Immortality Carried to Full Term
All but blind
in the evening sky
The hooded bat
Twirls softly by.
All but blind
in the burning day
The barn-owl blunders
on his way.
And blind as are
these three to me
So, blind to Some One
I must be.
— Walter de la Mare
When faith is weak and undeveloped, or not present at all, the desire for immortality is apt to express itself in ways that seem rather pathetic. People will want to be remembered. They will hope their name is passed on to children. They hope — many of them — to make a name in the world, to go down in history. To have streets, squares, parks, towns, buildings, trust funds, schools and colleges carrying their name seems to them a splendid achievement. The question rises, of course, in any reflecting mind: What possible good can come to James Duke for a university being named for him. If he enjoys likely reward for his goodness, his name identifying it has no significance. Yet the name on the marker over our head, on the stone above us, or even on an impressive monument, does give witness to the longing to live, to find in being remembered some assurance of it. Is Saint Bernard happier because a breed of dog is named for him? Everyone knows what a St. Bernard dog is.(*) How many know who he is? And does it matter if they know? Yes, it does matter. We can leave good after us that will nourish those who follow. Countless thousands do so in works of art, writing of every kind, bridges, public services, roads, highways and all that makes civilized life possible: heat, light, water, transport, communication. We live after us in our successes in medicine, music, learning. And so much more. This is an immortality. And it is obviously good.
But true immortality is eternal life with God. Next to that, being remembered some way on earth is modest indeed. And for all that, being remembered does nothing for those who are remembered. Is Diesel better off because every diesel engine is named for him?
Holiness moves the whole consideration onto another level. For through holiness we become a specific participant in the community of saints. In prayer, in grace, I can reach them, they can reach me, in Christ. This community of love of the saints in Heaven, the faithful on earth and the suffering in Purgatory is a true communion in love. Here remembering and being remembered is not idle or meaningless. It is love, and love is always dynamic.
God is remembered in all He left behind in creation and in sustaining that creation. We read God everywhere and in everything. If we do not, then we are blind indeed — the same blindness that afflicts those who fancy that the works they leave after them assure their immortality. They do nothing of the sort. We do not need to make ourselves immortal. We already are.
We need but acknowledge it. And the acknowledgment is an act of faith and one works then to attest to that immortality, as the universe does God. But God is immortal without His works, and so are we.
As human, as Christian, as monk, we give witness by faith to human immortality. And we make explicit what is often implicit, or implied. We make certain what is often nebulous. And this in the face of a materialist world of thin faith, or no faith at all. We do so not in condemnation, but in mercy, in compassion, in intercession.
We remember St. Bernard as an historic figure who was
of great significance and still is. He is among the immortals. Further,
he left a body of writing and a tradition in his religious Order which
immortalizes him in yet another way. He lives on and is an influence in
a world he left 900 years ago. But most of all he is immortal by holiness
and as a saint we are in communion with, and he with us: this is more than
mere remembering. This is love which is as real as the love of God because
it is love rooted in God. A work of grace and a bonding union which is
forever. We are not all but blind moles or hooded bats or barn-owls, but
immortals destined for the Kingdom of God through Christ our Lord.
Amen.
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