath grew short.  There were longer periods between her breaths.  Then, she was gone.  I have never seen anyone die before.  I have been close to a dead body at a funeral once, but I have never actually seen the process happen.  

I felt afraid.  A thought came into my mind, "Here is the great enemy, death."  I felt naked before the fact of my own mortality, perhaps just as Adam and Eve had felt as they bit into the fruit.  I was also afraid because I was surrounded by this woman’s loved ones and I did not know what to say or what to do.  In both accounts, in my fear, I felt naked and ashamed.

Just then the daughter of the couple arrived.  She had come as soon as she could but had been caught in traffic.  She walked into the room and immediately wanted to leave, but her mother stopped her and hugged her.  She started crying.  My rector, who had put on his travel stole, told the daughter that we were going to say some prayers together and then they would each have a chance to say goodbye.  

He then picked up his Bible and read from 1 Corinthians 15:50-57,

"I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: 'Death is swallowed up in victory.' 'O death, where is your victory?  O death, where is your sting?' The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."

Here was comfort.  In these words of victory I felt clothed.  We then went on to read the rest of the prayers at the time of death, but it was that note of victory which stuck in my mind.  This was our confidence in Christ.  Not that we would avoid death, but in the face of death we could be assured of his victory on our behalf.  He had indeed defeated the great enemy.

After the prayers, my rector suggested that each member of the family take some time to say goodbye.  He and I were going to wait in the living room and they could come out whenever they were ready.  

They came out one by one within a few minutes.  We spent the rest of the evening talking about family, memories of the mother/grandmother, and memories of the family's relationship with my rector.  After a few hours, we left.

The next week, my rector had me read a chapter from A Place on Earth by Wendell Berry.  In the chapter, a local minister goes to visit a family who has experienced a death, however, the minister is very awkward about it.  He feels more comfortable in the pulpit than in the living room with the family.  He notices that he easily slips into a sermon, drifting away from the present conversation and into the clouds.  My rector and I discussed the situation in the novel and the situation in our home visit.  As we did, three main points came out.

First, a relationship is essential for good pastoral care. Having a relationship with the people means that you know how they will react and what they need.  It also gives you a good place from which to minister, as you have already proven yourself to be their friend and your comfort is more readily received.  The minister in Wendell Berry’s story is aloof from his congregation.  He normally appears to them in the pulpit and nowhere else.  Thus, when he shows up to provide pastoral care, he only knows how to talk to the family is if from a pulpit. 

My rector, on the other hand, had spent time with these people.  He had known them and been their priest for almost thirty years.  He had taken time to get to know their children, had walked with them through struggles, and had laughed with them in their joys.  It was because of that investment of time that they willingly accepted him into their home in their moment of grief. 

A second lesson which we drew from this situation was that the time of death is not the time for a sermon.  The family needs assurance and prayers, they need someone who knows a bit about what happens next in terms of the practicalities.  There are small moments for theological reflection and faithful encouragement, but the sermon is best saved for the funeral itself. 

It was particularly hard for me to swallow this one.  I naturally incline to the more cerebral side of ministry.  In my walk with Christ, it has been the moments of intellectual discovery which have drawn me in.  There was actually a moment in our conversation with the family that I wanted to launch in on an exposition of John 10:10.  Thanks be to God, He held my lips shut. 

As I read the Berry novel I saw how ineffectual this approach was.  The pastor slipped into sermon mode, his speech pattern also seemed to change, and the parishioners fade out.  He was no longer talking their language. 

My rector, on that night, spoke words of comfort and encouragement in words that the people understood.  I could discern Scriptural allusions and theological concepts, but they were clothed in normal, everyday language.  This is how people hear theology in this time of emotion and grief, and it was effective. 

The challenge for me is to press in on both sides.  To study theology more that I can accurately talk about it in fewer words.  And also to talk with people in the congregation more, to learn how to speak to each of them.  I pray that I can get to a point where I can speak the comfort of our faith without compromising or pontificating.

Third, a very practical take away for me was to allow the family to serve you.  I was offered something to drink twice within the first ten minutes of us being there, but I turned it down.  Later, I realized that the family just wanted to do something, and I was stopping them from that.  While we were talking afterwards, I accepted a drink, but I probably should have done it sooner.

I think that I had a limited idea of what ministry would look like in that situation.  I expected to be the one who came in and provided all the care, while the family sat back and were comforted by my expertise.  A slight exaggeration, but as I reflect on what I was thinking as I walked up to that house, it was very self-centered.  I am thankful that my rector was there to walk with me, so that I could watch him and take my cues from him.  Hopefully the next time I enter such a situation, I have a more full understanding of what ministry is.

Overall, it was an experience which I doubt that I will ever forget.  While it was shocking and deep, it was also a confirmation that this is the ministry to which I am called.  It was a great honor and joy to be with people in their deepest need, not that I could offer them anything, but that Christ would be there through me. My role seemed more a reminder of Christ’s love through my presence than anything else, especially my words.  Once, when I was with a teenager in a family crisis, I told Mandy that I did not know what to say.  She told me, "Then don't say anything, just be with him."  Good advice.