Theology of the body for mortals

My teen son noticed I was a bit quieter than usual as we sat, waiting for Mass to begin. Nothing was wrong, just a bit of fatigue and distraction. But he is the son most like me, so he is attuned to the tiny fractions of movement in the needs and moods of others, especially mine.

He leaned over. “Mom, are you okay?”

Without hesitation, I replied, straight-faced, looking forward, “Well, I’m dying.”

My son nearly blew snot out of his nose as he attempted to muffle his laugh in the quiet church.

“Yes, Mom. We are all dying. Each day is just one closer to death. So don’t waste it.”

This is an ongoing joke in our family. Not because we are morbid (okay, maybe we are) but because we as a family practice Memento Mori, the ancient Stoic meditation, borrowed by early Christians, “meditate on your death, so that you will live well.”

Yes, we tend to put our own darkly twisted humor on it, but the truth is, no one is getting out of here alive. Death is part of life. We believe that life after death will be even more glorious than the life we now live. The unknown can be fearful for many but meditating on our death helps us to live a more joyful life. And as a result, we are not afraid of dying. We believe in the life of the world to come.

“Do not be afraid.” This is what angels said when they appeared throughout the centuries. These are the first words our Lord says when He appeared after His resurrection. Whenever the gap between the world seen and unseen, this world and the one to come are bridged, we are told, do not be afraid.

*

A few years ago, the matriarch of our neighborhood was dying. She was in her late 80’s, and when her health had begun to deteriorate, leaving her mostly bedridden, her daughter made a cozy nest from which she could perch in a downstairs bedroom. From that nest our neighborhood matriarch had all she needed at arms’ length, a fresh cup of tea, a small CD player with her favorite music, and her Bible. She was surrounded by pictures of those she loved and had loved her, including pictures of my own sons in their school uniforms from throughout the years. She received visitors in that room. Each week, I came to refresh her flowers. When I did, I discovered I was not the only one who did so. She always had a few vases rotating of flowers, nothing fancy, just grocery store or garden bunches. Often, when I visited, there was a concert in her room, a nephew singing an old spiritual or a friend from church playing some Charlie Parker on his sax.

Through her insurance, she was able to have a nurse come to help tend to her, but it was her family who took turns making certain she was fresh and clean, her hair brushed, her housecoat on, visible above the patchwork quilt tucked about her. Her room never smelled foul or held a sour word. That room was overflowing with the pure joy of having her with us, even though she had but a short time left.

I knew her time was near when I came to visit one afternoon. She greeted me warmly as she always did, her countenance full of affection and presence, but she was too frail to sit up, so she was lying down. Then, after a few polite pleasantries, she asked, “Now who are you again?”

I knew right then she was leaving us. “I’m Shemaiah,” I replied, “one of the people who love you.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said smiling, “I love you too.”

It was a long month as we waited. Our neighborhood matriarch faded until she no longer spoke but slept, rarely opening her eyes. Yet we continued to visit. Music was still played and performed. There was always someone by her bedside, family or friends, neighbors or others who had felt loved by her.

My son has always had a special relationship with her. He was then eleven years old. Each day after school he would run to her house. He played his trumpet for her or read her favorite Psalm (91) or simply laid his head on her shoulder and whispered to her about his day. “She’s still there, mom,” he said when he came home one day. “She can hear everything.” Her family sent me videos of his visits. It comforted them to know that someone loved their mama as much as they did. My son gave them a little reprieve each afternoon.

Her family continued to care for her body. She was kept clean. Her hair was brushed, her nails trimmed and polished. Her face and hands were moisturized. We held her hand, stroked her hair, and kissed her cheek.

We were teary and sad that we were losing our friend, but we did not want her to feel that heaviness in the room. She was still here.

We did not want her to be afraid. Sobbing and anger and gloom would not convey how much we loved her as would laughter and brushing her hair and moisturizing her hands as we gathered around her. And we were not afraid.

Each morning when my husband left for work, he passed the home and said he could feel that it was a sacred space. In that home, there was a window open between this world and the next.

When it was finally time for her to go, there were many gathered in her room as there had been. She was not alone. She was not afraid. She knew she was loved and cared for. Her face relaxed into a picture of peace. She knew she was to meet her Savior.

Not all deaths are like this.

I was recently called to the deathbed of an old friend. She had been good to me during a dark time in my life. In the past 25 years, our friendship had dwindled to a flood of texts on March 15, the Ides of March; for some reason, we found it hilarious to send memes to each other about Julius Caesar and Caesar salads and knives. Like I said, I might have a slightly morbid sense of humor. We had not retained the closeness we had that one dark year, but there was mutual affection. Yet I was still surprised when her husband called to ask me to come to her ICU bed. We had not seen each other or spoken on the phone in 25 years.

