My sister Vicki writes:

How fitting that God would choose Thanksgiving Day to bring our wonderful Great Auntie Mena home to heaven! She so personified a grateful heart to everyone who knew her. Her cheerful way, her servant’s heart, her positive outlook in every part of her life could only come from someone truly thankful for all that God had given, even through the difficult times. When commenting on the loss of her vision, it’s no surprise that rather than complain she said, “You know, when you live this long, things just start to wear out.” Even into her nineties, one could never think of her as a “little old lady.” There was always a sparkle in her blue eyes, a smile on her face and on her feet sneakers rather than orthopedic shoes. Around her 90th year, we paid a visit and I asked her what year it was that Northern Michigan University presented her with an honorary Bachelor of Nursing degree. Before I could beat her to it, she was bounding up the stairs to get the plaque from her room. Coming back down to show us her award from 1978, she said, “It’s good for me to go up and down those stairs.”
On our last visit with her in August at Norlite, she was slowing down, but still persistent in spreading warmth and cheer. She spoke of being blessed to be cared for by a wonderful staff and for the food that is “out of this world.” As we prayed with her before leaving, she prayed herself and in a strong voice, “Thank you, Lord, for giving me so many people who love and care for me.” As we said our good-byes, she urged us to get a cup of coffee for the road, “It’s the best coffee you’ve ever tasted!” That was our Auntie Mena. How thankful we are to have had her influence and example in our lives. We will miss her, but we know she is rejoicing with her Savior, Jesus Christ, and all of the loved ones who have gone on before her.

“Thank you Lord for giving me so many people who love and care for me.” My sister Vicki’s anecdote captures my Great Aunt Mena at her most characteristic. Humility, as C. S. Lewis said, is a cheerful virtue.

Mena Haskins Hartvigh was cut from the same cloth as the man whose remark stopped me in my tracks a few years ago as I watched the BBC production Windsor Castle: A Royal Year. In three nearly hour-long episodes, it gives an inside look at the royal house. Thus we see the maids on their knees polishing waxed floors in great gilded rooms, men in felt socks walking on top of the banquet table set with gold service for one hundred and fifty. Upholsterers, clockmakers (keeping time with the 400 clocks in the castle), the fender men (polishing the fenders on the 80 hearths), the footmen, chefs, stable boys, guards and game wardens, we see all of them cheerfully going about the business of serving the monarch.

What stopped me in my tracks was the remark of a man named Tony Martin. Mr. Martin’s duty is to hoist the royal standard at the top of the great tower of Windsor Castle when the Queen is in residence. When the Queen leaves the castle, he lowers the standard. On her majesty’s return, the moment she is inside the ramparts, he raises it.

There are nearly 400 servants at Windsor, so the sovereign can’t know each one personally. But Mr. Martin finished speaking of his duty by saying that he met the Queen once. “She said to me, ‘You’re the flag man, aren’t you?’” He finished his remark by saying with apparent joy, “She knows who I am.”

It’s rather like that scene from one of Lewis’s Narnia Chronicles, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. In the chapter titled How the Adventure Ended the tiresome boy Eustace Clarence Scrubb says to Edmund, “But who is Aslan? Do you know him?” And Edmund replies, “Well — he knows me.” That is very good theology impossible to grasp by an imagination in thrall to the democratic. (I might suggest that the key to Mena’s gladness was kept as in the keep of a castle, except that in her case it was as hidden as the key my Uncle Lowell hid thirty-three years ago. My family had come from Sault Ste. Marie to Marquette, Michigan for a visit. Vicki was in college there at Northern Michigan University, and Mena and my Uncle Lowell lived in Marquette. On such occasions we would stay at Lowell’s house and on this one, fearing we would arrive before he could be there to greet us, this cunning man hid the key to his house in an envelope and taped it to the front door. On the envelope for anybody to see he’d written a discreet note to my folks. It read, “Bud and Ann: The key is in the envelope.”)

The Lord knows who Mena Genevieve Haskins Hartvigh is. The Sovereign she served faithfully knows who she is. That was the source of her joy, as it is now and shall be forever.

