Memento Mori: The Contemplation of Death and the Wonder of Life

Twice this week I have learned of the death of an acquaintance. I hesitate to say “friend” because neither of these people were friends in a close sense: one of them I hadn’t seen or been in contact with in almost four years, the other not since the mid-1990s. But they were both men I liked, and both I knew through church. One was a Jesuit priest at my parish from 2017–2018, the other the organist at Fran’s and my wedding, at the Episcopal Church we attended in the 1990s.

Fr. Rudy Casals, SJ was 47 years old, and died in his sleep a few days ago. About a month before that, organist Randolph S. James passed away peacefully (I don’t know the details). He had just turned 61.

Both of these guys were younger than me.

Remember, You Are Dust…

In her classic book Mysticism: A Study in the Nature and Development of Spiritual Consciousness, Evelyn Underhill bragged that mystics tended to live long lives, noting that Hildegard of Bingen, Mechthild of Magdeburg, and John Ruysbroeck all lived into their eighties — no mean feat in the middle ages. We could add to her list St. Anthony the Great, who is said to have lived to 105, Thomas Keating who passed away at 94, and Ramon Panikkar who died at 91. But let’s be honest and acknowledge that other mystics died way too young: Thomas Merton died at 53, John of the Cross at 49, and Thérèse of Lisieux succumbed to tuberculosis when only 24. Underhill herself passed away at 65, only four years older than I am now. It is humbling to consider these things.

But having lost a friend who lived to be 101 (Fr. Luke Kot, a dear old Trappist monk who knew Thomas Merton), family members ranging in age from late 30s to early 90s, friends at various ages, and my daughter Rhiannon at 29, I’ve come to see that, no matter the cause, no matter how expected, every death feels like it comes too soon. I do not think this is a bad thing — on the contrary, bereavement and mourning are shaped by the depth of our love. And while I was hardly intimate friends with either Fr. Rudy or Randolph, both of them touched my life and both were people whom I genuinely liked. That, apparently, is enough for me to feel the pang of grief.