death Archives - Held By His Pierced Hands

When I was 18 I was in the throes of intense vocational discernment (perhaps better described as grabbing Jesus by the throat and demanding that he tell me I didn’t have to be a nun). After months of talking to God only about myself–and ignoring any contribution he might try to make to my prayer time–I realized that I had a problem and decided to fast from discernment for a month. Only a month because I had already committed to spending that summer with the Missionaries of Charity and figured it would be a waste not to discern while I was literally living in a convent for an entire summer.

So I spent 30 days trying not to pray about my vocation. It was incredibly freeing, giving me time to love on God instead of just demanding that he act as a magic eight ball for me. The day before this fast was supposed to end was June 21st, the feast of St. Aloysius Gonzaga. Father began his homily with this line: “St. Aloysius Gonzaga died when he was 24 years old.”¹ Suddenly it hit me: what if I’m going to die when I’m 24? What if I’m wasting all this time obsessing about a vocation that I don’t even have because I’m going to die young?

It’s not as morbid a thought as it sounds. In fact, if heaven is the goal of your life, it’s not morbid at all. And while I went on to discern and plan for a long life, there was a part of me that didn’t think it would happen. To the point that I was actually disappointed when I turned 25. I remember sitting in the car, driving back from a retreat, and sighing when the clock hit midnight. “Ah, well. Looks like I’m not getting off the hook that easy.” So I prepared to live.

"Hang on, Jesus, I just need to finish respectfully lambasting the Holy Father before you take me home." — “Hang on, Jesus, I just need to finish respectfully lambasting the Holy Father before you take me home.”

But not all the cool Saints died at 24. A bunch died at 33.² And this year, I’m 33.

I spent last week with my marvelously inquisitive 5-year-old godson. All week we were talking about Saints, about martyrs who were killed because they were telling people about Jesus. As I was leaving, not to return for another year, he looked miserable. “Hugo, my love, I have to go. I have to go tell people about Jesus!”

Very seriously but without a trace of sorrow, he asked, “And will you be killed?”

I responded honestly, “Probably not. Probably I’m going to be just fine. But if I die, is that a sad ending?”

“No,” he said, with absolute conviction.

“No. You’re allowed to be sad, but it’s not really a sad ending because I’ll get to go be with Jesus.” He nodded solemnly, gravely agreeing with my assessment.

Of course, he doesn’t really understand death. But he gets it more than most of us do. I have a habit of flippantly mentioning my desire to be a martyr,³ to which most people respond, “That’s so depressing!”

But it’s not. Arrogant, yes—presuming that I’ll have the fortitude to withstand threats and torture and death. But it’s not depressing because the death of a Christian is not a tragedy except for those left behind. I remind my poor mother of this from time to time. For all I’m shockingly guarded by Providence, I do live a fairly reckless life and I think it’s good to have my bases covered. “Remember,” I say, “the goal of my life is to die well. If I die doing God’s will, that’s not tragic.” It’s the beginning of a marvelous adventure.⁴

For years, the passage of the Chronicles of Narnia that’s struck me the most powerfully has been the desperate longing of the mouse Reepicheep to make his way to Aslan’s country:

“My own plans are made. While I can, I sail east in the Dawn Treader. When she fails me, I paddle east in my coracle. When she sinks, I shall swim east with my four paws. And when I can swim no longer, if I have not reached Aslan’s country, or shot over the edge of the world into some vast cataract, I shall sink with my nose to the sunrise.”

On my best days, this is how I feel. I just want so badly to go home. This world is beautiful and you people are amazing and I’m so grateful for the work I’m able to do, but I miss my Father and I want to sit with my Love. I feel like I’m on an extended, arduous trip abroad, far from friends and family and everyone who loves me. And it’s wonderful and exotic here and I’m meeting all kinds of marvelous people, but I want to go home.

Except that I’m not actually ready yet. Emotionally, perhaps; but morally and spiritually I need major work. So he leaves me here to let me grow, much though I’d rather be a poor, weak Christian in my Father’s lap than a mature Christian far from him. But he loves watching me grow, so here I am.

I’ve spent the week since I turned 33⁵ thinking about death. It’s a sign of how much I’m formed by this world that I feel the need to tell you again and again not to worry about me. I think about death the way I think about going on a cruise one day—it will be amazing and I’m not going to do a thing to hasten its advent.

Odds are good this isn’t the year I die. So I’ve been asking the Lord what else it means to be 33, to spend a year the age he was when he laid down his life for his loved ones. And it’s got me wondering if maybe the point of all this isn’t to prepare me for imminent death but to prepare me to be like Christ in all things. I ought to focus on all this every year, but maybe I can double down this year and see if it sticks once I get past the mild disappointment of turning 34.

What did Jesus do the year he was 33? He loved deeply. He listened to people with broken hearts. He spoke truth, whatever the cost. He went away to pray, even when it meant abandoning people who were certain that they needed him more than he needed the Father. He forgave those who loved themselves more than they loved him. He brought new life to the dead, both physically and spiritually. He sacrificed himself again and again in the days leading up to his one sacrifice for all. He allowed people to love him. He walked into hard places to do hard things he could easily have avoided. He laid down his life every day.

