# Sermons from the Latins/Sermon 20

Third Sunday of Lent.
Death.
"He that is not with Me is against Me, . . . but blessed are they who hear the word of God and keep it." — Luke xi. 23, 28.
SYNOPSIS
Ex. : I. One thing all-important. II. Death sure. III. Settles all.
I. Saint: 1. Life in world. 2. Religious life. 3. Death.
II. Sinner: 1. His life. a. His sickness. 3. His death.
III. Lie goes: 1. Through life and conversion. 2. Obsequies. 3. Into grave and beyond.
Per. : 1. Our life. 2. Our death. 3. Art of dying well.
SERMON.
Brethren, there is one thing, and one thing only, in earth or heaven to be loved and gained— our souls' salvation: which if once gained, we have gained all. There is one thing and one thing only in earth or hell to be feared and avoided — mortal sin: ​which if not avoided, all is lost. There is one moment, and one only, in which we shall gain all or lose all — one moment sure to come, but when, God only knows — our one single last moment— our death. God has said to each of us: " Remember, man, that thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return/' and our own experience proves there is no exception, for death knocks with impartial hand at the peasant's cot and at the palace gates of kings. Of what shall we die? When^ where, shall we die? Oh, what matters it! The real question is, how shall we die? How shall we die? As a man lives, so shall he die. It is appointed unto man once to die and after death the judgment, but the issue of that supreme moment and trial — whether happiness or misery eternal — rests with us. And oh! remember and remember, and again, I say remember, that a man can die but once, and that a bad death is therefore an irreparable misfortune.
Brethren, we will meditate to-night on death. Not death in the abstract, but death as it actually is — in the dying. We will consider a good death, and the life that led to it; and again, a bad death and the life that led to that; and finally we will consider which life more closely resembles our own and hence which death is likely to be ours.
Brethren, the servant of God to the side of whose death-bed I invite you this evening is in simplicity and innocence a mere child and all but a child in years. She is and always has been a delicate little soul, of great beauty of face and form, but far greater of mind ​and heart — a tenderly nurtured, gentle, loving little soul, whose very delicacy and helplessness endeared her to her more robust brothers and sisters and made her the darling of her parents. There was one especially who loved her dearly, and would have deemed it a blessed privilege to have been permitted to devote his entire life to her happiness. Ah! hers was a happy home, and bright were life's prospects before her, but still she was not content — there was something she felt she ought to do for God, she knew not what, and she thought and worried and prayed. But at last she made up her mind; she plainly heard her heavenly Spouse saying to her: " Arise, My beloved, and come." So she laid aside her rich worldly attire, and gave up her portion of the inheritance, and without sob or tear she bade adieu to her parents and family and entered the convent. There she has spent several of the happiest years of her life; years of toil and privation that would have shattered many a stouter frame; years of tender devotion to God's little ones and God's poor; years of prayer and intimate communion with God. And there we find her to-night, in the convent, dying. Attired as a Sister she sits in an armchair, for it distresses her to lie down, waiting for her heavenly Spouse to say once more: "Arise, My beloved, and come." The lamp is shaded, and the intense silence is broken only by the labored breathing of the patient, or the ticking of the clock, or the click of a rosary as the silent Sisters come and go. And presently the priest arrives with the Blessed Sacrament to prepare that soul for ​God by Viaticum and Extreme Unction. By a strange coincidence he is the dear old friend of her early youth. He has seen much of the world since then, having had to mingle with all sorts and conditions of men, but the hardest trial of his life is to tell this poor child that she is soon to die, and that she must be reconciled to the will of God. Ah, what need to tell her! for has she not longed for this hour and prayed often in the words of St. Paul to be dissolved and be with God? She wishes to make a general confession and all withdraw. General confession! A collection of mere trifles, and yet she shows a sorrow for her sins worthy of a Magdalen. She has been impatient — she has loved some of the Sisters more than others — she has kept all to herself a beads her little dying brother gave her as a keepsake — she would like to see her parents and her little sister for their sakes, but for her own she would rather die ere they arrive that she may give herself more freely to God — she was ordered to take more