Practical death, or on what ordinarily happens at the death of men of the world
“Behold, a dead man was carried out, the only son of his mother.”—Luke 7:12
In this day’s gospel we are told that, as Jesus Christ went to the city of Naim, he met a dead man, the only son of his mother, who was being carried out to be buried beyond the gates of the city. “Behold, a dead man was carried out.” Before we go any further, let us pause at these words and remember death. Holy Church directs her priests to give Christians this reminder every year, on Ash Wednesday: Memento homo quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris—“Remember, man, that thou art dust, and into dust thou shalt return.” Oh, would to God that men kept death always before their eyes! If they did, they certainly would not lead the disordered lives they lead.
Now, beloved brethren, that the remembrance of death may be impressed upon you, I will this day set before your eyes practical death—a description of what ordinarily happens at the death of men of the world, with all the circumstances that usually attend it. We shall therefore consider, step by step, in the first point, what happens during the last illness; in the second point, what happens when the last sacraments are received; and in the third, what happens at the time of death.
First Point.—What happens during the last illness.
1. I do not intend in this discourse to speak of a sinner who has always lived in habitual sin, but of a worldling, careless about his soul, forever entangled in the affairs of the world—in contracts, enmities, courtships, and gaming. Not seldom he has fallen into mortal sins, but only rarely, and after a long time, has he confessed them. In a word, he has fallen and fallen again, and has generally lived out of the grace of God, or at least entangled in grievous doubts of conscience. Let us consider the death of such a man, and what ordinarily happens at the death of men of this kind.
2. Let us begin at the point where his last illness appears. He rises in the morning and goes out to look after his business; but in the midst of his affairs he is seized with a violent pain in the head, his legs grow unsteady, and he feels a cold shivering run through his limbs, a sickness of the stomach, and a great weakness over his whole body. He returns home at once and throws himself on the bed. His relatives—his wife and sisters—run to him and say: “Why have you come home so early? What is the matter?” He answers: “I feel ill; I can scarcely stand; I have a great headache.” “Perhaps,” they say, “you have a fever.” “It may be so,” he replies; “send for the physician.”
The physician is sent for at once. Meanwhile the sick man is put to bed, and there he is seized with a cold fit that makes him shiver from head to foot. They load him with covering, but the cold does not pass for an hour or two, and is then followed by a burning heat. The physician arrives, asks the sick man how he feels, examines his pulse, and finds that he has a high fever. But, so as not to alarm him, the physician says: You have a fever, but it is a slight thing. Have you done anything to bring it on? The sick man replies: I went out at night a few days ago and caught cold; or, I dined with a friend and ate more than usual. It is nothing, says the physician; it is a fullness of stomach, or more likely one of those colds that go round at this change of season. Take no food today or this evening; have a cup of tea; do not be uneasy; keep cheerful—there is no danger. I will see you tomorrow. Oh, that there were an angel who, on the part of God, would say to the physician: What do you say? Do you tell me there is no danger in this disease? Yet the truth is that, with the first symptoms of this illness, the trumpet of the divine justice has already given the signal of this man’s death; for him the time of God’s vengeance has already come.
3. Night comes, and the poor invalid gets no rest. His distress increases, his headache increases. It seems to him a thousand years till morning, so that the moment he sees light at the window he calls for the family. His relatives come and ask: Have you rested well tonight? Rested! What rest! I have not been able to close my eyes the whole night. O God, what oppression I feel! What spasms in my head! I have two nails piercing my temples. Send for the physician at once; tell him to come quickly.
The physician comes and finds the fever advanced; but still he goes on saying: “Keep up your courage; there is no danger. The cold must run its course, and with this fever it will pass off the sooner.” He comes the third day and finds the sick man worse. He comes the fourth day, and the signs of a malignant fever already appear: the mouth is bitter, the tongue is black, the whole body is restless, and delirium has set in. Since the fever has become acute, the physician prescribes purges, bloodletting, and iced water. He then says to the relatives: Alas, the illness is most severe; I do not wish to be alone in this—let us call in others for a consultation. This he says privately to the relatives, but he says nothing of it to the sick man; on the contrary, so as not to frighten him, he goes on saying: “Keep cheerful; it will be nothing.”
4. So they speak of remedies, of more physicians, and of a consultation—but not a word about confession or the last sacraments. I do not know how such physicians can be saved. When they take their degree, they expressly swear, according to the Bull of Pope Pius the Fifth, that after the third day of an illness they will visit no sick man further unless he has made his confession. But most physicians do not keep this oath, and so many poor souls are lost; for once a sick man has lost his reason, or even begun to wander in his mind, what good can confession do him? He is lost.
