In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The wages of sin, we learned this morning, my brothers and sisters, have never been changed. The wages of sin, you can depend upon it, is death. Now much of the epistle to the Romans, which we’re reading now, is about the reign of sin in death. You see, the real enemy is death.

This morning I’d like to speak with you about three approaches to death. First, the effort to transcend death; I’ll call that a philosophical approach. Second, cooperation with death; that will necessarily be a study in sociology, with particular attention on the culture of death. And third, overcoming death, something very different to transcending death: overcoming death. To do that, we must deal with sin, and that will be an approach from theology.

First, let us talk about transcending death. Let’s talk about death as it is addressed by philosophy. Now it is a matter of historical fact that man’s introduction to metaphysics—and I’m standing in a general way of metaphysics, such as critical reflection on ultimate questions—a man’s introduction to metaphysics arose from his consideration of death. I learned that pretty early as a boy. I was not interested in philosophy, although that was my major. I was not the least bit interested in philosophy, but I was interested in learning Greek. So I started reading Greek literature, beginning, as everyone should begin, with Xenophon’s Anabasis. But in due course I came to the core Socratic dialogues around the trial of Socrates, the Euthyphron, the Apology, the Crito, and the Phaedo. In reading those, philosophy started to make a great deal of sense.

That core—I mean, that really is a core curriculum! I’ve got real doubts about the current core curriculum, but this one really was a core curriculum. If you want a core curriculum, I’d say have everybody read the Euthyphron, the Apology, the Crito, and the Phaedo, and from then on we can branch out to the Republic and the Laws and other things like that. You see, it’s about—philosophy emerges from the death of Socrates and Socrates coming to grips with his death. The trial and condemnation of Socrates was the setting of mankind’s first serious and critical reflection on the structure of reality, the place of man in the eternal order of things.

Socrates was no armchair philosopher. He did not hold some chair of philosophy. He discoursed on the structure of reality, the moral order, and the nature of the soul, even as they were preparing the hemlock for him to drink. The certitude of death is the foundation of philosophy. Philosophy is intrinsically the effort to transcend death. If it’s anything but that, you’re not a philosopher, which rules out a lot of people.

Now, from among modern philosophers who’ve explored this truth, let me this morning draw your attention to Franz Rosenzweig, and in due course I want to quote some words from Rosenzweig’s monumental work, Der Stern der Erlösung, The Star of Redemption. The book was originally written down on German Army postcards while Rosenzweig was serving in the Balkan front during World War I. As the word Erlösung—we’ll go into der Stern, the stars, some other time—is used by Rosenzweig—Stefan Zweig is somebody completely different, but he was a contemporary—as the word was used by Rosenzweig, it refers to the liberation of the soul through the pursuit of philosophy. The process begins, he wrote, with the consideration of death. Let me quote you from Rosenzweig this morning.

Philosophy takes it upon itself to throw off the fear of all things earthly, to rob death of its poisonous sting, and Hades of its pestilential breath. It bears us over the grave, which yawns at our feet with every step. It lets the body be a prey to the abyss, but the free soul flutters over it.

Transcendence: the free soul flutters over it. Why should philosophy be concerned if the fear of death knows nothing of the dichotomy between soul and body, if it roars, “Me, me, me!” if it wants nothing to do with relegating fear into a mere body? Rosenzweig had the same perception as Socrates. You can’t kill me! You can take away my body, but I do not fear those who take away my body. You cannot touch my soul! I am who I am. Because if the “I” can die, wrote Rosenzweig, then the “I” was never more than an “it,” which is what is commonly assumed in certain contemporary sciences, at least by some certain contemporary scientists. That what exists is the object, the “it.” The “I” is simply the creation of biochemical, electronic forces within the brain; that is what creates the “I,” but it is illusory: there is really only an “it.” Philosophy spits in the face of such a concept!

In the overbearing appearance of the second law of thermodynamics, the human soul voices its claim not to be objectified. The reflective soul refuses to allow the “I” become an “it.”

Now Rosenzweig himself was given the opportunity to test this thesis. Like Socrates, he, too, received a death sentence, not from a legal court, but from the medical profession. Shortly after his return from war, he was diagnosed with a muscular degenerative disease called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, in this country commonly called Lou Gehrig’s disease. Against this diagnosis, Rosenzweig labored till the very end. One by one, all his muscles closed down. One by one, every single part of his body was rendered dead. During those few closing years, he collaborated with Martin Buber, making a new German translation of the Bible.

