“O Death, where is thy sting?” Part 2
“Death in a cloister is fundamentally different from death in the world”
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In the previous post, “O death, where is thy sting?” part 1, we looked at the contrasting examples of Denethor and Théoden in The Lord of the Rings as well as those of the various characters in Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of King Lear. Those examples illustrate the difference between a tragic and a victorious death, which we continue now in this post with additional literary examples and my own real-life experience with how death is met in a spiritual community.
The passing of Bernadette
Another excellent literary example that highlights a spiritual approach to death is found in one of my favorite passages from Franz Werfel’s The Song of Bernadette, Chapter 43, which regards the death of an elderly nun in Bernadette’s convent, Sister Sophie. Werfel opens with this poignant observation:
Now, death in a cloister is fundamentally different from death in the world. (503)1
“Death in the world,” Werfel writes:
…may be likened to an accident during the building of a skyscraper. One of the sweating riveters plunges from the scaffolding; for a few seconds his comrades take their pipes out of their mouths; stealthily they blink into the abyss, knowing that today or tomorrow the same fate may be theirs. (503)
In a spiritual worldview, on the other hand, matters are very different:
In the cloister death is the festivity that marks the completion of a soul, such as the guilds of masons and carpenters celebrate when a house has been finished. Tirelessly one has been working toward this unique day. Now one can take a deep breath and hope that one's sure dwelling-place is for evermore established. A day of someone's death in a cloister may well give rise to a sensation of festive curiosity. The nuns are fond of surrounding her who is dying and of praying fervently. They believe that they can help their sister in her final throes. They have the sense of being, as it were, midwives of the supernatural birth of a soul into another world. And this is so, above all, in a case such as Sophie's, who had been by far the oldest and most experienced among them and had celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of her taking the veil. From the death of such a one there was wont to emanate a great grace to encourage and sustain the survivors. (503)
The account then concludes with its effect on Bernadette:
This grace was now received by Bernadette. It was the first death that she had witnessed with her own eyes, and though it was so easy a one, it ploughed up her very foundations. Youth ceases at the moment when death becomes a reality to us. Bernadette clung to the eyes of the dying nun, who consciously fought again and again to smile. This smile was to stream into the soul of the witness. Bernadette knew of a certainty that the speechless woman was speaking of her lady. The smile was saying: Let nothing make you weaken. The lady knows exactly what she is doing. She knows why she is giving you this life to lead, too. It couldn't be different; it had to be thus. But when one has come to the place where I am, one is glad and light of soul and happier than any. But you will be much more glad than I, for your lady beholds you in life and in death. (503-504)
Bernadette’s own passing at the end of the novel is a similar celebration, for the Lady come to escort her on her next stage of her soul’s journey. Beholding the Lady, Bernadette’s last moments are flooded with grace:
What remained to her of breath she had used for the mighty cry of love. She kept her lips moving and in the second part of the Ave she succeeded in murmuring: “Now and in the hour…” Then her voice failed.
Commonly death extinguishes a human face in the twinkling of an eye. But death illuminated the face of Bernadette Soubirous. At the very moment of her last breath's ceasing her countenance assumed the aspect of the ecstasies, as though through all the sights and things of the world she had remained bound to the lady of her vision. (564-565)
Bernadette’s passing is anything but sad, as Werfel goes on by depicting the inner experience of Dean Marie Dominique Peyramale, who’s known Bernadette her whole life. He is beyond inspired:
Only gradually did he begin to suspect how deeply this death had refreshed his vital powers. All things had changed. Could any sting or any bitterness ever again assail him? Silvery was the light of the day, golden was the light of the tapers. And daylight and candlelight played over the eternally remote face of Bernadette. Peyramale could not bear to leave this sight. (565-566)
And he then utters perhaps the deepest truth of a victorious death, which is also used as the closing line of the 1943 movie adaptation:
To his own surprise he heard himself whispering, “Your life begins, O Bernadette.” (566)
The movie version of that scene can be found here on YouTube (the video disallows direct embedding).
Death in the real-world cloister of spiritual community
Lest Werfel’s depiction be considered merely fictional, such passings also happen in real life. Having lived in spiritual communities for nearly 30 years now, I’ve been repeatedly blessed to witness the undeniable grace that accompanies the deaths of those who love God. (And the account of my own that I offer in A matter of the heart, part 1 and part 2 also provides a perspective of facing one’s mortality.)
