This time of year the Church urges us to consider what happens to us when our earthly lives are no more. It is an exercise in which few people relish the thought of engaging because, quite frankly, it’s terrifying. Even the most devout among us who claim to have no fear of death personally need only ask ourselves whether we would welcome with the same eagerness the demise of our children, and we will soon see just how weak the foundation of our understanding of the afterlife actually is.
I recently completed a ten-day, retreat-style book based on St. Francis de Sales’ Introduction to the Devout Life. St. Francis was a huge proponent of meditating upon our own deaths frequently and profoundly. And yet, it is probably the endeavor we avoid most. Why does it scare us so much? For those whose faith is uncertain, of course there is the obvious fact that nobody has actually seen God; what if what we have been told about Him is simply not true? What if this life is all there is?
And yet, for those of us actively pursuing a life of faith, we have already found and have been satisfied with the answer to these questions. We know that this life is not all there is; if we doubted this basic premise, we would not strive each day to make our faith the top priority of our lives. So why do we so often act no differently than those who doubt when it comes to voluntarily pondering the subject of death? We act as though death is something tragic that happens to “other” people, and we blind ourselves to the one certainty that exists in life, which is that, at some point, our lives on earth will cease. Instead of acting as though this day could be our last, we just assume we’ve got time.
But assumptions don’t make it so. We all know people who have experienced sudden loss in their lives. We call these deaths “horrific,” “tragic,” “unthinkable.” We can’t wrap our minds around these events…and so we don’t. Could the same thing happen to someone in our own families? We imagine it would be more than we could endure. So we decide it’s best not to think about it at all.
According to St. Francis de Sales, there is a way to approach the subject of death peacefully. That way is to approach it not through a false lens of our imagined fears, but through the lens of reality, the lens of faith.
Great and wonderful are your works, Lord God almighty…Who will not fear you, Lord, or glorify your name? For you alone are holy. (Rev 15:3-4)
In this age of technology, we often miss the miracles of nature that prove to us the glories of heaven to come. And yet there is an undeniable experience of the presence of God in every human heart when one is alone with Him in the silence of nature.
Let the sea and what fills it resound…Let the rivers clap their hands, the mountains shout with them for joy. (Ps 98:7-9)
Besides the distractions of the age in which we live, it can also be difficult for us to enter into a meditation of heaven because our other source of evidence—God’s holy word—portrays a somewhat unappealing picture of heaven to us. Singing God’s praises day and night sounds like…a lot. And must we learn to play the harp? Of course, if this is our only concept of heaven, no wonder so few strive “eagerly” to attain it!
St. Francis urges us to consider heaven a little more deeply. Our lives here on earth are meant to be but a “shadow” of the glory that is to come. So, if we imagine the most magnificent sunrise, that sunrise pales in comparison to the sunrises we will see in heaven.
Furthermore, these heavenly sunrises are ones we will behold continually. Unlike earth, where we get used to things that once filled us with wonder and awe, in heaven, we never get “used to” that sunrise; it takes our breath away eternally. There is a joy in our heart that is never satisfied and yet always fulfilled, both at the same time.
We can apply this to any beauty here on earth: a majestic snow-covered mountain, a running stream in the woods, the perfect waves at the beach on a sunny day…all magnified beyond anything we can imagine. But the beauty here on earth that is most poignantly glorified forever in heaven is the all-compassing experience of God’s divine love.
Here on earth a romantic dinner for two must come to an end. A blessed time of prayer with friends must give way to our schedules at home and work. Visits from cherished guests last only for a time. The ones we love…pass away. There is always a sorrow that accompanies the joy of our love for others because the experience of our precious time together cannot last. But in heaven, there is no “time that ends.” We are with the ones we love, continually and forevermore. What’s more, our love is not tainted by the “baggage” of insecurity, miffed feelings, envy, anger, jealousy, irritation, or resentment. It is pure, it is whole, it is bursting with joy. For all time.
I don’t know about harps and clouds and wings, but to be 100% peaceful and joyful and full of love sounds absolutely wonderful. Who wouldn’t be filled with gratitude all the time? What happens when a person is filled with gratitude like that? They cannot say “thank you” enough. This is what it means to sing God’s praises day and night. It is not exhausting or tedious at all. It is our greatest joy.
Because of his transcendence, God cannot be seen as he is, unless he himself opens up his mystery to man’s immediate contemplation and gives him the capacity for it. The Church calls this contemplation of God in his heavenly glory “the beatific vision.” (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1028)
There is no way to get around the fact that losing someone we love is going to be both painful and sorrowful in this life. But let us take comfort in the hope that their joy now is both endless and complete, all at the same time! It is a joy we hope for too, one that we strive for eagerly, one that will make the suffering we endure now as “nothing” compared to the glory that is to come when we are reunited with our loved ones once again.
Now there is a part two to our meditation on death; St. Francis tells us that in order to strive eagerly for heaven, it is not enough to simply consider the realities of God’s kingdom; we must also consider the realities of hell. This we will explore next week.
Martin, J. (c. 1851). The Plains of Heaven [painting]. Retrieved from Wikimedia Commons.
