On Believing and Disbelieving

Musician Ralph Vaughn Williams depicts the meaning of November's All Saints' commemoration beautifully in his hymn, “For all the saints, who from their labors rest…” picturing countless hosts marching through “gates of pearl.” November heralds a time when we more naturally consider death and dying. Just as we prepare for winter's death so we all raise questions like what happens when we die? Is there a life after this one? What will it be like?

In most areas of our life, if we act only on what we can see in the present, we would never grow, or progress, or mature.   But life is not lived meaningfully by letting what we see in the present determine what we believe is possible in the future.  Life is meaningful when what we believe about the future interprets what we see in the present meaning we approach death no differently than we do any other moment in life.  Believers ought to expect every moment of life to be filled with possibility.  We must let what we believe interpret what we see.  And when we come to the moment of death, we should turn to the language of Scripture and imagination, in order to express what we believe about life after this life.  The language of vision enables us to see what is otherwise invisible.  Hebrews 11:1 puts it: “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”  
 
The poet Emily Dickinson wrestled with faith all of her life, and her poems, especially those poems about death, of which she seems to have written hundreds, reflect that struggle in her own life.  I admit to only a small understanding of her poetry.   She frustrates me and everybody else too, I suppose.   Some people claim that they understand her.  I doubt that.  In fact, Dickinson is regarded by most of her critics today as an unbeliever, but I suspect that is more because critics tend to be unbelievers.  What she is, I contend, is a doubting believer – which is a contradiction only to those who don’t believe.  If you believe, you know there are times when it’s hard to believe.   That’s why a man came to Jesus and said, “I believe.  Help my unbelief.”  Emily Dickinson was like that.  She both believed and disbelieved.  In fact she wrote a little poem about it:
  
     We both believe and disbelieve
     A hundred times an hour
     Which keep believing nimble.
 
Emily was like us --like me-- anyway.  There are times when it’s hard to believe.  I discovered I can tell when those times are coming into my life.   It’s when my vocabulary is reduced to what I can see.  But other times, when I cannot find the words to express what I feel, then I turn to other images, images of Scripture or images from poetry like the words of Emily Dickinson.    
 
I have been graced by having witnessed persons die who were like Emily Dickinson -- they believed and disbelieved a hundred times an hour.  They were honest about it, especially in the midst of the absurd pain they had to endure, or in the face of unanswered questions or unanswered prayer.  But when the time came it was always gentle, the way she describes it.  That is also the testimony of so many who have had what we call “near death experiences.”  They started across to the other side, as it were, and because of the dramatic intervention of medical technology they were brought back.  They testified it was not frightening at all.  It was friendly.  They often talk about seeing a light that called them to come over, to follow.  In almost every instance the testimony is that it was gentle.
 
General Stonewall Jackson, who was wounded during a Civil War battle, had to have an amputation, lingered on for another week, clinging precariously to life, and then finally slipped away.   His last words were:  “Let us go across the river and rest in the shade of the trees.” I am certain that is what he saw.  I’m sure that’s the way it was for him at the moment of death, a crossing over to rest at last in the shade of the trees.  Just as I am sure it was something like that for Emily -- and should be for us. 
 
The affirmation of our faith that God is with us means that death, just like every moment of life, is a moment filled with promise.  There is in the moment of death, just as in every moment of life, more than we can see. 
 
The Thessalonians wrote to St. Paul with questions about death.  Paul preached the resurrection to them and the immanent return of Jesus.  But nothing happened.  The people are continuing to die.  So they write Paul and ask, what do you say about all this?  They were “believing and disbelieving a hundred times and hour.”  Paul wrote to them and said, turn it around.  You've got it all wrong.  Turn it on its head.  Let what you believe interpret what you see. “Grieve,” he said, “That's natural and good.  But not as those without hope.”  For every one of those people who have died -- they will rise and be greeted by Jesus.  Every one.  Jesus will greet every one.  So grieve, but not as those without hope.  
 
So now, let winter come.
E. Taveirne