That’s what my Jesus year needs to be: learning a thousand times to die to myself and live for him.

A few years ago, my birthday fell on Sunday so I got different readings from the usual St. Matthew ones. The Epistle struck me: “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain,” Paul said.⁶ Ever since, it’s been this verse I come back to on days when I long for heaven, either out of love of Christ or despair over the state of this world. It will be marvelous to go home, but until then, let me be Christ in this world.

Turns out he was 23. I wonder if my life would have played out differently if he’d gotten that right. [↩]
Okay, my research is only turning up Catherine of Siena and Jesus, but statistics suggest that there have to be more than that. Why aren’t there websites that list Saints by age at the time of death? Come on, internet. [↩]
“I stay at strangers’ houses. If somebody tries to serial kill me, I’m going to yell, “I love Jesus!” while they do it and then I’ll be a martyr. Jackpot.” [↩]
If you’ll excuse me paraphrasing Robin Williams in Hook. [↩]
Happy octave of my birthday to me! [↩]
Philippians 1:21 [↩]

Today would have been my father‘s 56th birthday, but he died suddenly in November so it’s not.

WIth me on my baptism day. This is a very exciting picture because we're both wearing shirts. I have discovered in recent months that this was unusual (for both of us) during the early years of my life. — With me on my baptism day, December 18, 1983. This is a very exciting picture because we’re both wearing shirts. I have discovered in recent months that this was unusual (for both of us) during the early years of my life.

And maybe I’m heartless and self-obsessed, but I’m mostly okay. Oh, when total strangers push for gruesome details of his death¹ I sometimes lose it, but most of the time remembering him is more sweet than bitter, and I think I have theology to thank for it. More specifically, the doctrine of purgatory.

Every time I miss him, I pray for him. It’s not a discipline I’ve imposed on myself, it’s the natural reaction of a heart far from the one she loves. And suddenly I’m not so helpless in the face of death. If he needs anything, I can do something. I can pray for him. Purgatory helps me keep loving him–not just a feeling, but true love: sacrifice for the good of the other.

My father was a very broken man and reminiscing about him often shines a light on his flaws. One almost feels compelled to ignore his faults, but purgatory gives you permission to be real about them, to acknowledge them without despair. As far as I can tell, he died in a state of grace. But he had a tendency to revel in resentment and self-pity, among other imperfections. “Nothing unclean can enter heaven,”² the Lord tells me, but not to worry. I don’t have to whitewash his memory to be confident in his salvation, because God’s bleaching his soul in preparation for his marriage feast. He’s stretching him and healing him and turning his weeping into joy. In purgatory, the Lord makes all things new. My father wasn’t perfect, but he’s being made perfect by the blood of Christ.

In so many ways, he was a wonderful father. But there were years when it seemed as though he couldn’t be my daddy because he was so caught up in himself. I have no desire for revenge, but with real relationships–especially when death is sudden–there’s a feeling that it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he didn’t have to make up for his failings, not fair that he never knew how he hurt me and now he just gets to be done and go be happy with Jesus. But in purgatory he knows. God help him, he sees every least way he hurt those he loved (and those he should have loved) and he’s praying and suffering to make up for it now, by God’s grace. It’s just the way he would want it, this opportunity to atone, and it brings healing and closure to our relationship because I know that he’s still working at it just as much as I am. His death doesn’t make our relationship any less human, and as I continue to heal and forgive and ask forgiveness, I know he’s walking beside me along the same path of healing.

There’s joy, of course, in our communion with the Church Triumphant. Whether he’s in purgatory or heaven, he’s praying for me. He’s praying hard for my unbelieving brothers.³ Whether he’s a saint or a suffering soul, I can speak to him. I can ask his forgiveness or laugh at something with him or just tell him I still love him when I see the little bald guy on the Tonight Show, the guy he and I always cheered for and I never knew why. There are no “if onlys,” not really, because there is no true separation among those who love the Lord, even if a veil divides us for a time.

The communion of saints is a joy indeed, the logical result of a God who is love. But purgatory is such a gift, a gratuitous outpouring of God’s mercy on the deceased and those who mourn. I need this–I need to know that I can do something for him, that he’s growing, that the Lord won’t leave him as he was. I need to hear my Church stand with me in praying for him day in and day out. I need to rejoice in mercy while rejoicing also in justice.

For some people, purgatory is a stumbling block. For others, it’s a temptation to aim for mediocrity. For me, purgatory is a consolation, a spiritual necessity, and a grace. I don’t expect everyone to be cool with tragedy because of this doctrine of purgatory, but it sure has given me peace. Before, it was always something I’d argued for, never something I’d rejoiced in. Now, I’m so thankful to belong to a Church that recognizes that not even death can separate us because not even death can stop the merciful love of Jesus.

Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer, happy birthday! Rest in peace.