“Dust you are, and to dust shall you return” (Genesis 3:19).
The poet Dylan Thomas, pondering the way one faces death, counseled: “Do not go gentle into that good night.” Orthodox Christians would disagree with that emotion. For us, death is a celebration of a life lived as well as the deceased was capable in following the will and the steps of the Lord. In another sense it’s a birthday party, since the date on which a saint is honored is the day she or he had died to this world and was made alive in the Kingdom of Heaven. More precisely, it’s the second time when the person had died to this world, the first being the day of baptism and the spiritual burial in the font.
We do not pass silently into that dread realm. We sing about it, as all can attest who had attended the funeral or requiem services. We sing of what our loved ones can no longer utter—prayers of mercy and hope. Here is where we part company even further with the advice of Dylan Thomas, whose next line was:
“Rage, Rage, against the light!”
For us, rage is quite inappropriate. Indeed, it is for the poet as well. Neither he nor we were guaranteed eternal life here on earth. What audacity, to become enraged, as though life were due us, and now suddenly had been stolen away. What arrogance, to treat the gift of life as an inheritance. Especially as in the case of Thomas who had wasted his body in dissipation, dying at age thirty nine, rather than garnering his splendid linguistic skills and offering them to the world.
If silence at the time of dying suggests ignorance, having no words to express our thoughts, then such silence is inappropriate to believers. We are assured by Jesus Who went ahead of us through the experience of death and passed over to His Father’s Kingdom: “I go to prepare a place for you” (John 14:2). We are not alone in death, for a part of us lives in everybody who came in touch with us. We are alive in their minds and hearts, giving them reason to believe in the basic goodness of humanity by the positive memories they hold of times shared with us. In a real sense, therefore, all that we are is not contained within our skins, but transcends the physical bodies we utilize in this lifetime. In simple terms, we live in one another. Our souls reach out to touch, to influence, to remain with the community we hold dear to our hearts. Thus, when our lips are sealed, they are not silent; rather, they pray for us, tell about us, commend us to the Creator Who gave life and promised us life everlasting.
Made from the dust of the earth, part of us returns to the earth at our death—but we are more than mere earth. That portion of us worth remembering will live in the memories of others, and lives forevermore in Christ. Thus we speak and sing out for the one we love whose lips are sealed, reminding her or his Maker of the promise granted us by the only One Who could fulfill such an audacious intention. We affirm that expectation in our chants. We are convinced that death is another ritual of passage from one stage of life to another, the fulfillment of life for which this present existence is a mere prelude.