rest and nourishment and did not fully obey. Then the confessor asks a few questions, and her great bright eyes open in silent wonder, for he speaks of things she does not understand— of sins she did not know existed. " Father, have I made a good confession? " " My poor child, yes." " Father, do you think I will be saved? " Saved? What can the man answer? With tears in his eyes and with trembling voice he says: " My poor child, may God help me and my other poor penitents if you find salvation difficult. But," he continues, "throw yourself on the mercy of God ​whose body and blood you are about to receive, and beg Him with me that on leaving you He may take you with Him." And so he gives her Holy Viaticum, and he anoints her five senses with the holy oils, feeling sure, however, these senses have never been defiled by mortal sin. When all is finished with the last blessing, it is evident their prayer is answered, for already her agony begins. Agony! No, it is not so, for as one lives, so shall one die. Her death is as gentle as was her life. A loving smile for her dear Sisters; a glance at the priest on her right as she whispers: " Jesus; " a glance at Mother Superior on her left as she murmurs: " Mary," and she dies with the sweet name of Joseph on her lips — Joseph who procured for her the grace of dying as nearly as possible as he died — in the arms of Jesus, the Priest of priests, and of Mary, the Virgin of Virgin Mothers. Ah! parents who arrive too late, why mourn that heaven is richer by one more saint? The very expression on her dead face bids you rejoice, for it reflects the peace of her soul. The old and the poor lament, but they mourn not her loss but their own. Why dread a death like hers? The little ones she taught crowd round her corpse as familiarly as though she lived. What a blessed sight was that — some two score little tots sitting around, silent and serious, wondering, no doubt, that their dear Sister, usually so active, should lie so quietly in their midst. And one little fellow she was forced lately to chastise now comes to pour out his sorrow and forgiveness in a passion of tears. Ah! not sorrowful or repulsive is ​a death like hers, but all joy and peace and consolation. Surely precious in the sight of God and man is the death of God's saints.
Brethren, let us turn now to another death-bed; let us accompany the priest on his next sick call. A hurried call at midnight, a man dying, for God's sake hurry. And hasten he does, and as he goes along he asks for further particulars. The patient is a man of some consequence — one the world would by no means call a bad man or a bad Catholic, but whom the Church would by no means call a good one. In fact he is a man of the world, subject to various bad habits — some said he drank, others questioned his business methods, and others hinted at a dark side to his private life — anyhow, he committed many mortal sins which he confessed occasionally, only to fall soon again. One night a week or ten days ago he caught cold returning from a social carouse. Next day he tried to be around as usual, but feeling deathly ill, he returned to bed and the doctor was called. " Fever, but nothing serious," was his verdict. But the day passed and the night came. O God, the weary night of torture I And another day passed and another night came and so on, and still "nothing serious " was what the doctor said. But the fever grew, so even the doctor began to doubt. A consultation was held, and the verdict was " serious." One more visit and the answer to the usual question was " hopeless." All now know what to expect, but no one dares tell the patient lest it worry him and make him worse. But when selfish interest is at stake they ​do not hesitate to worry him. The loving wife, forsooth, and the dutiful children call in the lawyer and advise that a will might as well be made now as later. And oh, what a trial is that for the poor worldling! A rich man undergoes three distinct agonies: when he makes his will; when he settles his spiritual affairs, and when his soul leaves his body. The making of a will! The scratching of the pen is as a tearing of his vitals; every drop of ink is as a drop of his heart's blood; every item set down is a severing of a bond that binds him to earth. But it is done at last; he has given up all; hope seems to abandon him; he breaks down and sobs out piteously: " Naked did I come forth from my mother's womb, and naked do I return into the womb of my mother earth." And now, and now only, does he remember and fully realize he has an immortal soul — a soul of infinite value in the sight of God — a soul to save which was the one grand work of his life, the one reason for his creation. But alas! for the greater part of his life his soul has been dead. It is dead even now of a hundred self-inflicted mortal wounds— of a hundred mortal sins. " False wife, false children, you pretend to grieve over the death of my