"Noli Timere Messorem" is the motto on the coat of arms of Sir Terry Pratchett, Discworld author extraordinaire. It's a compelling motto for the author who made the character of the grim reaper, known in Discworld as simply Death (an anthropomorphism I'm happy to adopt for this post), into an almost lovable character. It becomes even more compelling when you consider Sir Terry's early onset Alzheimer's and the possibility that he will choose assisted suicide.
Noli timere messorem. Don't fear the reaper.
Chapter 1: What's This "Hopelessness" You Speak Of?
Two summers back, my now-mother-in-law (MIL) first started asking me what it is like to live without "hope."
I couldn't answer her question because it's utterly nonsensical when applied to me. My life is positively brimming with hope. My life has been touched by grief, but not by fear, despair, or physical suffering. I am among the healthiest, best-educated women to ever walk upon the earth, and I would kneel and kiss the ground if the ground had anything to do with my incredible luck.
The MIL didn't see it that way -- still doesn't, as a matter of fact. Taken as a whole, my in-laws are betting heavily on Eternal Life, and if they can't have it, they don't want to play. It took me a while to realize that this form of "hope" -- the kind that has absolutely nothing to do with the authentic human condition -- was what the MIL was talking about.
If I'm going to cease existing (at least, in the form I'm presently occupying; I don't think we can definitively know much more than that), then why don't I just take my ball and go home? Why don't I just weep in fear of oblivion or choose to deceive myself with elaborate stories about cosmic judgment?
It's not a great mystery. The value of life is inherent. And I don't even need to answer the question when one far more eloquent already has:
O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless — of cities fill'd with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light — of the objects mean — of the struggle ever renew'd;
Of the poor results of all — of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest — with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring — What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here — that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
You've just been schooled by Walt Whitman. Booyah.
Chapter Two: Death and Weddings
After I got engaged and started reading everything I could get my hands on about the cultural and historical importance of weddings and marriages, I started to think for the first time about what now seems, to me, to be a very obvious question: Did I want to invite Death to my wedding? Of course, actual attendance wasn't the question. Death would be there whether invited or not:
"It is of course possible to write vows that avoid naming either death or the idea that life has a time limit, but even if you manage to not speak of it, death hovers at the wedding: think of all the legal aspects of marriage that are connected to death...
"When I married him, I would renounce, implicitly or explicitly, all former notions of my own immortality. Even if part of me still believed that I was immortal (and how many of us fully, actively, consistently comprehend that one day we will die?), marrying was going to challenge that belief."
- Pages 76 and 77 of Kate Cohen's A Walk Down the Aisle
I took this quote to heart because it demonstrates the futility of celebrating a life-changing event while turning a blind eye to the dark edges of mortality. Death would hover at the borders of our existence even if it was our wedding day, so we decided to invite her in, to look him in the eye, and to shake its hand.
Hence the final reading, which, nearly a year after I first discover it, still can bring tears to my eyes. These are the words with which we welcomed Death into our lives:
"I don't think I'll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful."
Now do you understand why that reading matters? Poetically, philosophically, even religiously, that we could look each other in the eyes at the moment and not lie?
Chapter 3: "Hopelessness" Returns, Now With Prejudice
**Disclaimer: Before proceeding with this rather incendiary commentary about my husband's family, I want to be clear about a few things. The first is that they have received due notice of my beliefs, so this post shouldn't surprise anyone. I'm not saying anything here that I wouldn't (or haven't) say to their faces. The second thing is that this is my blog and I'll write about whatever I see fit to write about, kthanxbai. Last but not least, if you read carefully, you'll see that I'm not attacking any other belief system; I'm just standing up for my own. I'm entitled to do so.**
The MIL let it be known -- on the morning Steve and I were leaving for our honeymoon, no less -- that the final reading in our wedding ceremony was a little bit heavy on despair and, you guessed it, hopelessness. I am baffled by anyone who thinks words like "vivid" and "wonderful" are hopelessness incarnate, but it's a free country and the MIL can interpret this deeply moving excerpt however she wants.
I mean, she's completely wrong, but it doesn't impact my life except to remind me that I'd hate to be an English lit professor.
I did think it was insensitive (remember the burr I mentioned in my We're Back post?) that the in-laws told us about how one of Steve's siblings was "personally offended" (exact quote) by the reading. I'm not saying I had a nose-bleed when I heard that, but it was a near thing.
Our wedding was carefully crafted to reflect our beliefs. Our beliefs. Our beliefs about marriage, life, and death. Our beliefs, because it was our wedding goddamn it. How could you ask us to do anything less? (Christian privilege much?)
Not how I wanted to start off the honeymoon. Like I said, insensitive. I stewed about it while we were boarding the ship and then managed to put it out of my mind for the rest of the week.
We got off the cruise ship yesterday, and the walls I had hidden my irritation behind for eight days crumbled almost immediately. Sure, I'm a passionate person, but the crumbling was helped by the news that Christopher Hitchens had died during the week.
He's the real reason I'm writing this post.
Chapter 4: My Friend the Enemy
I first became familiar with Christopher Hitchens as a political opponent. I didn't know about Hitchens as a man of letters, just as someone who I felt probably would perform immoral sex acts on Paul Wolfowitz. I was a political novice, but more importantly, I was a kid. (I'm still probably a kid, which is neither here nor there.) And as a political novice/kid, it didn't occur to me that Hitch was a complicated fellow. It took me a few years to learn that it was possible for a man to be completely right about some issues and completely wrong about others, possible for me to respect someone with an appalling tendency to be dead wrong about issues dear to me, and possible for heart-rending eloquence to be delivered on some awfully dry and/or upsetting topics.
Hitch was brilliant, and I'm sorry he's dead. Because Hitch was so famous for not being a believer, we have to talk about his afterlife.
I have three favorite quotes from Hitch. The first is, "Believe me, it's torture;" the man let himself be waterboarded and gave us a definitive account of what it's like. I don't think the word "ballsy" does him justice.
The second was an off-hand comment in an unrelated lecture about how the world's problems need to be solved via "the economic liberation of women." Word.
But the best was one I heard him say in person, at a debate against Dinesh D'Souza at UCF. What would Hitch say (a questioner in the audience asked, in ridiculously bad faith) to God after he dies?
"Anyone can make an honest mistake," Hitch quipped, "and I'm particularly proud of this one."
Applause without end, amen.
To imply that striving to be the equal of Christopher Hitchens' intellect and passion is a mere shadow of the existence one could have in the "Eternal Life" if only we'd sacrifice that selfsame intellect and passion...well, that's happening in many corners of the web these days, and I must say that a god who demanded such a thing could be real as dirt and I still wouldn't worship him.
And to suggest that Christopher Hitchens should have been, somehow, less than the man that he was in order to curry eternal favor is to do a grave injustice to the verse he contributed to the powerful play.
No, I don't believe that Hitch is in heaven (although I believe he may be at peace), and I don't despair because I have no hope of joining him there.
Conclusion
This I believe: I believe that a fiercely passionate life is more beautiful than heaven.
This I believe: I believe that a love born of miraculous chance instead of supernatural design is a cause for great celebration.
This I believe: Noli timere messorem.
You do not have to share my beliefs, but you should not tell me about my beliefs as if I've never considered what it is I'm asserting.