With her death, the last of her generation in my extended family has joined all the company of heaven, but her devoted service continues. She would have slapped her knee with approval had she heard my father some years ago telling the four of his children, “When I die, you can bury me wherever you want. Tell the mortician when he lays me out to point my toes because as far as I’m concerned you can take a maul and pound me into the ground wherever you want because the Lord will know where to find me!” Not, “I will know where to find the Lord,” but, “the Lord will know where to find me.” That’s the hope of the resurrection in language any Yooper can raise a glass to.

What I most want to say for Mena has been said by other servants in the house of the Lord, by my family, by the Book of Common Prayer, by apostles and prophets, and by none other than our Lord himself.

O God, the King eternal, whose light divides the day from the night and turns the shadow of death into the morning: Drive far from us all wrong desires, incline our hearts to keep your law, and guide our feet into the way of peace; that, having done your will with cheerfulness while it was day, we may, when night comes, rejoice to give you thanks; through Jesus Christ our Lord.

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord;
he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live;
and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

I know that my Redeemer liveth,
and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth;
and though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God;
whom I shall see for myself and mine eyes shall behold,
and not as a stranger.

For none of us liveth to himself,
and no man dieth to himself.
For if we live, we live unto the Lord.
and if we die, we die unto the Lord.
Whether we live, therefore, or die, we are the Lord’s.

Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord;
even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.

Into thy hands, O merciful Savior, we commend thy servant Mena. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech thee, a sheep of thine own fold, a lamb of thine own flock, a sinner of thine own redeeming. Receive her into the arms of thy mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.

A woman I know described to me once an experience she had in the process of giving birth to her first child. It was not too difficult a birth as births go, but at the point where the labor became most painful and difficult the doctor gave her an anesthetic to help her through the actual delivery itself, and in the few minutes that she was unconscious she had a kind of dream or vision that haunted her for months afterwards. She didn’t see anything in her dream, and that was part of the strangeness, just the darkness with nothing to get her bearings by, but she said that she heard a voice which in a very even-toned and relentless way kept telling her the same thing over and over again, and what the voice told her was to push and to keep on pushing harder and harder even though, the anesthetic notwithstanding, the pain was considerable and she believed that the pain and the pushing were going to kill her, the straining of her whole body, but she also believed that she was going to have to die in order for the child to be born.

And then the dream opened up or deepened into a kind of dream within a dream, and this was the dimension of it that haunted her for so long afterward. Because within that inner dream she came to believe that it was not just that she was going to have to push the baby out of her womb and die herself, not just that the birth of this one new life was going to cost her her own death, but that this was the way the universe itself had been born. The vision she had was of God laboring in cosmic agony in order to give the world life, and therefore the darkness of her dream was the unfathomable darkness of a world where God had long since ceased to exist.

The child was born and lived and the woman didn’t actually die in the process, but the vision she had under anesthesia is a vision which many people have had before her, to the point where forty years ago a theology became known by its name. This dream of life coming out of death, particularly this dream of life itself coming out of the death of God, like all the great recurring dreams of humankind, seems in some way to be the bearer of a truth, and it must be taken seriously and must be allowed to haunt us as it did this woman. She did not physically die that day; but there are more ways than one of dying, and there’s much that can die quite apart from the flesh.

The phrase ‘self-centered’ has come to have an unpleasant meaning in our day, and we use it to describe people who are self-contained the way someone is contained in their own house when the door is locked and the phone is off the hook — safe from the demands and intrusions of other people yet also in a way cut off like a prisoner from the companionship of other people. But in another sense, the phrase ‘self-centered’ describes us all, not so much that we’re selfish in these ways but simply that we make ourselves the center of our own lives.

We look at the world with our own two eyes from the place where we ourselves are standing, which is right in the center, and we see the good things and the bad things of the world, out there on the circumference, primarily in terms of the way they affect us. We may deeply sympathize with other people when bad things happen to them, but very often the bad things that happen that are entirely real to us are the things that happen to us. We may be glad when good things happen to other people, but very often the good things that really make the heart sing are the good things that happen to us. All of this gives us as selves a kind of partial invulnerability.

For instance, the 230 thousand people killed in the Indonesian tsunami or the discovery of a cure for a terrible disease, even the horrors and the marvels that happen to people known to us, may move us very deeply for a while but they don’t really hit us where we live for the reason precisely that where we live is not out there on the circumference where such things happen, but right here on dead center, so that the only way life can really get at us is by scoring a bullseye.