body, will you not try to save the life of my soul? You try to relieve my temporal sufferings, will you do nothing to save me from eternal torments? For God's sake bring the priest." And so the priest comes and he performs his sacred functions with horrible doubt and misgiving at his heart. He enters that fetid chamber of death to take that poor agonizing soul, half-crazed with suffering, ​stupid with opiates, frantic with remorse for the past, and terror of the future — to take that soul into the presence of its God to confess and crave pardon for its sins. It is the second death-agony. How remember all those nameless sins? How make good in one all the fruitless confessions of the past? How raise his mind and heart in a few moments up from earth, aye from hell itself, up to the throne of God? " Father," he cries, " I cannot do it; I cannot go on; God help me, I am lost." But the priest encourages him by words of hope and consolation — hope, where he sees but little hope, and consolation which he himself does not feel. But at last the confession is made, such as it is. " Are you sorry for your sins? " " Father, I am sorry," he cries, but at the same time the priest feels sure that were this man restored to health, he would sin the same sins again, and the dying man himself seems to hear the demons around him chant: "When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be; when the devil was well, no more a monk was he." Nay, God Himself seems to laugh at this mockery, for from the Blessed Sacrament in his breast the dying man seems to hear: " You come to Me, not for love of Me, but through fear of hell. You abandoned sin only when sin abandoned you. Almost all your life have you deserted Me, and therefore will I desert you now in the hour of your need." Deserted by God, the devil seems to retake possession of him and urges him to despair. Ah ! there was a time long ago, when, to induce him to sin, the devil preached him long sermons on the ease of repentance ​and the infinite mercy of God, but now he reminds him only of the infinite malice of sin and the rigor of God's justice. " Are you confident when a St. Jerome, after having served God faithfully forty years, still trembled for his destiny? Do you presume to look forward to a place in that heaven where naught defiled can ever enter in? Do you trust in this sham reconciliation with God, when the same St. Jerome tells you not one of every ten thousand death-bed conversions is available to salvation; when St. Vincent Ferrer tells you it is a greater miracle to save a man after a life of sin than to raise the dead to life? The priest anoints your five senses with a little oil; will that, think you, undo all the mortal sins these same senses have perpetrated? He absolves you and says he has forgiven you your sins; you often questioned his power to do so in the past, do you admit it now? He gives you a little bread and says it is the body of the Lord; you doubted it in the past, do you believe it now? No, no; if these things be true, not heaven but hell will be your portion; so that your only consolation now is in the hope that priest and sacraments and Church are all sham; that there is no life beyond the grave; that there is no God." Such are the thoughts and temptations of the dying man. And the agony of his soul hastens the death of his body. His mind gives way under the strain; he moans and shrieks by turns as though suffering a foretaste of hell. He struggles with those that hold him as though they were demons. His eyes roll wildly, his mouth foams, he frequently buries his face and teeth ​in the pillow, and his hands clutch convulsively, making those that hold them feel what a fearful thing it is to hold the hand of a dying man and feel the soul within him struggling for liberty. But the struggle is nearly ended— one last great effort; a stretching to the utmost of every muscle of the body; a momentary startled expression of countenance, a ghastly upheaval of the eyes, and then the mouth gapes slowly open and with one long, weary moan of despair, he breathes out his soul. " Vengeance is Mine," saith the Lord, " and I have repaid, for he sought Me and he found Me not, but he died in his sins." Oh do not leave that chamber of death without fully realizing what a fearful thing it is to fall into the hands of the living God. Of what good now to him are all that man's honors, riches, pleasures? They are all here behind him, while he has gone forth into eternity poor and naked and miserable. His life was a failure, for he left undone the one work he should have done; he lost the one treasure he should have gained. Not only was his life a failure, it was a lie. He belied the God of all truth by turning away from the one end for which he was intended and created. He lied to the world by clothing his interior corruption in a cloak of outward respectability. He lied to the Church when he dared to gain admission to her