Death Shuffles In

There is a centuries‑long tradition in the Jesuit order associating April 22 with the Virgin Mary. On that day in 1541, St. Ignatius and his companions professed their solemn vows before an image of Mary in the Basilica of St. Paul Outside‑the‑Walls in Rome. That moment is considered the foundational act of the fully constituted order, and the day is known as the Feast of the Mother of the Society of Jesus.

On April 22 this year—just this past week—I stepped into a California mission purely by chance. I had forgotten about the feast day and was surprised to see the exposed host in Adoration on the altar. I removed my cap, took a seat in the back, and looked at the paintings and statues in the side niches. A few people waited to go to Confession in a Baroque‑styled confessional across the aisle. I could see a light glowing in the priest’s compartment.

I sat there doing nothing in particular. Not praying. Not meditating. Not even thinking. This mission holds a lot of meaning for me and my family. It’s the site of a wedding, a funeral, and dozens of liturgies involving my work. It sits in the center of a university campus, so there are always students around. That’s why I didn’t think it strange when a student or two entered behind me and made their way to the altar, their rubber soles either pounding or squeaking on the tiled floor.

But then more of them came—not randomly, but in succession, sometimes in pairs. They were animated. A priest emerged from the sacristy, fully vested, and returned the host to the tabernacle. He addressed the students gathered at the altar, though I couldn’t make out what he said. When they began lighting the altar candles, it was obvious: Mass was about to start.

I stayed through the homily and left. This may sound strange, but I can’t just show up for Mass. I like to be prepared, which means not wearing a boxing sweatshirt and ballcap. I also like to study the readings beforehand. And, truthfully, I am over the student gestalt. After all those years being part of it, I have finally outgrown it. They remain forever young while I—mortal that I am—get leg cramps in the early morning that have me crying out and have to make sure I pee before leaving the house. Do I dare eat a peach?

Here’s the thing, and it comes as a twist for this post, but I have always looked at posts as parables with a hook at the end. A left hook to the liver, that is. I had a vision of death. It was theatrical if not exactly prophetic, but it was a vision nevertheless.

I imagined that when I die, or am on my last few breaths, I sit in the back of a church as people shuffle in past me. They start out slow, but then—like the students at the mission—pick up the pace and arrive one after another, sometimes in pairs or more. They fill the church until every seat is taken. Then they stand en masse and turn toward me as one.

These people are dead. They are everyone I have ever known and had an interaction with. It could have been as simple as “hi, how are you?” or as intimate as a long‑ago relationship. They watch as I step into the aisle and make my way toward the altar. I study their faces—moved by the friendly ones, chastened by the unreadable ones. Yet all of them, together, convey a single truth about where this is going to land—where I am going to land. I draw closer and closer to the altar in a silence that rises from the floor, the walls. In that moment of judgment, I understand why the Virgin Mary is called Advocata Nostra.

I don’t let myself reach the altar steps. I am not ready. I believe there is a time when people feel ready to stand before the altar. This is not my time. I am on my way, though, by first letting my inner eccentric out. Just last night I had black licorice and dry sherry for dinner. That’s a pretty good start, I think.

In the meantime, my mission‑church scene could be straight out of Ingmar Bergman: The Man in the Back Pew. I’ll make sure the shoes have leather soles.

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