To that extent the self-centered person is invulnerable, and with invulnerability comes a measure of independence because you can move around through the world not very much or for very long weighed down by anybody’s problems but your own. And make no mistake, there’s much to be said for such a life and you don’t give it up easily, and you do well to think twice before you do, and there are many worse selves that a person can be than self-centered in this way. However. When the woman bore her child that was just the part of her self that died as surely as her body might have. I mean that quite literally. The person she had been before simply and quite literally ceased to exist.

It’s not sentimental claptrap to say that when you bear a child as this woman did, or when as a man you become the father of a child, you just cannot be the center of your own life in the same old way any longer because now there is your child at the center with you. No longer is it true that the only things that can hit you where you live are the things that happen to you directly because you live also in the child now and whatever hits her for good or ill hits you also, so you’re vulnerable on not just one front any more but on two. And by the same token, it’s not just your own welfare that’s at stake any more as you blunder your way around the world, but it’s also the welfare of this other self, too.

In this sense, then, the woman’s dream was true because her self as the center of her own life did die and not without pain, as she brought her child into the world. From that time onward it became her destiny to die again each time the child moved out into new worlds of its own to risk dangers and defeats which would also be in some way hers.

In Jesus’s parable of the prodigal son we have not a baby coming into the world but a young man going out into the world, not the pain of the mother in her labor but the pain of the old man when his son decided to leave home and strike out on his own. If you consider how the old man rejoiced when his son finally came back, you can imagine something of what it must have cost to let him go in the first place, and how much he would have given to have had him stay. But just as in her dream the woman knew that she would have to die in order to give her baby life, the old man also knew that a part of him would have to die if his son was to have the chance for a life on his own. For the father it was the self-centered self that crucified itself in an act of love and let the boy go. And you might think twice about life on your own just as you might think twice about that word crucified.

The deepest and darkest part of the woman’s dream had to do with God’s dying in the act of creation. This was the part that haunted her for so long afterward. It’s this same idea that haunts the world still in what was called the Death of God theology. It’s a vision with a lot of terror in it and a lot of loneliness in it, and to try to fathom this vision’s meaning if it has any meaning at all is to move out beyond the reach of human thought. But I can’t help wondering if the same idea I’ve been trying to express in terms of the woman herself and Jesus’s tale of the prodigal doesn’t perhaps provide a kind of possible clue.

The ancient Hebrews spoke of God in God’s ineffability or holiness — God as the deus absconditus, the hidden God to look upon whom is to die and before whom even the angels veil their faces, the God who existed before existence itself existed, before the great “Let there be light” was ever spoken and before time and space themselves were brought into being. The Greek philosophers spoke of the Unmoved Mover, perfect and unchanging, whose nature it was to contemplate itself eternally. The Hindus have their idea of Brahman-Atman or the Void or Pure Being which can be described only by the Sanskrit phrase “neti … neti” which means “neither this nor that” — in other words that this Pure Being so far transcends our understanding that nothing we can say of it can be true.

In other words, it would appear that nearly every age and every culture has pointed with its own symbols to something like a God centered in and totally sufficient unto Godself. And then as widespread as that idea is the idea of creation, of the Ultimate Reality however you want to name it, as stirring in something like the labor of childbirth and bringing forth … light, water, earth, human beings, as another reality over against itself. This extraordinary vision of a God who exists beyond all pain and all joy sacrificing perfect invulnerability for the sake of giving life to a world and then leaving that world free even to deny him as the source of its life — a God who leaves the world free to suffer the consequences of its own actions and then suffers with it and for it.

To love another — a child, a friend, a neighbor — is to place your self at the mercy of the other and as a self sufficient unto yourself to die. So it is with God and all the prodigals who are all of us, and whom in love and at unspeakable cost the Most High gave life to, and whom in love and at unspeakable cost the Most High leaves free because though in freedom we can forsake God, only in freedom can we really love Him.

It was G. K. Chesterton who wrote, “There are two ways of getting home; and one of them is to say there,” but there are few if any of us in this age of revolt from the past who choose that way. Even if we do, even if like the elder brother we stay at home and play it safe, going about our business at God’s house, it can happen even there of all places that we’re far from God because we don’t notice how smug and self-serving we are, how loveless and cynical. If God is someone we can find anywhere, God is also someone we have learned to lose track of anywhere.