sacraments by false promises of amendment. He lied to his little children by imposing burdens on them he could never bear, by asking them to practice virtues he himself never possessed. And as a man lives, so shall he die. His life was a lie; a lie also was his ​death. He repeated promises he would never have fulfilled had he recovered. He said he detested sin, when he only feared it and trembled for its effects. The sorrowful wail of his widow is a lie, for she is already thinking of her becoming mourning and its effect on a possible substitute for the dead. The tears of his children are lies, for they are even now silently speculating on the terms of the will. The shameful praises of the callers are lies; the pompous funeral is a lie; the grandiloquent funeral oration is a lie, for they all attribute to the dead virtues he never had. They all give honor where honor is not due. Nay, the lie follows him to the very edge of the grave in the inscription on his tombstone; nay, into the grave in the bright breast-plate on his coffin; nay, beyond the grave, for his soul has gone to dwell forever with that liar and father of lies — the devil. Oh, would to God that such deaths were rare; that such was not the death of hundreds and thousands of Christians, of hundreds of Catholics! For as a man lives so shall he die; and since the vast majority of men daily insult their God by sin, therefore, " vengeance is Mine," saith the Lord: "and I will repay, for they shall seek Me in the hour of their need and they shall not find Me, but they shall die in their sins, for Amen, I say to you, if a man deny Me before men on earth, I will deny him before My Father who is in heaven."
Brethren, as a man lives, so shall he die. As we live, so shall we die. And judging from the lives we are leading, which of these deaths may we reasonably ​expect to be ours? O God grant it be that of the saint, but is there one point of resemblance between our lives and hers? O God forbid it should be that of the sinner, but are we not men of the world, careless Catholics, relapsing sinners like him? If he were freed from hell and sent back to live life over again, what a great saint he would become! That grace denied to him, God grants to us to-night. We are plodding through life as though never to die. Men are dying all round us, but we look on unmoved. Our hearts, like muffled drums, are beating our funeral march to the grave. The sun will rise some morning soon, and streaming into our chamber, reveal our bodies cold and stiff and dead. The world will go about its business as usual and we will be laid away and forgotten. These hands of mine will wither; the flesh will fall from my face; my jaws, as though in grim humor over the folly of my life, will assume that horrible death's-head grin, and my whole body of which I am now so careful will become one fetid mass of corruption and decay. And my soul; where will it be? Ah, as a man lives so shall he die. The fate of my soul after death depends on the tenor of my life. Every moment of life should be a preparation for death, for on the issue of my death depends the complete success or failure of my life. St. Aloysius one day at play was asked: " What would you do were you told you would die within the hour? " and he replied: " I would continue my recreation." Doing all for the glory of God, even his recreation was a preparation for death. Seminarists prepare for death ​monthly. But no soul of saint or seminarian is more precious before God than mine, and to me its salvation is infinitely important. Therefore I will rehearse my death-scene often that I may acquire the art of dying well. I will occasionally imagine myself in my last agony, with a bandage round my fevered brow, with the crucifix in my hand, the clammy death chill creeping over my body, the silence broken only by my labored breathing, the sobs of my friends, and the priest's voice saying: " Depart out of this world, O Christian soul." From that position on my deathbed I will glance back over my life repeating: " As one lives so shall he die." Ah, then will appear in their true colors the blindness and folly of mankind, the vanity of riches and pleasures, and all earthly happiness. Then will I realize that for me my soul is the one created good, sin the only evil, my last, the all-important moment of my life. Then will I see which of my present doings I would be likely to regret at the last. Then will I begin to correct the evil of my ways — begin to live a good life that I may die a good death. If in all my works I remember my last end, I will never sin. Grant, O God, that the lives of all here may henceforth be so ordered as to gain for them the grace of a happy death. Grant, O God, that falling gently asleep in death we may awake in eternity to hear not the thundering anathema of God's justice: "Depart from Me, ye wicked," but rather the sweet summons of His infinite mercy: "Arise, My beloved, and come."