On Dying

“Remember, man, that thou art dust; and unto dust thou shalt return.”

I will readily admit that the aspect of priesthood I have felt the least prepared for has been accompanying the dying.

In the seminary, we had practice homilies, practice confessions, practice counseling sessions, etc. But we could never have a practice for standing by the bedside of someone passing on from this life.

Nor could any class suitably train us in consoling the surviving family. No, this part of pastoral ministry depends on experience and grace.

At this point, I cannot recall how many people I have visited in their final days or hours; several dozen, I suppose. I do know that each person is unique:

* One elderly woman passes slowly at home surrounded by generations of family members. She receives the sacraments several times in the weeks before she passes.

* A much younger woman struggles in the hospital as she awaits the arrival of her sons. Cancer has laid claim to her far too soon. She may not have been to church in some time, but Christ comes to her through the sacraments, which she receives eagerly.

* A middle-aged man sits up in bed, weak but alert, as a terminal illness has numbered his days. His attitude seems resigned but not impious.

* A very old man lies mostly naked on his bed in a nursing home, at the mercy of Providence. He embodies Job’s words of surrender. He holds my hand for a while as I begin to administer Last Rites.

* One man is carried on a stretcher after a failed suicide attempt. I try to speak to him and pray a short blessing without getting in the EMTs’ way. He raises his hand to his forehead – I don’t know whether to cross himself or merely to wipe away blood – as he is lifted into the ambulance.

Without a doubt, every living person will reach his or her earthly end. Rarely can we tell exactly how or when that will be. Each occasion is particular, even if not wholly unique.

If I were to supply a single word to summarize every instance of death, I believe it should be humiliating. In death, all are laid low. The word is derived from humus, the dirt.

By faith, we know that what awaits us is not oblivion, but our loving Creator. We believe that Jesus has opened the gates of Heaven for us, that He has led the way. By His dying and rising, He made the very act of dying to be this path, the way to the Father.

Rather than shortcut death, He leads us through it; not so unlike how He led Israel through the Red Sea. Therefore, we cannot hope to achieve the joy and peace of Heaven unless we take the same path. Though humiliating it may be, death is not a means of shame, but a final chance for surrender.

Whenever I arrive to answer a call from the hospital, nursing home, or even a person’s home, I march in with some level of confidence. Here I am, armed with violet stole and holy oil stock, my mission determined: I will say the words of mercy and hopefully comfort.

Occasionally, I am brusque with a nurse or security guard who seem ignorant of this sacramental mission. Sometimes I am impatient with a family member. Yet, at the bedside, I am usually overtaken by a spirit of silence.

Though I must speak, I am mostly listening. I am not the main actor. What right have I to bluster in the presence of a soul sharing in the Passion of my Savior?

By Father Nikolai Brelinsky, Assistant Pastor of St. Joseph the Worker, Orefield. Nov. 2 is All Souls Day, a day for Catholics to pray for the souls of the faithful departed. Read more articles by Father Brelinsky at https://frnrb.substack.com/.