Brethren, when you fall sick, do not wait for the physician to tell you to send for a confessor; send for him yourself. For physicians, through fear of displeasing their patients, do not warn them of their danger until they despair, or nearly despair, of their recovery. Therefore, brethren, send first for the confessor—first for the physician of the soul, and afterwards for the physician of the body. Your soul is at stake, eternity is at stake; and if you fail then, you have failed forever, with no remedy and no further hope of remedy.
5. The physician, then, conceals the danger from the sick man; the relatives do worse, for they go and flatter him with lies, telling him that he is better and that the physicians give every good hope of his recovery. Treacherous relatives! Barbarous relatives—worse enemies than any enemy! Instead of warning the sick man of his dangerous state—as they are bound to do by the duty of love, especially if they are his parents, children, or brothers—that he may settle the accounts of his soul through the sacraments, they flatter him, they deceive him, and they let him die in the state of damnation. But for all that the physician and the relatives hide the truth, the poor sick man, from the discomforts and distress he feels, from the silence kept by the friends who come to visit him, and from the sight of some relative with tears in his eyes, perceives that his illness is mortal. Alas, he says, the hour of death has come for me, and these people, so as not to give me pain, do not warn me of it at all!
6. No, the relatives do not warn him of the danger of death; but because they think of their own interest, which weighs with them more than anything else—each one hoping that the sick man will leave him a good share of his property—they bring in a notary. The notary arrives, and the sick man asks: Who is this? The relatives answer: He is a notary—in case, for your own satisfaction, you would like to make your will. Then am I already so ill, and near death? No, father, or brother, they say; we know there is no need for this; but one day you will have to make your will, and so it would be better to do it now, while your mind is sound, and to settle your affairs in good time. Very well, the sick man replies; since the notary has come, and you wish me to make my will, let us make it. Write, then, sir notary.
The notary first asks the sick man in which church he wishes to be buried, should he die. Oh, what a word of grief! Having chosen the place of his burial, the sick man begins to dispose of his goods: I leave such an estate to my children, such a house to my brother; I leave this piece of silver to a friend, and that article of furniture to another. But, sir, what are you doing? You have toiled so hard to acquire these goods, you have even burdened your conscience for them, and now you go on parceling them out, leaving so much to this one and so much to that. But there is no remedy; when death comes, we must leave everything. And this leaving is a thing of great pain to the sick man, whose heart was attached to that property, that house, that garden, that money, those amusements. Death comes and gives the stroke, severing the heart from all the objects it loved; and in this stroke the sick man must feel a great pain. Therefore, brethren, let us detach our hearts from the things of this world before death comes to detach us from them with so much pain, and with such great danger then to our salvation.
Second Point.—What happens at the time when the sacraments are received.
7. The sick man has now made his will. At last, after the eighth or tenth day of his illness, one of the relatives, seeing that he is growing steadily worse and drawing near to death, says: But when shall we have him make his confession? He has been a man of the world; we know he has not been a saint. They all agree that he should be brought to confession, but not one of them will give the sick man this bitter news. So they send for the parish priest, or some other confessor, to break it to him; but only when the sick man has lost all, or nearly all, the use of his mind.
The confessor comes. He informs himself from the household about the state of the illness, and then about the man’s manner of life, and he hears that the sick man has been entangled in conscience; and from the circumstances he hears, he trembles for the salvation of that poor soul. Understanding, then, that the sick man is at his last, the confessor first of all orders the relatives to leave the room and not to come near it again. He then approaches him and greets him. The sick man asks: Who are you? I am the parish priest, replies the confessor; I am Father Such-a-one. What can I do for you? Having heard of your serious illness, I have come in case you would like to be reconciled. Father, I thank you; but I beg you to let me rest a little now, for I have not slept for several nights and I dare not try to speak. Recommend me to God, and good-bye.
8. Knowing already the bad state of the sick man’s soul and body, the confessor says: Sir, we hope that the Lord and the most holy Virgin will deliver you from this illness; but one must die some time, and your sickness is severe. So it would be well for you to make your confession and to set the affairs of your soul in order. If you have any scruple, I have come on purpose to calm it. Father, I should have to make a long confession, for my conscience is much entangled; but just now I dare not. My head is swimming, and my breathlessness keeps me from even drawing breath. Father, tomorrow we will see to it; just now I dare not. But who knows what may happen? Some attack, some fainting, may come upon you and leave you no more time to make your confession. Father, torment me no longer; I have told you that I dare not—I cannot.
