“So they took [Paul] and brought him to the Areopagus and asked him, ‘May we
know what this new teaching is that you are presenting? —Now all the Athenians and the foreigners living there would spend their time in nothing but telling or hearing something new” (Acts 17:19,21)
Don’t the Athenians seem so much like people today? It’s hardly worth explaining to us that “they spent their time in nothing but telling or hearing something new.” That’s why it’s called “news.” Many are addicted to news. They cannot go to sleep before the eleven o’clock news is over. They read the same in the morning papers, and they surf the e-mail for more news. So what’s wrong with that?
When we are immersed in the events of the day, now even of the hour, we limit ourselves to the present moment. We lose perspective. We forget or ignore that greater element of our beings that stretch backward and reach forward in time. “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy” (Exodus 20:8) is not a suggestion; it’s a commandment given to Moses from the Lord God. It’s for our benefit. It helps make us complete as human beings. The day of rest is for resting our minds, arresting our obsessions with things and persons of the moment, separating us from what is absorbing and perhaps frustrating us, so that we can put some mental space between our problems and ourselves.
In a word, we must have perspective. It is imperative that we look at ourselves in a wide-angle lens. What are we doing with our lives? How did we get here, and where are we headed? To be human is to have a memory of the past, a vision for the future, and an idea of who we are, who we might or should be, and what difference our life makes in God’s plan for the universe. Life is much more than eating, drinking, sleeping and satisfying our worldly pleasures. Even if we forget much of this at times, at least near the end of our days we ought to put our lives in order.
Part of my role and responsibility as a priest is to be with those who are in critical states, such as prior to a serious operation or near death. One expects to hear questions about the past life, such as wrong turns taken, grievous sins recalled, guilt not ever confessed, or queries concerning the life beyond this stage of existence—what’s heaven like? When and how will we be judged? What should I expect to see there? Who if anyone will greet me?
More likely I’ll hear comments about the hospital: The nurse is rude, the food is tasteless, the bed is uncomfortable. Or else, The Indians need a closing pitcher, neither presidential candidate is impressive, or some comment about a television show. Is this a ruse, an evasion due to fright about talking of death? I try to circumvent the bland discourse and open the conversation to the more serious matters; however, this is not just dodging the subject of God, faith, and the hereafter. This is all the person wants to talk about. I think: In a few hours you will be dead—eternally removed from this passing lifetime. Why would you care about the taste of food or the attitude of the hospital staff?
I was asked by a pious woman whose husband had died, what if anything she should give the funeral director to place in his hands. Perhaps a small cross? An icon? He didn’t have any, but it might be nice. A Bible? But he never read the Bible, or a prayer book for the same reason. Roman Catholics put a rosary in the hand of the deceased. She knew that our bishops and monastics wore something like rosaries wrapped around their wrists—but her husband never owned one. I wanted to say, but courtesy contained my tongue: Why not the TV remote? That’s what I saw in his hand. That’s the object most dear to his heart. Death and dying are serious realities. Let’s not play games. Let’s not for heaven’s sake add to the pretensions and banality of our society, at least not at the end.