memento mori
remembering our death, remembering our life
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said — “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
That is the poem “Ozymandias,” by the nineteenth century British poet Percy Bysshe Shelley.
This Ozymandias was a fellow who wanted his name to live forever. By virtue of this massive monument, he wanted to defy the grave. I wonder how that worked out? The traveler tells the poet of a “colossal Wreck.” Long ago, the head fell off. “Half sunk a shattered visage lies.” The face has been smashed. There is a proud boast: “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” However, who is there to look on his works? “The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
His bid to defeat death has been turned into rubble.
Whenever I lead a funeral, it provides a special opportunity to think about death. Actually, I’ve been reminded how everything returns to its fundamental parts. The chair on which we sit has crumbled into nothingness — it’s just a question of when it happens. It’s true of your house. It’s true of planet Earth itself. In about five to seven billion years, our sun will expand to Earth’s orbit. (Not exactly the day after tomorrow, but we’ll get there.) Bye-bye, Mother Earth!
Memento mori is Latin for “remember death,” as in “remember your death.” It’s a reminder that we are not immortal. Lest we think memento mori is a walk on the morbid side, here’s something else to remember: we have an entire season in the church calendar that emphasizes the same thing — Lent. The Ash Wednesday liturgy directs us to “remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
There are plenty of people who don’t like Lent because they think it’s too much of a downer. A couple of times I’ve even heard ministers say they feel the same way.
There’s a line in a prayer from one of the funeral liturgies that has helped remind me of such things. “Help us to live as those who are prepared to die. And when our days here are ended, enable us to die as those who go forth to live.” It is a joyful affirmation that we will be with the Lord.
Memento mori comes from the time of the ancient Romans. Philosopher Jules Evans tells us, “It was the custom of Roman triumphs, for example, for a slave to stand behind the triumphant general in his victory parade, and tell him ‘memento mori’ — remember, in your hour of glory, that you are destined for the dust.”
Have you ever heard the phrase, “The one who dies with the most toys wins”? Well, here’s another one. “You can’t take it with you!”
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That seems to be the message of Psalm 49. We already get that in verse 1, as the psalmist proclaims, “Hear this, all you peoples; give ear, all inhabitants of the world.” It’s a message for every human being on planet Earth. The Hebrew word used here for “world” is interesting (חֶלֶד, cheled). It appears only five times in the entire Old Testament. It means “world,” but with the sense of a short period of time. It signifies “transient” or “fleeting.” It’s the perfect word, considering the theme of the psalm.
Give ear, all dwellers of this perishable, temporary planet!
There’s quite a bit in Psalm 49, but we don’t have time to go into all of it. I’ll just mention a few points. I want to take a tip from Ozymandias and “those who trust in their wealth and boast of the abundance of their riches,” as verse 6 puts it.
That’s some shaky ground. There are commercials telling us we can find security in money or gold or real estate or whatever.
The psalmist continues: “Truly, no ransom avails for one’s life, there is no price one can give to God for it.” No amount of valuables will do the job. Continuing, “For the ransom of life is costly, and can never suffice, that one should live on forever and never see the grave” (vv. 7–9). In the epistle of James, he poses the question, “What is your life?” That’s actually been debated throughout the years. This is how James answers his question: “you are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes” (4:14).
Well, tell that to the researchers who say death is something we can delay indefinitely. There are some folks who say a lifetime of 150 years isn’t too far down the road. And as we might be aware, there are those who’ve had themselves cryogenically frozen. The hope is they can be thawed sometime in the future.
Of course, there’s always the vampire option!
Keeping my promise to hit only a few points, I want to jump to verse 16. “Do not be afraid when some become rich, when the wealth of their houses increases.” We can become intimidated in the presence of those with great affluence. Verse 18 reminds us, “you are praised when you do well for yourself.”
Remember the show, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous? Robin Leach would engage in what could almost be called televised drooling.
Nurse practitioner Vincent LaBarca notes, “Life pulls us into painful directions and our impulse is to fight. But resistance is futile.” (I don’t know if he’s a Star Trek fan, but that’s the warning from the Borg, an unfriendly cybernetic society. They greet those unfortunate enough to encounter them, “You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.”)
He continues, “Like swimming against a riptide, we inevitably wear ourselves out and drown. If, however, we relax and allow the tide to take us, we are safely guided back to shore.”
Verses 12 and 20 have always been the ones to catch my attention. It is a repeated thought. “Mortals cannot abide in their pomp; they are like the animals that perish.” We humans cannot hang on for long to our splendor.
I like the way Eugene Peterson put it in The Message: “We aren’t immortal. We don’t last long. Like our dogs, we age and weaken. And die.” I suppose if our measure of life is pomp and splendor, we might very well end up like an animal, even a beloved doggie.
The flip side of memento mori is memento vivere (“remember to live”). They both carry weighty messages. In remembering our death, we are encouraged to remember to live — to cherish life. We can waste our lives in the chase of frivolity, of foolishness. We can own many possessions and forget that our possessions can own us. Remembering to live means living a life of freedom. Freedom can be scary. Living a life of distraction — of sleepwalking — can be quite comforting.
Henri Nouwen spoke of a “grateful death.” “The way we die,” he said, “has a deep and lasting effect on those who stay alive. It will be easier for our family and friends to remember us with joy and peace if we have said a grateful good-bye than if we die with bitter and disillusioned hearts.”
I mentioned earlier how I have led funerals (many of them), and sadly, there have been a few in which the dearly departed wasn’t regarded so dearly.
Nouwen went on, “The greatest gift we can offer our families and friends is the gift of gratitude. Gratitude sets them free to continue their lives without bitterness or self-recrimination.” Gratitude. Thankfulness. There are few things in life more important.
I had a professor at seminary who shared four statements that offer help in the very things I just mentioned. “Please forgive me.” “I forgive you.” “Thank you.” “I love you.” That works both ways, for the one passing and for those left behind. No regrets.
I was fortunate and truly blessed to have that kind of ending with my father. Banu and I lived in Jamestown, New York at the time. I got a call from my sister, telling me I needed to come home. My dad had been hospitalized several times, but on this occasion, there was more a sense of finality to it. I flew to Nashville the next day. My brother-in-law picked me up at the airport and drove directly to the hospital.
My mom and sister, and my mom’s pastor, were in the waiting room. They had already said their goodbyes. So I went into the ICU and stood next to my dad’s bed. His eyes were closed. I held his hand and told him I loved him. He didn’t last much longer. I think he willed himself to hang on until I arrived. My dad passed away at five in the afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to set. He was welcomed with its fiery orange-red rays. It was like something from a movie.
I don’t need to tell you we’re constantly surrounded by death. However, our risen Lord says, “Fear not.” Instead of fear, he inspires us with holy boldness. Memento mori is a fierce and wonderful embrace of life.
Ozymandias wanted the world to remember his greatness. He built a monument to himself, confident that his power would outlast him. But the monument crumbled, the face was shattered, and the sands swallowed his glory. Psalm 49 reminds us that we are not so different from Ozymandias when we imagine that our security depends on what we own, or our position, or the admiration we receive. We spend so much energy trying to make ourselves important that we can forget the simple business of being alive. Memento vivere.
Our calling is not to build monuments to ourselves. It is to love God, to love our neighbor, and to use the days we have been given for something that truly matters.
You can’t take it with you! But we can leave behind acts of kindness, words of encouragement, relationships marked by grace, and a faith that points beyond ourselves to Jesus Christ. These things do not make us immortal. They make our lives fruitful. And because Christ is risen, we are free to stop trying to save ourselves and begin living generously.
The sands will have their day. Until then, let us live.