But the confessor, who has learned that there is little hope of his recovery, must speak more plainly: Sir, you must know that your life is at its end. I beg you to make your confession now, for tomorrow perhaps you will be alive no longer. And why do you say so, father? Because the physicians have said so. Then the poor sick man begins to rave against the physicians and against his relatives: Ah, the traitors, they have deceived me! They knew this, and did not warn me of it! Ah, wretch that I am!
The confessor takes up again and says: Sir, do not lose heart over the confession; it is enough that you tell the most grievous sins you remember. I will help you make the examination—do not be afraid. Come now, begin to speak. The sick man forces himself to begin his confession, but his mind is all confusion; he does not know where to begin; he starts to speak, but cannot explain himself; he hears little, and understands still less, of what the confessor says to him. O God, to such a pass do these men come, that they must transact the most important business they have, the business of eternal salvation, at such a time and in such a state! The confessor hears, perhaps, a tangle of sins, bad habits, restitutions owed for property and reputation, confessions made with little sorrow and little purpose of amendment. He helps the sick man as best he can; and after much struggle he says at last: Come now, enough—let us make the act of sorrow. But God grant that this dying man does not turn out like another sick man who fell into the hands of Cardinal Bellarmine. When the Cardinal prompted him to make the act of contrition, the man said: Father, do not trouble yourself; these things are too high for me, I do not understand them. In the end the confessor absolves the dying man; but who knows whether God absolves him?
9. After giving him absolution, the confessor says: Come now, prepare yourself to receive Jesus Christ for your viaticum. But it is now four or five hours after nightfall, replies the sick man; I will communicate in the morning. No: in the morning, perhaps, there will be no more time for you; you must now receive all the sacraments, the viaticum and extreme unction. Ah, wretch that I am! says the sick man; then I am already as good as dead. And he has reason to say so; for it is the custom of some physicians to have the viaticum given to the sick only when they are truly at the point of expiring, when they have lost, or nearly lost, their senses—and this delusion is common. The viaticum ought to be given whenever there is danger of death, as the theologians commonly teach.
And here it is well to note what Benedict the Fourteenth observes in his fifty-third Bull (in Euchol. Graec., § 46, ap. Bullar., tom. 4): that whenever a sick man “labors under a grievous illness” he may receive extreme unction. Hence, whenever the sick can receive the viaticum, they can also receive extreme unction, without waiting—as the physicians wrongly do—until they are near the agony and the loss of their senses.
10. The viaticum now arrives; and oh, how the sick man trembles when he hears the bell! His trembling and terror increase when he sees the priest enter the room with the sacrament, and when he sees about his bed the many lighted torches of those who have come with the procession. The priest recites the words of the ritual: Accipe frater viaticum corporis Domini nostri Jesu Christi qui te custodiat ab hoste maligno, et perducat in vitam aeternam. Amen—“Brother, receive the viaticum of the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, that he may guard you from the malignant enemy, and bring you to eternal life. Amen.” Then he gives him communion, placing the consecrated host on his tongue; and afterwards he gives him a little water to help him swallow it, for the sick man’s throat is dry and parched.
11. Next the priest gives him extreme unction, beginning by anointing the eyes with these words: Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Deus, quidquid per visum deliquisti—“Through this holy anointing, and through his most tender mercy, may God forgive you whatever sins you have committed by sight.” He then anoints the other senses—the ears, the nostrils, the mouth, the hands, the feet, and the loins—saying: Quidquid per auditum deliquisti, per odoratum, per gustum et locutionem, per tactum, per gressum, et lumborum delectationem—“Whatever you have sinned by hearing, by smell, by taste and speech, by touch, by walking, and by carnal pleasure.”
And during the administration of extreme unction, the devil is busy reminding the sick man of all the sins he committed by those senses—by seeing, by hearing, by speaking, by touching—and then says to him: Well, then? After so many sins, how can you be saved? Oh, how every one of those mortal sins terrifies him then—the sins now called human frailties, the sins men say God does not punish! Now no account is made of them; but then every mortal sin shall be a sword that will pierce the soul with its terror. But let us come to death.
Third Point.—What happens at the time of death.
12. After the sacraments have been given, the priest departs and leaves the sick man alone—and after them the sick man is left more terrified than before, for he sees that he made the whole preparation in great confusion of mind and with an uneasy conscience. But already the near signs of death appear: the sick man breaks into a cold sweat, his sight grows dim and he no longer knows those who stand by him; he can speak no longer, and his breath is failing. Then, amid that darkness of death, he keeps saying: Oh, if only I had time! If only I had one more day, with a sound mind, to make a good confession! For the poor man has great doubts about the confession he made, since he was not able to compose his mind to make a true act of sorrow.
