My father died last night, peacefully in his sleep following a stroke. God had allowed us to be with him as a family in the afternoon though he had been barely conscious of our presence. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad.’ ‘OK.’
Death is a novelty to me. It is quite extraordinary to think that even that lingering residue of life he had when we last saw him has now gone. His death was not unexpected, and we were not close. The involuntary spasms of grief have passed, like the shocks of an earthquake in the night, and apart from a few minor after-tremors all is now quiet. But the memory of him hangs vividly in the air, and I can understand why people believe they can contact the spirits of the dead.
He was a stubborn and determined unbeliever – he made a point of insisting that there should be no ‘religious mumbo-jumbo’ at his funeral. So, I have to ask myself, what has become of him? What will become of him? His tired body will return to the earth – his ashes will probably be buried in woodland. The ‘spirit’ that was the life in him has returned to God; but that simply closes the metaphor of life as a gift, the breath of God in him, the supreme work of the creator. ‘The dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it’ (Eccl.12:7). That is not a bad ending – my father would not have been too uncomfortable with that.
But eventually, we are told, that woodland will give up the dead in it, and my father will find himself standing with innumerable others, in a space vacated by earth and heaven, before the ‘great white throne’ of God (Rev.20:11-12). Books will be opened and he will be judged by what he has done, as it has been recorded in the books. If his name is not found in the book of life, if he finds himself numbered with ‘the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, …murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars’ (21:8), he will be ‘thrown into the lake of fire’, which is the ‘second death’: he will be no more, by then perhaps not even a memory.
That is a more troubling vision, but the journey from Ecclesiastes to Revelation is a long, complex and painful one. It needs to be retraced by the interpreter, carefully and sympathetically, but not here. In the meantime, the shade of an old man, a good father, is still present, reluctant to depart.
Where has he gone?
Andrew,
A music prof I had in college recently died. I have a very fond last memory of him when I happened to meet him shortly before his death.
He was not at all religious or a professing Christian but had been married late in life to a Christian Lady. The Funeral was a “who’s who” of local musicians and students (packed). The ceremony was far more religious than I would’ve imagined having known him. One of the questions the pastor worked into his talk was “where is Rick?” ” Where has Rick gone?”
He along with another pastor used the opportunity to convey their eschataological concepts.
Later in the reception Rick’s wife and now widow confessed that the ceremony was much more for her than her deceased husband.
My faith is that your Father is not that far away and that may explain some of your thoughts (vivid memory, wanting to contact him etc.) Just go ahead and talk to him, it can’t hurt.
I can’t explain it by reason but I’ve sensed energy, passion and abilities in things that seem to be imparted from a loved one who has passed on. It’s like they become a part of that “great cloud”, like they hang out in that other dimension and continue to touch our lives in mysterious ways.
May Christ be very near to you Andrew during this time of grieving.
blessings
Paul
Peace...
From experience, I know that this can be tough. Don’t deny your emotions, whenever or wherever they come. Peace.
In memoriam
Andrew,
I lost my father last December after a short but intense battle with cancer. That you’ve made your father’s death public is courageous.
My father was also not a practising believer, and so I have been left with questions of the future, of judgement, of fairness. Some months down the road I have no answers to these, and do not expect clean answers.
I have found that I’ve needed to separate the eschatological question from my own grief, however. That is, my love for the man and the legacy he has left me, opposed to the question of whether or not I will see him at the eschaton. I think I needed to do this partly to enter into his world as a tribute to him, even though he’s left this one. His life was built not on looking forward to a future resurrection, but on living now and loving now (not bad goals!). For me to grieve means to let myself hear him on his terms, and to try to leave the questions of the eschaton for another time. Damned hard to do, I’ll admit, but can be helpful in allowing myself to grieve today for the loss I feel today.