WHEN DEATH COMES NEAR

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Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

Up to this point, I was unaware of its existence. But then . . . it silently slipped out of the obscurity of my subconscious, into the illumination of my awareness.

I was in a bed in a local hospital’s ED, surrounded by medical staff. My body had been connected to an EKG, intravenous fluids, and a blood pressure cuff. Test results revealed that certain levels were registering outside the appropriate limits. Some numbers were dropping while others were rising. If the medical staff was unable to change my body’s trajectory, I knew death could be inevitable.

It was then anxiety emerged from the shadows. I felt the talons of terror gripping my very being. The impermanence of my life, which was usually shrouded from view, now loomed larger than my life itself. As my mortality permeated my field of vision, I grew afraid.

In those brief moments, I reflected on my life’s purpose. I imagined my husband carving out an existence in my absence.

I did not want to die.

Fear subsequently gripped my heart more firmly.

Yet, the power to stop death’s advancement was beyond my ability. As strong as the human will is (to which numerous publications of memoirs testify), I had come face to face with its limits. If death came, I was helpless to stop it. I may desire to dominate my circumstances, but such power evades me. I remained afraid.

My desire for power is not unusual. Each of us as humans are regularly reaching for more power. We thirst for power over situations. Power over time. Power over others. Humans hunger after predictability. Stability. Certainty. We are perpetually aiming for more power, more domination, more control in our effort to attain these needs. History’s conflicts bear witness to humanity’s ongoing yearning for power. Every conflicting party aspires to win whether it is the conflict in Rwanda between the Hutus and the Tutsis or a current day conflict between the Russians and the Ukrainians or the liberals and conservatives. Each group has a quest for power over the other lest that group becomes obliterated by the other. It signals our anxiety of death.

It is a human characteristic to have anxiety about death.

Ernest Becker theorized concerning humanity’s subconscious anxiety of death in his 1974 Pulitzer-Prize-winning book Denial of Death (a prize which was awarded posthumously two months after his own death). Becker perceived that our anxiety about death flows out of our self-awareness as human beings. As such, we try to preserve ourselves—that is, we strive to survive. It is this self-awareness that also causes us to be conscious that our striving to survive is futile. Each of us will die. This in and of itself is terrifying, so we find ways to manage our fear of death, allowing us to function in the world. A primary way is through heroism, in which we lift up the significance of our life. We pursue immortality, a “sense that we are part of something greater than ourselves that will continue long after we die.”[1] Individuals may teach others, start a foundation or a charity, have and raise children, write a song, a book, or a blog, etc. We form beliefs “to explain the nature of reality to ourselves.”[2] These beliefs help us to create meaning and provide us with a purpose. Persons are able, then, to manage their fear of death by clinging to their belief systems, which help to fortify their perception that their lives are “significant and eternal.”[3]

Building on Becker’s work, social psychologists Sheldon Solomon, Jeff Greenberg, and Tom Pyszczynski sought to prove that humans regularly manage their terror of death (the terror management theory). They conducted studies in which participants were divided into two groups. The control group was reminded of something unpleasant (e.g., failing a test, being in a car accident, etc.) while the other group was reminded of their mortality. Thus, the control group was made to think about negative things, which were not fatal, and the other group was made to think about their death. The researchers then monitored the two groups’ behaviors and/or attitudes toward others who believed differently from the participants.[4] The following summarizes their thirty years of research:

“Studies have demonstrated that after pondering their mortality, Christians denigrate Jews, conservatives condemn liberals, Italians despise Germans, Israeli children dislike Russian kids, and people everywhere ridicule immigrants.”[5]

Picture, for a moment, an encounter with someone who has different beliefs about the nature of reality from your own. Initially, we criticize the other’s beliefs unfairly. Our belittling, or shaming of them, is a way to diminish any threat to our beliefs and thereby our own being. We then simultaneously attempt to convince the other to convert to our way of thinking.[6] If I believe that a Mac is the best kind of computer to own and you do not, I may scoff at your view while I also try to sway you to embrace my perception. In doing so, I am actively seeking my self-preservation by upholding my belief in the superiority of Macs. But if I permit the possibility that your beliefs about Macs are correct, then my beliefs may be erroneous. Once I can no longer trust my beliefs in the nature of reality, I will experience, either consciously or subconsciously, anxiety about my own death.[7] Thus, my attitude and behavior will change toward you, a person who is different from me, in order to protect my beliefs and thereby myself.

While I am not alone in my fear of death, my fear caught me by surprise.

As a pentecostal with extensive theological, biblical, and psychological training, I am “not supposed to” fear death. I have been told throughout my life that as Christians, we do not fear death. I no longer believe this. The fear of death crosses all boundaries, whether one is a Christian or not. Just because we may say we do not fear death, it does not make it so.