But what time? what day? “Time shall be no longer” (Rev. 10:6). The confessor already has the book ready to proclaim his banishment from this world: Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo—“Depart, Christian soul, from this world.” The sick man keeps saying within himself: O lost years of my life! Fool that I have been! But when does he say it? When the scene is already closing for him, when the oil in the lamp is nearly spent, and when that great moment is already drawing near on which his eternal happiness or misery depends.
13. But now his eyes are turning to stone; his body settles into the posture of a corpse, lying on its back; the extremities, the hands and feet, grow cold. The agony begins, and the priest begins to recite the prayers for the recommendation of the departing soul. When the recommendation is ended, he feels the pulse of the dying man and finds that it can no longer be felt. Quick, he says, light the blessed candle. O candle, candle, give us light now, while we are still in life; for at that last hour your light will serve only to terrify us the more.
But already the sick man’s breathing grows less frequent and begins to fail—a sign that death is very near. Then the assisting priest raises his voice and says to the dying man, if indeed he still hears: Say after me—My God, come to my aid; have mercy on me. My crucified Jesus, save me by your passion. Mother of God, help me. St. Joseph, St. Michael the archangel, my guardian angel, assist me. All you saints of paradise, pray to God for me. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus and Mary, I give you my heart and my soul. But now come the last signs of death: the phlegm is locked in the throat; the dying man gives a feeble moan; the tears start from his eyes. At last he twists his mouth, his eyes roll back, he gasps a few times, and at the last opening of the mouth he breathes his last and dies.
14. The priest then brings the candle to the dead man’s mouth to see whether there is still any breath; he sees that the flame does not move, and so he knows that life is gone. He says: Requiescat in pace—“May he rest in peace.” Then, turning to the bystanders, he says: He is dead; my respects, gentlemen; he has gone to heaven already. He is dead! He is dead! And how has he died? Whether he is saved or damned, no one knows; but he has died in a great tempest. Such is the death that falls to these wretched men who in life have made little account of God: “Their soul shall die in a storm” (Job 36:14). My respects, gentlemen; he has gone to heaven already: of everyone who dies it is the custom to say that he has gone to heaven. He has gone to heaven, if heaven was his lot; but if hell was his lot? My respects, gentlemen—he has gone to hell. Do all go to heaven? Oh, how few go there!
15. Before the body has stiffened, they quickly clothe it, taking the most worn-out garment, since it must soon rot together with the corpse. Two lighted candles are set in the room; the curtain of the bed on which the dead man lies is drawn, and he is left alone. Then word is sent to the parish priest to come early in the morning and take away the body. In the morning the priests come; the funeral procession sets out, with the dead man at the end of it; and this is the last walk he will ever take upon this earth. The priests begin to sing: De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine—“Out of the depths I have cried to thee, O Lord” (Ps. 130:1). Meanwhile those who watch the procession pass speak of the dead man. One says: He was a proud man. Another: Would that he had died ten years ago! A third: He was fortunate in the world; he made his money, a fine house, a fine farm—but now he carries nothing away with him. And while they speak of him in this way, the dead man is burning in hell.
He arrives at the church, and the body is placed in the middle, surrounded by six candles. The others come to look at him, but they soon turn away their eyes, for the corpse fills them with horror at the sight. The Mass is sung, and after the Mass the Libera me, Domine—“Deliver me, O Lord”; and the function is concluded at last with these words: Requiescat in pace—“May he rest in peace.” Rest in peace! He rests in peace if he died in peace with God; but if he died out of the grace of God, what peace? What peace? He shall have no peace as long as God shall be God. Then at once the grave is opened, the corpse is thrown into it, the pit is closed with a stone, and he is left to rot and to be the food of mice and worms. And so for each of us the scene of this world ends. His relatives put on mourning, but first they set about dividing the property he has left; they shed a few tears for two or three days, and then forget him. And what shall become of the dead man? If he is saved, he shall be happy forever; if he is damned, he shall be miserable forever.
Points for Reflection
1. “Brethren, when you fall sick, do not wait for the physician to tell you to send for a confessor; send for him yourself” (§4)
2. “Let us detach our hearts from the things of this world before death comes to detach us from them with so much pain, and with such great danger then to our salvation” (§6)
3. “Send first for the confessor—first for the physician of the soul, and afterwards for the physician of the body. Your soul is at stake, eternity is at stake; and if you fail then, you have failed forever” (§4)