If God is dead in the sense that he has willingly died, if God is far away because he has drawn far away so we can have room to be ourselves — then God is also dead and far away because we have so willed him to be, and the darkness of our world is a darkness we have made for ourselves as in a thousand ways and every day each of us flees God into countries just as far as the one where the prodigal went to try his luck until finally his hunger drove him back home again. God is dead for us because we’ve shaken the dust of him off our feet and have struck out on our own with faith in ourselves.

But even at his worst the prodigal remembers the life he once had — we have God’s breath in our lungs and the memory of God somewhere deep in our bowels, and unless we know God’s presence as a blessing we are doomed to feel God’s absence as a reproach, an emptiness, a hunger. Unless we live with God we are destined to die without him as in so many ways we have died already, a death of the spirit, a death of the heart. In so many ways we have died already that if I thought I could, I’d try to start a Death of Us theology to replace the Death of God one. It is just when the prodigal sees that he’s wasted everything not least himself, that he sees there is only one risk left to take, and that was to take his chances back home. Having squandered his inheritance, he can’t go back as a child but maybe he can get back in business as a hired hand.

This is the part of the story that is as moving as anything in any literature. He’s tried his luck only to find that his luck didn’t hold very long and he stinks of the sty and he’s lost everything, so finally he decides to go back home. And with the pathetic cunning of the panhandler he figures out that the best way to do it is by crawling back on his belly like a worm. So he works out ahead of time a rather mealy-mouthed little speech about how sorry he is for what he’s done and how he’s willing to be treated as one of the hired servants if the father will only take him back again. Only it’s a speech he never gets to make the way he planned to because before he finds a chance to make it the old man sees him coming up the road and rushes out to meet him and throws his arms around him, and to the scandal of all who prefer justice to mercy, speaks the great words, “Bring quickly the best robe and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet; and bring the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and make merry for this my son was dead and is alive again.”

The whole truth of it is even more than that, for it isn’t just the son but the father too who comes alive again because he has the son back home. The real truth is not that God is dead but that to turn to God in whatever half-hearted and half-baked way we choose — a confession, a clumsy prayer, one little act of compassion done for Christ’s sake and in his name — is to find what at its richest and most profound life really is, both God’s life and our own. The very source of life chooses to enter into death in order to give us life as we were meant to live it. Jesus’s death calls on us to die to our own self-centeredness that we would live not for ourselves any longer but for him who dies and for those God dies to welcome and give life to, with tears and embracing and gladness and a Feast.

He learned she was gone on his way to her room. At the Georgetown University Medical Center, he stopped at the ICU nurses station where the names of patients are written on a white board next to their room number. He had been used to seeing Scholz written next to Room 3011. But on that Wednesday morning 14 October, 1998, her name had been erased. He was staring at the place where her name had been when a nurse said, “She’s gone, Father.” The nurse’s name was Tina. She told him that Ruth had died earlier that morning. She was gone.

He did not know Ruth Scholz until the cancer that would finally take her life had made it impossible for her to speak. He knew her only as she lay dying. He held her hands and prayed for her. He could feel in her fingers the strong pulse of her heart, the hands that stroked the hair of her daughters Constanze and Charlotte, the hands that wiped the tears from their eyes. He never heard her voice. He imagined her singing to her girls wiegenlieder.

He had told her he was a priest and Constanze’s religion teacher. He sang “Jesus Loves Me” to her as she slept. He anointed her head with oil. And once, when he said to her, “Constanze ist eine besondere mädchen,” she smiled. Even with all the medicines and the morphine, despite the terrible affliction that ravaged her, she was made glad at the sound of Constanze’s name. She and Charlotte were a source of joy and comfort to her mother to the end of her days.

At her bedside a week before she died he asked her husband Wolfgang how the two of them met. He said that a mutual friend introduced them to each other at a feast in a castle in Germany. There was this feast, he said, his face lighting up at the memory of it, a great feast, and it was in this beautiful castle.

