What happens to us when we die?

 

It’s a question that, I think, we all ponder at some stage––

especially as we get older…

as more and more of our friends and loved ones pass away…

and we’re confronted repeatedly with our own mortality…

and the full realisation begins to dawn that, one day soon, I too will die.

 

Whether or not they are religious, I suspect that many people cling to some notion of an after-life––

even if it’s diffuse and ill-defined.

When planning a funeral, I will often hear grieving family members say something like…

“Well, it’s okay really.

Mum’s gone to be with Dad.

They’re together again, at last”;

or, perhaps, “I know that Dad is still with us…

looking down on us…

and one day we will see him again”.

In my experience…

most people have some sense that their loved ones have just moved to a different place––

a better place;

a place that’s free from suffering and pain;

a vague, nebulous, undefined place of perpetual bliss—

somewhere beyond the space-time continuum.

And, let’s be honest…

for many of us, such beliefs are important.

They help us as we struggle to make sense of the aching void of bereavement.

They help us to cope with the pain and loss that consume us.

They offer us some semblance of comfort and hope.

They enable us, eventually, to pick ourselves up and go on with our lives as before––

admittedly, somewhat impoverished…

but otherwise much the same.

And they also help us to deal with the fact of our own mortality.

And, although I would never say it to a grieving family––

let alone in a funeral address––

but if we step aside from the fear, the grief, and the sentimentality…

then we probably have to admit…

that there’s no real basis for such notions.

Not really.

Not objectively.

 

Perhaps we get some insights from what are commonly termed “Near Death Experiences”.

One of the largest studies of such phenomena––

involving thousands of people who suffered cardiac arrests…

and published by a group of intensive care physicians from two countries––

highlights the breadth of experience.

There were, they found, several common themes or scenarios:

some people had out of body experiences…

watching events unfolding in the hospital room;

most, however, had some sort of hallucinatory or dream-like experience––

but even those varied widely.

Some experienced fear and terror and persecution––

often linked to some horrifying test or ceremony through which they had to pass.

More, however, experienced a feeling of peace…

seeing plants and flowers…

or animals…

or a bright light…

or being reunited with family members.

And yet, overwhelmingly, what people experienced…

and how they interpreted that experience…

was dependent upon their background and pre-existing beliefs…

especially their religious beliefs.

And that shouldn’t be so surprising.

After all, at least one school of anthropological thought suggests that the root origin of all religion is the attempt to explain our experience…

and, in particular, to explain our experience of death…

and what happens to us when we die.

 

And that’s what we see in our readings this morning:

our reading from the book of Isaiah…

which, in turn, was the inspiration for John’s vision in Revelation.

Immediately prior to our piece from Isaiah, the prophet describes a scene of death and utter destruction…

of a world-wide conflagration…

and, here, in contrast…

he envisions the remnant of all nations––

not just Israel––

coming together as one…

feasting together in peace…

and being cared for by God…

whom, he maintains, will destroy death and “wipe away the tears from all faces”.

The language and the imagery are…

of course…

drawn from the prophet’s own time and tradition;

they reflect his background and pre-existing beliefs…

no less than do the visions of near death experiences today.

The language and imagery are poetic…

even mythological.

As such, it still doesn’t answer our question––

what really happens to us when we die.

And, perhaps, we shouldn’t expect it to.

What it does do, however, is point us to God.

In seeking to address the fears and frustrations––

and the doubts and despondency––

of his readers…

he’s trying to say something profound about the nature of God.

He wants to affirm that God is gracious and tender…

loving and compassionate––

even when our world seems to be falling apart…

and when all that we know is bitterness and tears.

He suggests that God is with us, always––

and always will be.

If––

in some small way––

we know and experience the loving presence of God now…

then nothing we experience in death can change that.

That seems to be his point.

Stripped of all the myth and contextual-imagery…

aside from the constraints of time and tradition…

the author isn’t offering us a vision of what will happen to us after we die.

Nor is he offering some vision of the future.

Rather, he’s making a theological statement––

a statement about the nature of God.

He’s reminding us of the God who loves us…

and the God into whose hands we commit our loved ones…

and into whose hands, eventually,  we will commit our own lives.

In the end, this is an affirmation of faith that––

although we don’t know what the future holds––

we can trust in God.

 

Today, we celebrate the festival of All Saints––

a time when we remember and we give thanks…

for those men and women of faith who have gone before us…

and who have pointed the way for us;

a time when we remember and re-entrust into God’s most gracious love…

all those who––

through their love and compassion…

their loyalty and faithfulness…

their sacrifice and encouragement––

have helped us to grasp and to glimpse a little of the nature of God.

In reality, we don’t know what has happened to them…

we don’t know what will happen to us after we die…

we don’t know what it will be like…

and we can’t know––

not free of myth and allegory…

tradition and belief…

and sentimental hope and longing.

What we do have, however, in the vision of Isaiah…

and, also, the vision of the book of Revelation…

is the assurance of a God who loves us––

in life, in death, and in life beyond death.

And perhaps, in the end, that’s enough.