A Reflection for Passiontide 2002

I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all men to myself.

All those who work in hospice and palliative care are constantly seeing people on the margin between this world and the next. For many, indeed for most, this is a quiet passage during sleep or coma. Even then there comes a moment of transition when those who watch by can recognise an instant when the spirit leaves the body. This is when all lines soften and a patient's face relaxes into a deep calm as life fades. I remember the first Matron at St. Christopher's Hospice, which I founded in 1967 in South East London, describing this vividly to me after she had been with a patient who had no family.

For some, however, there can be a moment before death that gives a glimpse of what I can only call revelation. I have just read in the newly published book Be Not Afraid of the farewell to his nephew of the philosopher Soren Kierkagaard, who said he died with a certainty that it was not just an end, but a beginning. His nephew wrote: "Never have I seen the spirit break through the earthly husk and impart to it such glory - a look the match of which I have never seen - everything was concentrated in those eyes as the source of life and heartfelt love, the blissful dissolution of sadness, a penetrating clearness of mind, and a jesting smile."

Reading this sent me back to the diary I kept of the last days of a dearly loved person. As he drifted into his final unconsciousness, he gave me a really heavenly smile. I recalled these last moments later in my diary and wrote: "As I think of it, I am not sure of all that was in it. Not sorrow at all - it looked so happy and there was certainly a real gleam of amusement and strength somehow." I believe that, like Kierkagaard, he was suddenly seeing all the answers and gave a glimpse of the joyful recognition of the mystery of love that awaits us all.

I have been comforted many times by a reading from Carlo Carretto, writing of St. Francis, "The door which is Christ simultaneously rules the here and the beyond with his love, crucified on this side, glorified on the other. Our passing is always a fearsome ordeal, like looking at a boundless sea - and then, the explosion of joy as you watch the sea part. You must learn to love. For beyond the door there is nothing - except love. ­

Just recently I was reading this in the small daily staff prayers that take place in the chapel at St. Christopher's Hospice. A member of a patient's family was in the chapel, lighting a candle and leaving a prayer request. He stayed with us and I can only hope that the moment was given to us together. But, of course, much of hospice hope and comfort is given in the way in which care is given and often, we believe, reaches the most hidden places in silence. As in so many families, love does not always need words.

Nor do we always have to be there at the last moment. So many patients seem to wait to die until those nearest to them have gone home or to the next room to rest, or for a cup of tea. We naturally feel guilty, especially if we had promised we would try to be there. I have come to believe, however, and in particular as I think of when my own husband died as I arrived just too late, that may be we unconsciously hold them back. Or perhaps they do not want us to see that moment of going. I can only say that it happens very often and I think we must rest in thinking that somehow it was right.

After many years of working in this field I still feel a deep assurance that we see all our patients depart safely into the mystery of death, whatever they had believed or had even thought of God. A recent book by the Baptist Minister Norman Renshaw expressed this clearly. ® He writes, "Only one man led a perfect life, Jesus of Nazareth. All the rest have arrived at the gate of death imperfect in some way or another. An intermediate place or state can provide the time for change and improvement." He also writes of believing that both thieves met Jesus - "today in Paradise" - and that like all the unbelieving or heedless, have a matchless opportunity of truth. As Bishop John Austin Baker wrote, "The traditional picture of judgement is shot through with anomalies and contradictions. First of all, it asks us to believe that God's attitude to us changes radically the moment we die. While we are in this life, forgiveness and reconciliation are available whenever we are truly sorry and forgive others. But, it would seem, as soon as we die love and mercy are out." ¯

None of this means we must be careless in responding to the demands given us during our lives; faith matters in the here and now. Years of hospice experience, however, have given me confidence that the power of Christ's victory stretches through all eternity. It was for the world that He came and to Him can all our hopes be given in sure trust.

Dame Cicely Saunders
St Christopher's Hospice

References
1. Arnold, C.A. (2002) Be Not Afraid - Overcoming the fear of Death. Plough Publishing House.
2. Carretto, C. (1982) I, Francis: The Spirit of St. Francis of Assisi. Collins, London.
3. Renshaw, N. (2000) See You in Paradise - Whoever you Are. The James Press, Okehampton, Devon.
4. Baker, J.A. (1996) The Faith of a Christian. Darton, Longman & Todd, p. 125.