There are different kinds of near-death experiences. There are ‘end of life’ experiences, when people at their death-bed report being drawn towards a certain kind of light, or sent back into the world of the living, or seeing their own bodies lying there from an out-of-body perspective. I’ve never gone through one of these.
There are ‘near miss’ experiences when something happens that could have been catastrophic, but wasn’t. I can think of twice when I have driven at a reasonable speed straight through a red light and only realised when it was too late. Once was years ago at a major crossroads in St Albans – I don’t know why it happened; I must have just been distracted. I could have killed myself and many others with me. I was terrified afterwards with a kind of retrospective shock; the full force of ‘what if?’
The second time was only a few weeks ago when I went through a red light at a pedestrian crossing here in Chelsea. It wasn’t my fault. I saw it as I was going through it, and I couldn’t work out why I hadn’t spotted it before. I was so perturbed that I drove back, to discover that one of those beautiful hanging flower baskets had been hung by the council on a lamp-post just a couple of feet before the light. I guess when it was hung it had no flowers, but they had since grown and completely obscured the red traffic light. It was genuine concern that drove me, like a good citizen, to call the police, and the local council, and whoever else the next person referred me to. But no-one could deal with it before Monday morning (this was Friday night) or felt that it was urgent enough to find a way of sorting it out. I gave up. I should have gone and cut the flowers myself; but then I’d have probably got arrested.
Anyway, the third kind of near-death experience is the much more everyday ‘intimation of one’s own mortality’ that catches us now and then, often for small and unexpected reasons. I had one of these last week. There was a Mass at Westminster Cathedral offered for the deceased clergy of the Diocese. As I processed in with the other concelebrants, we walked past the Book of Remembrance that was open on the relevant day: a single page for each day of the year, with the names of the clergy beautifully inscribed on the page for the day of their death. And it struck me with great force as I walked past: my name will be in there one day. Probably in quite a few years; but possibly in just a few months or weeks or days (who knows?). But however long it takes, there my name will be – in that very book.
I know this isn’t an unusual experience. It was just very concrete. Every so often I think about death; but I don’t usually have such a simple reminder of how thin the line is between now and then – just a few moments away; just a few letters on the page.
I know these everyday reminders of death are more common in rural communities (or at least slightly less urban ones), where you as an individual have a particular link with a particular graveyard. I’m not saying that you meditate on it every day; but it must be similarly sobering just to think, ‘This is the place where my body will lie one day’; that death is not just an abstract idea but a concrete destiny.
It reminds me of a village I visited just outside Salzburg. I’m used to seeing old village churches in England with the graveyard at the side of the church somewhere. But here the parish church was literally surrounded by the graves of the parishioners. There was a row directly around the external wall of the church; then a path around this row; and then more graves extending out to the boundary wall. So as soon as you walked into the grounds of the church you walked past the graves of your parents, your ancestors, your fellow parishioners, the townsfolk; and you knew that you would lie there one day. My friend said this was typical in small Austrian villages. It wasn’t at all oppressive; it was as if the church itself (and everything that happened within its walls) was living within this larger communion; as if you congregated with your neighbours and friends and family to pray each Sunday, and this congregating just continued after death.
There aren’t many Catholic churches with graveyards at their side in Britain today. The nearby parish in Fulham is probably one of the few. I wish we had a few more, and that we were more connected in these concrete ways with those who have gone before us.
I remember having a near-miss experience when I was in Madrid for WYD (specifically, at Cuatro Vientos) — I almost got hit by a collapsing tent, and the tent fell halfway through my Confession. I contemplated what could’ve happened, and I was also told by one of my friends that I had been given absolution. It dawned upon me that God could’ve taken me up if He wanted to, but my work here just isn’t done.
I also sometimes have weird thoughts about why I would die, or how I would die. These thoughts are pretty scary — well, I’m scared of dying. A few friends within the CathSoc have told me not to be afraid of death, since death is the very passage that leads us to new life. I don’t know how to tackle this…
Historically my family have always been cremated. (Which is very funny because in my typing error, when I just checked back I had missed out the letter m and it actually said) “My family have always been created” Indeed they have.
But I won’t be. Which is also funny because how do we know in which way we will die….we may have no body left to bury!
However burial I want, It feels in prophecy so very important, I don’t know why, that people should have a place in which they can tangibly go to. I want a sacred Catholic burial. Which is ridiculous, when you realise that I couldn’t even be anointed with oils if I were poorly. It is important for me and the children to be formally united in our faith in death. I often think about the words upon my grave stone or the shape of it and it goes something like this
…L
GOD
…V
…E
I Love the fact that Cardinal Henry Newman was buried with his dearest friend. Although such a highly spiritual person, he still felt the absolute need and the absolute importance of physical closeness in death. I understand that need.
I Love ancient cemeteries, so full of beautiful names and words and wildness and beautiful peace and life and nature. God so tangible. Pierre le chaise cemetery in france in beautiful, and the old Chingford cemetery is wonderful, we used to play there as children. Peace and Love instilled even before faith and a sense of reverence at the other visitors, wildlife and humans.
I guess you could call it a near death experience that happened when giving birth to my last-born. Medically the birth was perfect, no alarms or scares or drugs.
When you are giving birth, it is almost as if you are in a different zone/room to any other person. The midwife was regularly popping in and out during my labor. But the second stage happened so quickly and the baby came fast, whilst my husband had gone to get a coffee.
The baby came quickly and in my experience, I knew to go spiritually inside of myself, to help the baby. Out loud I spoke to God and my Dad and I said very firmly “I am not ready to come to you yet” … but I knew in greatest clarity that there were two ways out of myself…one back into the hospital delivery suite and one out beyond myself.
And I chose. The midwife came in at the last minute and delivered the baby. It was the most special birth experience I ever had and very poignant as It felt like the baby and I had travelled so far just us together. All sounds a little weird, but I thought it was worth sharing.
How special and blessed for you to know your destination.
I have had more ‘near misses’ than I care to think of due to serious childhood illness. I was able to put all of that behind me by my teenage years. I can’t help feeling that we start to think more about our own mortality as we approach our middle years (I’m 51). We also become more aware that we aren’t immortal as we often thought in our teens. we witness the passing of family and friends and this makes us realise that we too will eventually die to this life.
I do agree with your observation, Fr Stephen, that there are not many Catholic Churches with graveyards. I console myself by trying to remember that the older churches in this country with graveyards started their lives as Catholic Churches until the Reformation.
Hi Simon x
As a child I thought I was like Peter Pan and could physically live forever.
As an adult I understand that immortality is of the spirit.
Hi Mags x
Thankyou for your comment.
Like you I’ve grown to that understanding, even thogh it is such an awesome mystery at times because of my humanity.