Toward the end, when he could no longer speak, he dictated to his wife through a code made up of the blinking of the eyes. He would spell out every letter with long and short dashes. It’s a code he and his wife had, and she would take dictation one letter at a time. His last dictated line was this:

And now it comes, the point of all points, which the Lord has truly revealed to me in my sleep, the point of all points, to which there—

And then his doctor walked into the room and interrupted the sentence. The quote of dictation was broken off. He communicated with his physician using the same coded dictation of blinking with his eyes. When the doctor left, Rosenzweig felt too tired to continue the sentence he was dictating to his wife; the sentence was never finished, so we’re not entirely sure what the Lord revealed to him in a dream. It had to be something, however, like the dreams to which Socrates refers in the Phaedo.

Rosenzweig died on the night of December 10, 1929, just a few days short of his 43rd birthday. December 10, by the way, seems to be a favorite day for some people to die. I think of Karl Barth, Thomas Merton. At Rosenzweig’s funeral, Martin Buber read the 73rd Psalm. There was no eulogy, but Martin Buber read the 73rd Psalm. Usually that’s the first psalm I chant when I take a shower, so it means a lot to me. [Laughter]

This is a psalm of Asaph, great Asaph. I’ve preached on Asaph times out of mind here. In the German tongue, read by Buber, Asaph prays:

Wenn mir gleich Leib und Seele verschmachtet, so bist du, O Gott, allezeit meines Herzens Trost und mein Teil. If my body and soul alike fail me, You, O God, are still the sure assurance of my heart and my inheritance.

Second, let’s talk about death from a sociological perspective. Another approach to death is cooperation with death. And particularly this morning I want to reflect with you on our current culture of death, so keenly diagnosed by St. John Paul II, the culture of death. Today’s culture of death is the current mass suicide of entire civilizations. Think how long the Persian Empire has been with us; think how long. Yet now only a handful of people—I mean, a relatively small handful of people still speak Persian. In fact, Persian-speakers are becoming very much, extremely much the minority of the people who live in Iran. They have the lowest birthrate in Iran, and Iran has one of the lowest birthrates in the world.

As I speak with you today, beloved, ancient civilizations are in the process of what appears to be an irreversible collapse. When I was speaking to David Goldman just a few weeks ago, he drew attention to the low birthrate in Japan. He estimated, by current demographic figures, Japanese will no longer be a spoken language within 200 years. I mentioned this a couple of nights ago, a few nights ago, to Dr. Allan Carlson. I said, “Is that the common view?” He says, “No. David Goldman is way too optimistic. It’s not going to last anything like 200 years. Japan is gone in the next century; it is gone. It will not exist any more.”

I’ve spoken to you during all the time I’ve been here, the 16 years I’ve been here, about how heartbreaking it is to watch the disappearance of Europe—not Albania; Albania’s doing good—in general, the disappearance of Europe. A suicidal impulse seems to grip many nations. Turkey, for example, is in complete decline. When I think that for centuries Turkey was the great threat to Europe! May as well let Turkey join the European Union, I suppose, if they have the same suicidive death as the European Union.

Many countries are in a complete decline from which there is no human way to recover. Rosenzweig, too, analyzed the impulse to self-destruction. The human being, he wrote, is doomed to death, but not to suicide. We all must die, but there’s no obligation to kill ourselves. Self-destruction is something chosen. Among all the ways to die, suicide is the most unnatural.

Let me quote Rosenzweig once again. “The gruesome capacity for suicide distinguishes man from all beings… It is the veritable criterion of disengagement from all that is natural.” You see, suicide is not natural. What is natural is the conception and raising of children. That is natural. That is put into the structure of nature by God as a generous gift, not an onerous thing at all. God made it very, very easy and pleasant for children to be conceived. God wanted to make sure that the human beings were disposed to do this! This is a rich expression of Rosenzweig: “disengagement from all that is natural.” Man’s most spiritual danger, most serious spiritual danger, is the temptation to consort with death, to conspire with death, to become a colleague of death. This conspiracy is what brings about a culture of death.

In Albert Camus’ novel, The Plague, the character of Cottard illustrates the man who succumbs to that temptation. In the story, the plague grips the city of Oran, and people are dying on all sides and no one is safe. And what is Cottard’s response to this? He takes a rifle and goes on the roof of a building and guns down people in the street. Instead of fighting the plague, which is what we’re supposed to do—death is supposed to be fought! God made it easy for us to fight it—instead of fighting the plague, like people like Dr. Rieux, Tarrou, Fr. Paneloux, Cottard takes the side of the plague. He conspires with death; he becomes the colleague and associate of death. He represents the total loss of hope and becomes an apostle of despair.