Just within the last year (2024), the community in which I presently live, Ananda Village outside of Nevada City, California, saw not one but five passings of lifelong devotees. Each one was, to use Werfel’s phrase, a death of the cloister, not of the world, for the community is fundamentally monastic even though its members include married couples and families.
Of the five deaths, only two were expected. One woman in her 90s really just died of old age; another woman, in her 70s, passed from a cancer which she chose not to treat. In both cases, they used their remaining time—as other community members have in the past—to give all the love they could to others.
One such account appears in the documentary movie, Finding Happiness:
The other three deaths in 2024 were more sudden, and, although they came as a bit of a shock, each was yet accompanied by a similar grace.
There is, of course, a degree of grieving when long-time friends and loved ones move on, as it here. Yet because everyone in the community cultivates that spiritual outlook, it is also a time of rejoicing. As it says in our “Astral Ascension” ceremony:
We are come together on an occasion of duel meaning, mixed with sadness and with joy. The sadness is ours for the time. The joy is his/hers whose spirit is now risen, and the words of the psalmist in the 23rd Psalm are those of <name of the departed> now, for he/she is in the bosom of the Lord and can truly say: (Psalm 23 is read).
The ceremony continues in this vein, as within a segment in which the congregation addresses words to the departed soul, including these:
New adventures await you—fresh, joyous victories as you advance toward perfect freedom!
And what of us, Friend, who love you and would be remembered by you? Behold us as threads of light in the tapestry of your life—threads which, through the magnet of soul-friendship, will appear ever and again, woven with increasing beauty as our hearts expand together in God’s love.
Approaching death when writing fiction
Fiction, then, that hopes to express spiritual, devotional, and mystical realism would, I think, seek to depict death in such a manner—which is realistic—rather than simply evoking emotions of sadness, grief, and loss. Depictions would still be empathetic and not callous to those very real emotions, of course, yet would try to help readers understand a character’s death with an expanded vision. That’s what makes it spiritual, devotional, and mystical.
Such is what Werfel achieves with Bernadette, as does Tolkien with Théoden. The same is also true of Lloyd Douglas’ thrilling ending of The Robe (Chapter XXV), in which the protagonist, Marcellus, refuses to recant his hard-won faith in Christ:
“Tribune Marcellus Gallio”—said Caligula, sternly—… “Do you now recant—and forever renounce—your misguided allegiance to this Galilean Jew—who called himself a King?”
…
“Your Majesty,” replied Marcellus, “if the Empire desires peace and justice and good will among all men, my King will be on the side of the Empire and her Emperor. If the Empire and the Emperor desire to pursue the slavery and slaughter that have brought agony and terror and despair to the world”—Marcellus’ voice had risen to a clarion tone—“if there is then nothing further for men to hope for but chains and hunger at the hands of our Empire—my King will march forward to right this wrong! Not tomorrow, sire! Your Majesty may not be so fortunate as to witness the establishment of this Kingdom—but it is coming!” (506)2
Marcellus is subsequently condemned to execution on the Palace Archery Field for high treason, but not before his wife, Diana, joins him to proclaim her own faith as she asks to accompany him. Caligula reminds her that she was not on trial and that no indictment has been brought against her.
“If it please Your Majesty,” said Diana, boldly, “may I then provide evidence to warrant a conviction? I have no wish to live another hour in an Empire so far along the road to ruin that it would consent to be governed by one who has no interest in the welfare of his people.” (508)
After a little further speech on Diana’s part, Caligula is incensed and tries to mock the couple, but “his merriment was not shared” as everyone else clearly respects the victory that Marcellus and Diana have achieved—both in life and in death. And in this way, their deaths are anything but sad, for the scene—and the book as a whole—leaves the reader uplifted and encouraged, perhaps even to pray, “May I be as strong it ever put to such a test.” It’s similar to how I felt the first time I saw the movie Gandhi, which ends (as it begins) with his assassination. My thought at the time was, “If I must be assassinated for standing up for God and Truth, so be it.”
Fiction that inspires readers in this way, and especially emboldens them to a life of devotion, loosens them from the tentacles of fear. One can then say, with Saint Paul (in I Corinthians 15:55), “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”
Postscript: Another book that I’ve only recently read that has something of this quality is Silence by Japanese novelist Shusaku Endo, a story that includes the martyrdom of several Japanese Christians (even though they are only secondary characters). For more about Silence, check out Alexander Semenyuk’s account below of how the book changed his life.
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Page numbers are for the 1942 Viking Press edition.
Page references from The Riverside Press first edition, 1948 fifty-second impression.