Wilfred De’ath
I don’t suppose the priest in the suburb of St Malo in Brittany (where I’m currently staying) intended to give me a foretaste of death by – accidentally – locking me in his parish church, Notre Dame, overnight, but that was what happened.
What was it like? It was dark – and long. (I will return to this.)
Back in the UK, I had continued my researches into death and its meaning, if any. I decided to consult a number of (Anglican) clergyman on this topic. Their replies to my questions were, on the whole, unenlightening.
My incumbent parish priest in Cambridge thought I should take advantage of this season of Lent by travelling the same road as Our Lord towards death and resurrection. All well and good – except that I cannot bring myself to believe in the resurrection any more than I can in the virgin birth. (I prefer to believe that Jesus emerged from ‘normal’ sexual relations between Joseph and Mary.)
The cynical journalist in me takes over at moments like these; I’m afraid I believe that the resurrection has a perfectly rational explanation.
The chaplain at Addenbrooke’s Hospital declined to answer any of my questions and gave me a reading list instead. But the book has yet to be written that explains, explicitly, the meaning of death and how to come to terms with it.
Perhaps the best answer I received came from Michael, the priest in charge of St Paul’s, the church charged with ministering to the homeless in Cambridgeshire. Michael is the least ‘clerical’ clergyman I have ever encountered, and the Bishop of Ely describes St Paul’s as the ‘least typical’ Anglican church in his diocese.
Michael said that death was as great a mystery to himself as it was to me, and that he had ‘absolutely no idea’ how you come to terms with it. That, at least, was honest…
Here in St Malo, I had gone into Notre Dame to check the times of Mass. The church was meant to be closed, but the priest happened to be there, consulting an electrician, ‘ Est-ce qu’il y a une messe ce soir, mon père?’ I asked. ‘ Non, mon fils.’ (‘Is there Mass this evening, Father?’ ‘No, my son.’)
He went out, locking the door behind him, totally forgetting me. It did feel a bit like death – not that I know what death feels like.
I was pleased by how calmly I took it. The caretaker, who released me next morning, was calm too. It did feel like a kind of resurrection!