Instead of spouting a dogmatic assertion that I do not fear death, perhaps exploring my-hidden- and not-so hidden- fear of death is more beneficial. For this exploration, I turn towards the previously discussed lens of the God concept-God image theory (see the blog When I Create False God Images). God concept refers to what I have learned through church doctrine, scripture, and training. In this case, it means that I cognitively understand that there is no fear for death because God has entered my impossible situation through Jesus Christ and defeated death. Theologically, then, I am able to declare quickly and assuredly, “I do not fear death.” However, unknowingly, I regularly live out of my God image, which is my relational experience of God. My hidden fear of death gives rise to my ostracization of others who are different from me. My anxiety about dying engenders me to protect my beliefs by tearing down you and your beliefs. I am implicitly in pursuit of eradicating the other prior to the other eradicating me. This underlying quest signifies my lack of trust in God as I strive for power over you before you are able to obtain power over me. These behaviors and attitudes toward you suggest my operational theology—that is, my God image. They expose how I relate to God experientially—I am not fully trusting God for my life and my death. Instead, I put more trust in myself and my own ability to protect me. Hence, my God image has been exposed. I am implicitly believing in a God who I do not completely trust as I am not completely convinced of God’s care for me. This is in contrast to my self-assured intellectual and theological proclamations.

But now I have been confronted with my mortality. I now see more clearly my fear and my God image. Now, I freely admit to myself, “I am afraid to die.”

Having become aware of my fear of dying, how then should I now live?

Maybe the starting position is not from a cognitive declaration, “We do not fear death,” but rather openly embracing our human finitude and its accompanying fears. Not long ago, I was teaching a three-week class overseas on pastoral care in which the students had learned and practiced empathic skills and studied the biblical and theological support for such acts of ministry. During the third week, I surveyed various issues that caregivers may encounter, one of which was grief and loss. As I opened the class, I said, “Today we begin our discussion on death. How are you feeling?” One older, brave student honestly confessed, “Scared.” Perhaps this is the type of admittance we all require for personal transformation. It is this kind of confession that embraces our vulnerability and humanity, which in turn may lead us down a path of healing, a path of increased trust in God.

I believe Jesus validates humanity’s fear of death through his own experience with death.

Prior to his death, readers of the Gospels catch glimpses of Jesus’s own terror. Luke points toward this fear as seen in Jesus’s prayer prior to his arrest:

Luke 22:42-44: Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me. Yet not my will but yours be done.” [Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him. And in his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground.]

Matthew, too, suggests, not once but three times, that Jesus was anxious about his death prior to his arrest:

Matt. 26: 38-39: Then he said to them, “My soul is deeply grieved, even to the point of death. Remain here and stay awake with me.” Going a little farther, he threw himself down with his face to the ground and prayed, “My Father, if possible, let this cup pass from me! Yet not what I will, but what you will.”

Matt. 26:42: He went away a second time and prayed, “My Father, if this cup cannot be taken away unless I drink it, your will must be done.”

Matt. 26:44: So leaving them again, he went away and prayed for the third time, saying the same thing once more.

Matthew also indicates that Jesus experienced anxiety on the cross:

Matt. 27:46: At about three o’clock Jesus shouted with a loud voice, . . . “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

In reading the above accounts, I call to mind that the Son is fully human while being fully divine (referred to as the hypostatic union). Since Jesus Christ is fully human and fully divine, his human nature is tempted as we are but without sin. Referring to Jesus, the writer of Hebrews states:

“For we do not have a high priest incapable of sympathizing with our weaknesses, but one who has been tempted in every way just as we are, yet without sin” (4:15, NET version).

Taking into consideration terror management theory, one could say that Jesus was tempted like we are in the face of death. Like us, he experienced the fear of death. Like us, he instinctively desired to keep himself safe. He, too, was inclined to protect himself.

Yet, he did not.

It is his action, which is unlike most humans, that catches my attention. We tend to turn away from the other, opt for the other’s death, to preserve our own life; Jesus Christ turned toward the other, embraced his death, to safeguard the lives of his enemies—us. In our fear, we tend to prefer that the other dies to save our own selves; in his fear and anxiety, Jesus prefers to die to save the world he loves. It is this love that challenges my now exposed God image. I have taken notice of my fear of death and how it guides my selfish attitudes and behaviors, revealing my lack of trust in God. I have also seen with different eyes Jesus’s fear of death and how he acted in a manner that is contrary to my own actions. Yes, he fears death, but his love resists self-preservation and yields to self-surrender and trust in order to save the other—me.

Having become aware of my fear of dying, how then should I now live? Maybe the answer lies in admitting my fear so that I may see my need for healing of my God image. Such healing is available in Jesus the Christ, who not only validates our fear of death but also heals humanity’s fear in the person of Jesus Christ (the fully human and fully divine one).

Maybe our move toward healing lies in holding two things in tension: our fear of death with a trustful hope in God. My husband, who is a retired hospice chaplain, tells the story of the only time he asked a patient: Are you afraid to die? The person answered, “Well, yes, I’ve never done this before. But the Lord, who has gotten me this far, will get me the rest of the way.”

May we, too, fully embrace our humanity by admitting our anxiety of death. In turn, it may allow us to live out a trust that leads to hope and full healing.

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[1] Sheldon Solomon, Jeff Greenberg, and Tom Pyszczynski, The Worm at the Core: On the Role of Death in Life (New York: Random House, 2015), 8, Kindle edition.

[2] Solomon, Greenberg, and Pyszczynski, The Worm at the Core, 8.

[3] Solomon, Greenberg, and Pyszczynski, The Worm at the Core, 9.

[4] Sheldon Solomon, “Grave Matters: The Role of Death in Life,” Museum of Science, YouTube video, 1:26:16, July 14, 2016, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7GZrgWKj9o.

[5] Solomon, Greenberg, and Pyszczynski, The Worm at the Core, 132.

[6] Solomon, “Grave Matters.”

[7] Solomon, “Grave Matters.”