This phenomenon is nowhere more evident than in the suicide bomber. I’m not talking about the forlorn hope. I’m not talking about fighting to the last man—that I admire. The spirit of the Alamo! “We will fight till you kill us.” That I admire; that I love. No, I’m talking about the desperation warfare, as a tactic of warfare. Suicide invariably means one’s own side is losing. For example, not until Japan was in the very throes of World War II did that nation resort to kamikaze attacks, because it was just another more demonic form of hara-kiri. During the war, 3,860 kamikaze pilots crashed their planes. Fewer than 19% of them hit a ship. It’s desperation. The whole venture was simply a futile expression of despair.

You know you’re going to win a war, by the way, if the first thing the enemy does to attack you is a kamikaze attack. That’s how you know you’re going to win the war. It means they’re already desperate. Suicide, however, takes many forms. I suggest to you that one of the most obvious is contraception, which couple deliberately closes themselves off from the blessing of children. Sex is the most obvious thing in this earth God intended to be the bearer of hope. Contraception is suicidal because it is sex without hope.

Death is our enemy, brothers and sisters. Death is our enemy. It must always be treated as an enemy. St. Paul calls it the echthros eschatos, the final enemy. We are called as human beings and especially as Christians to fight the forces of death with all our being.

In the last few years I have been very fortunate, extremely blessed, to witness several impressive examples of exactly what I’m talking about. I know you won’t mind if I actually name them. I’m thinking of Fr. Alexander Atty, who simply refused to die. After receiving professional notice of his impending death, he accepted appointment as the dean of a seminary, laboring at that task during the remaining years of his ministry. We’ll never forget Fr. Alexander.

Another example is Jeff Wagner. In all my half-century as a priest, I have never seen anyone fight death more strenuously than Jeff. I don’t know how many times—I’ve lost count of the times—I was summoned to Jeff’s deathbed. Gave him the last rites! And he said… I said, “How are you doing?” He says, “I’ll be out of here by Tuesday.” [Laughter] “And I’ll be working back here on Thursday.” I lost count of the times that happened! At the end, I never saw anybody die more peacefully than Jeff. He gave it his best.

Another was the first missionary from All Saints Church, Lynette Hoppe. Lynette Hoppe dared death, “Do your worst!” Remember during the time she was living—the family was living up in Minnesota, Denise and I would drive up to take holy Communion to Lynette, and we would stay for the next day. Had some fairly long talks with her; we talked a lot about death. She despised it. She hated it. At the end, she returned to Albania for the purpose, the explicit purpose, of showing Albanians how to despise death.

It has been a singular grace for me to know such Christians in these closing years of my own life.

Third and finally, let us talk about conquering death. It would be the theology of death. To do this I propose we consider a clear contrast: the radical difference between the death of Socrates and the death of Jesus. The outward similarities are clear enough. Both Jesus and Socrates were condemned to death by unjust legal proceedings. They both tasted death. In fact, Jesus called it a cup that he was obliged to drink. For Socrates, it really was a cup. Both Jesus and Socrates were models of courage and resolve in the face of death. I was very young when I read the account of Socrates’ death, and I read it very slowly, because I was still learning Greek and had to look up lots of words. So I read it slowly, and it had time to sink in.

Notwithstanding these similarities, however, one is more struck by the more obvious difference. Where Socrates met death with great serenity, the soul of Jesus was in turmoil and inner agony. Socrates did not resist death; Jesus fought it with all his might. Socrates faced death calmly. When Jesus faced death, St. Luke calls it an agony.

Now, what is the meaning of this difference? Let me suggest to you that this is it. Jesus saw something about death that Socrates did not see. Socrates had no theology of death. Socrates did not know where death came from. The most significant thing about death was concealed from Socrates. Socrates did not know that death is sin rendered visible. Socrates did not realize that death is radically unnatural. Socrates was not aware that fear of death was the most natural thing in the world, because death is not natural to human beings. Socrates was not aware that death came into the world through the fall of Adam. Socrates was blind to the full reality of sin.

Socrates faced death as a philosopher; Jesus faced death as the Savior of the world. In his death, he felt the full fury of sin. The gall offered to Jesus on the cross was infinitely more acrid than the hemlock of Socrates. When Jesus died, he received what St. Paul today, in today’s epistle, calls the wages of sin. He paid for all of us the debt incurred by Adam, and all Adam’s sinful progeny until the end of time. On the cross, Jesus made himself one with all those unjustly condemned to death. He identified himself with every victim of every war. He assumed full solidarity with everyone who ever perished in plague or pogrom. He took as his own the full burden of man’s sin throughout history. In the words of the epistle to the Hebrews, he tasted death for every man.

I do not urge any of us to face death as philosophers. If that’s the best a human being can do, I will admire his courage. I urge you as I urge my own wavering soul, to face death holding onto the hand of Jesus to conduct me to the other side. Let each of us, brothers and sisters, resolve to die at the foot of the cross, on which Christ died for all of us. Amen.