In the iconic painting “The Death of Socrates” by Jacques Louis David, the philosopher sits on his bed, lecturing his followers in his final minutes on the immortality of the soul, his finger raised toward heaven to indicate the subject of his discussion.[1] At the suggestion of the poet André Chénier, David painted Socrates such that his hand does not even grasp the cup yet because he is so “occupied with the great thoughts he is expressing.”[2] The painting is gripping because the one facing death seems entirely unperturbed, while his disciples are overcome with grief and even the one administering the fatal potion is unable to look. Socrates dedicated his life to studying the good life, but when death came he willingly accepted. His friends provided him with the means to escape and begged him to escape, but he felt that his life had prepared him to confront death without fear. In this painting, two radically different approaches to death are portrayed: courage and fear.
The mere ability to approach death at all, the knowledge that it is coming, is one of the realities that sets our species apart from every other species. We understand that death is inevitable in a way that no other creature can, which allows us to prepare for death. More than this, we feel emotion at the death of other humans, as shown by the distress of Socrates’s friends. Death is that liminal space in which humans find themselves in between this life and the afterlife, and certainty that brings life into greater clarity.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Psalm of Life” describes a glib attitude towards death that is incredibly compelling. The poem focuses on the possibilities of life and intentionally excludes thoughts of death: “Trust no future, howe’er pleasant! / Let the dead Past bury its dead!”[3] To the speaker, death must be overlooked because it distracts from the possibilities of life. The poem rails against fixation on death because “Life is real! Life is earnest! / And the grave is not its goal;” the goal of life is to be “still pursuing, still achieving.” The poem portrays the good life as one that is consumed by the present and the possibilities of the future, but it does not see much value in meditation on death. It holds value in the exhortation to live life fully and to shrug off all that is not full life. However, it glosses over death, and thereby overlooks an essential part of the human experience.
Why is this approach so appealing? Perhaps because thinking about death is uncomfortable. 4000 Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, the provocatively-titled book somewhere between a practical self-help book and philosophical quest by Oliver Burkeman, is premised on the idea that an 80 year lifespan is little more than 4000 weeks. 4000 weeks is a frighteningly accessible number. It is 4000 exciting Friday nights and 4000 sleepy Monday mornings.[4] “A lifetime” is a colloquial expression for an extraordinarily long period of time, but putting a lifetime in terms of weeks makes the true brevity of life feel almost crushing. How can anyone fit everything he or she wants into such a short period of time? It is far easier to continue under the Longfellow proposition that only focuses on the future of life, since thinking about the inevitability of death is paralyzing.
The pressure of life’s finitude is one reason not to think about death; another is that we struggle to deal with the sadness of death. The medieval form of poetry called “ubi sunt” derived its name from the Latin phrase that means “Where are they?” By questioning the fate of the strong, beautiful, or virtuous, these poems force the reader to consider the ephemeral nature of life. Francois Villon wrote his “Ballade of the Ladies of Time Past” in the 15th century in which he repeatedly asks where famous women of the past are, women from mythical antiquity to Joan of Arc. At the end of each stanza, he asks, “But where shall last year’s snows be found?”[5] The implication is that no matter how renowned one is, she is ultimately transitory like the snow of last year. Although their deeds may live on in the collective memory, their absence is a tragedy. “In Time of Plague” by Thomas Nashe in the 16th century confronts death even more directly, as the poet himself recognizes his imminent death and bids farewell to “earth’s bliss” in the opening line of the poem. For Nashe, “Fond are life’s lustful joys; / death proves them all but toys.” Helen, the classical embodiment of human beauty, has long had her eyes closed, just as worms now feed on the grave of Hector, the greatest warrior of Troy.[6] These ubi sunt poems exude wistfulness and sadness over the transitory nature of life, yet not in a bad way; they function as an outlet for the natural sadness over death.
These poems do something that is far easier to avoid: meditate on death. The solution to the sadness of death is not as Longfellow proposes, to ignore it, but to address it head on. The Bible claims that consideration of death is a path to deeper fulfillment in life. Like 4000 Weeks, Moses observes in Psalm 90 that “The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty … they are soon gone, and we fly away.” What is one to do with that reality? For Moses, the answer is to pray that God would “teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.”
How does meditation on death give us wisdom? For one, it forces us as humans to confront our finitude. A human life is filled with possibility, but it is not endless possibility. We are limited by our energy and our abilities, by sickness and by circumstance, and perhaps most definitively, by our inevitable death. Meditation on this reality helps us realize that we are finite in comparison with an infinite God. That realization necessarily spawns a healthy sense of awe, and as the Bible says in Proverbs, “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.”[7]
Secondly, consideration of death forces reconsideration of priorities. When we confront the fact that life is hardly more permanent than last year’s snows, we start to look for the things that are permanent. Few things last, so we should dedicate our lives to things that are inherently valuable and meaningful rather than working towards arbitrary goals that are even more ephemeral than our lives. The little things in life may have their place – but clearly losing focus on the ultimate goods in life is not worth wasting our time seeking only our creature comforts. Focusing on life’s highest goods is, admittedly, a daunting task that eschews trite solutions. Nonetheless, the process of continually, actively remembering death begins to bring clarity.
Furthermore, it enables us to live life more fully. A snapshot reaction to the idea of having only 4000 weeks to live is that we need to pack every moment with meaning. No week should be wasted, and that means every minute unfilled with something productive or meaningful is a waste. However, that is not the lesson we should take away. Moments are not meaningful necessarily based on how productive they are, and humans are not wired to fill every moment with efficiency. There is beauty in solitude, in slowing down, in taking time to enjoy the little things in life. That is a reality for the human experience, and the Christian worldview offers an even deeper meaning. According to the Christian worldview, this life is not all we have. We do not need to cram every moment because this is not our last chance. If this life is all we have, we must get all the fulfillment we can out of our limited time. If, however, there is a promise of eternal life, our perspective changes.
John Donne’s poem “Death, be not proud” is written as a challenge to death.[8] Donne does not succumb to the human fear of death, but tells death that “Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men.” Ultimately, he asks death why it is puffed up because, “One short sleep past, we wake eternally / And death shall be no more.” Donne’s poem is a reminder that death is not an ending, it is an entrance to eternal life. With that understanding, life becomes about something more than personal priorities and something bigger than the 80 years on earth because we know that paradise awaits.
Written by:
Andrew Warren, Former Editor-in-Chief
Andrew is a graduated student currently working in political and economic consulting in Washington, D.C.
[1] “J. Louis David,” The Illustrated Magazine of Art 3, no. 17 (1854) p. 341
[2] Bryson Burroughs, “A Picture by Jacques Louis David,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 26, no. 6 (1931) p. 143
[3] Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. “A Psalm of Life.” 1838. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44644/a-psalm-of-life
[4] Adams, Tim. 2021. “Four Thousand Weeks: Time and How to Use It by Oliver Burkeman – Review.” The Guardian, August 16, 2021, sec. Books. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2021/aug/16/four-thousand-weeks-time-and-how-to-use-it-by-oliver-burkeman-review.
[5] Villon, Francois. “Ballad of the Ladies of Time Past.” ca. 1460. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?volume=105&issue=2&page=10.
[6] Nashe, Thomas. “A Litany in Time of Plague.” 1600. https://poets.org/poem/litany-time-plague
[7] Proverbs 9:10, ESV.
[8] Donne, John. “Death, be not proud.” 1633. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44107/holy-sonnets-death-be-not-proud.