One of the last things Jesus said were the words he spoke to someone he did not know until the man was dying. “Today, thou shalt be with me in paradise.” If you stop to think of where Jesus says these words and to whom he says them, it’s no wonder that Sanhedrin piety and Roman politics wanted to kill him. Reduced to dying on a cross, he speaks as if he were a king, presuming that paradise of all places is where he’s going and promising a thief of all people that he’ll take him there. There was just the dying left to do.

Paradise. We left it, left it so far behind and so long ago that we’ve squandered all but our vaguest memory of it. If Jesus has in his death the power to save us, it’s not surprising that these would be among his last words.

In Room 3011 two days before Ruth died he prayed with Wolfgang this prayer from the Book of Common Prayer: “Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world; In the Name of God the Father Almighty who created you; In the Name of Jesus Christ who redeemed you; In the Name of the Holy Spirit who sanctifies you. May your rest be this day in peace, and your dwelling place in the Paradise of God.”

On January 29, 1626 at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, John Donne preached a sermon on Psalm 63: 7, “Because thou hast been my help, therefore in the shadow of thy wings will I rejoice.” It is surely one of the greatest sermons ever preached on a psalm in the English language. There are ample reasons for thinking so. Here’s one. Donne gets his congregation to see themselves as enemies of God.

It may be said that God’s enemies is not all that we are. What too often is left unsaid is what makes possible that subjunctive. We lack, too many of us preachers, a biblical theology of God as destroyer, what it cost God for us to get involved with him. That we are at enmity with God is indeed but one aspect of our relation to him, but that there is more to knowing God than resisting him, that there are other aspects of our involvement with God including our loving him, depends utterly on the mercy of the Most High, the mercy that makes possible our hope of receiving it.

Imagine yourself sitting in the nave of St. Paul’s in 1626 as the Dean mounts the pulpit steps. Donne is a man who for all his inimitable talent, for all his genius with words, knew on good authority dejection and death. By 1626, he had lost his beloved wife Ann and five of the twelve children he had with her. Imagine yourself hearing — don’t read but hear them — these words. What you hear is a man preaching to his congregation, but what falls on your ear also is the sound made by a man praying, a man whose emotional skills have been subjected to and shaped not merely by his subjective experience willy-nilly but by the psalms. And therein lay his sermon’s lyric power; Donne speaks as the psalmist does, taking his grief directly to the Most High.

When I shall need peace — because there is none but thou, O Lord, that should stand for me — and then shall find that all the wounds that I have come from thy hand, all the arrows that stick in me, from thy quiver; when I shall see that because I have given myself to my corrupt nature, thou hast changed thine, and because I am all evil towards thee, therefore thou hast given over being good towards me; when it comes to this height, that … mine enemy is not an imaginary enemy, fortune, nor a transitory enemy, malice in great persons, but a real and an irresistable and an inexorable and an everlasting enemy, the Lord of Hosts himself, the Almighty God himself — the Almighty God himself only knows the weight of this affliction, and except he put in that pondus gloriae, that exceeding weight of an eternal glory, with his own hand into the other scale, we are weighed down, we are swallowed up, irreparably, irrevocably, irrecoverably, irremediably.

Eamon Duffy writes:

Prayer for the dead is neither fear nor fire insurance, emphatically not an attempt to appease an angry or sadistic God. It is an exercise in the virtues of faith and hope and love.

For prayer for the dead is also a bridge across the gulf of separation which is death. We are social beings, but most of us can expect to die alone, in a hospital bed rather than in our homes. Death is the ultimate alienation, the sacramental expression of all the barriers which divide us. Medieval Christianity witnessed against that isolation by constantly remembering the dead, recalling their names, in the liturgy and in private: the dead remained part of the church community . The Reformation, in silencing all naming of the dead in prayer, unwittingly endorsed the experience of death as alienation.

Images of purgatory come and go, some better than others, none of them essential. We do not pray for the dead to bail them out of prison or to placate a God who demands satisfaction, but because we know that they live in Christ, bound to us in a single faith and hope and love, and therefore with a right to a place in our prayers. We feel ourselves diminished by their deaths, and that has a reality in faith as well as in natural experience.

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Duffy in The Tablet. Author of the terrific book The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England, c. 1400 to c. 1580, Duffy is Professor of the History of Christianity, and Fellow and Director of Studies, Magdalene College, The University of Cambridge.