It took me a couple days to clear my schedule and set up my family so I could take the 3-hour drive to visit. I honestly did not know how bad it was. I knew she was in the ICU but I did not know if death was imminent. Questions to her husband went unanswered.

On the way to the hospital, I picked up flowers for her and snacks for those who visited. I was surprised to find her alone when I arrived.

Her room was quiet except for the sound of the machines she was connected to. My old friend was in a drug-induced coma to fight off the infection in her body. Her hair was in shambles, her blanket askew, exposing her body. There were no pleasantries in the room, nothing to make the space welcoming or the atmosphere lighter.

The nurse informed me of my old friend’s situation. Yes, she was dying. Yes, her family knew. The nurse told me the husband came in once a day for about five minutes. Her daughter, who also lived close, had come only once. They could not face her death. For them, it was too harsh to bear.

There was a guest book near her room. People had come to visit her and signed it. It was all well wishes from friends and coworkers. Whether they were uninformed or chose not to understand the gravity of this situation, I did not know. They were signed with sentiments such as “get well soon”.

Why was I sent? Did the family want to know how to grieve as one who has hope? I sat with my old friend for six hours. When her husband came in for his daily visit, he smelled of alcohol. I understood. I asked if I should pray for him and her? Should I read Psalms? “No, we don’t want any of that,” he responded. “We are not religious.” I gave him the food I had brought, and he left after five minutes.

I talked to her as if she could hear me, for I believe she could. At one point, her eyes opened and focused on me, and her face and body changed. Knowing her old mannerisms, I translated them as anger. Anger that I was seeing her in this manner. Then her countenance changed to fear. I knew not what to do for her but to pray, for peace and for comfort.

She died a week later, her body left unclean and without tenderness. I am unsure if her last moments were alone, but those last weeks were empty and bleak.

The difference between these two deaths was startling, for it reflected a deep theology of the body.

Between 1979 and 1984, Pope John Paul II used many of his Wednesday audiences to address The Theology of the Body. In a February 1980 General Audience, he stated, “The body, in fact, and only the body, is capable of making visible what is invisible: the spiritual and the divine. It has been created to transfer into the visible reality of the world, the mystery hidden from eternity in God, and thus to be a sign of it.” Our bodies give us a glimpse of the invisible world.

Theology of the body is often only mentioned in the context of marital morality, but it goes so much deeper. It has to do with the whole picture of who we are as persons, body and soul. Yes, we are called to communion between a man and a woman, but this union is only a glimmer into our ultimate union with God. We are invited to union with him. Our bodies and our souls will be united in him.

For believers, we understand every single person to be created in the Image of God. When Christ became incarnate, the Word of God enfleshed, He revealed to us that these bodies of ours are holy and there is no permanent separation between our bodies and our souls.

Our bodies are not our own, for they belong to God. St Paul wrote to the church in Corinth, “Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price.” He wrote this in response to the blatant sexual immorality that church was living in. “Honor God with your bodies,” he reminds them. Because we are united with Christ, sexual actions take on a deep spiritual significance, reflected in the sacrament of marriage.

Not only that, but our bodies are also a temple of the Holy Spirit, an actual vessel in which His glory dwells. And because of this, we are also connected to all other believers. For this reason, we are to care for our own bodies and those of others tenderly. I think of how Joseph of Arimathea made certain Jesus’ body was not thrown in a common ditch or left out to the elements. He made sure Jesus’s body received respect and was treated tenderly, wrapped with spices in a linen cloth and lovingly placed in a new tomb. I thought of this as I watched my neighborhood matriarch so tenderly cleaned and moisturized in her last days.

“Do not be afraid,” Christ’s first words after the resurrection. This is what we have in store, to conquer death, to finally become whole, healed. All we tried to do in our own strength is finally defeated. This is how it ends: to be gathered into glory.

*

Months passed. On one of those winter days when it is cold but sunny, my teen son and I decided to take a walk in our neighborhood. It’s easier to have deeper conversations when we are not looking at each other face to face, so we talked of love, of parenting, of work and dreams for the future.

“Mom, it’s nice to daydream and hope for the future,” he said picking a bit of rosemary off a bush as we walked by. “But I could die tomorrow, and I would know I lived a good life so far.” I teared up a bit, thinking of losing my son, but they weren’t all tears of grief. He handed me the tuft of rosemary to smell. “You’ve taught me that.”

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