You will surely die. The very thought is not a happy one. We don’t want to think about it. In fact, we try to avoid the thought as much as possible. But what if thinking about death isn’t a bad thing? In ancient Rome, there was a frank tradition designed to remind victorious generals about the reality of their own death. At the climax of the procession in their honour, a servant would stand behind the general and whisper in his ear, Memento mori. This translates as “remember, you will die.” What a moment to be reminded of death! No one tends to forget the reality of death more than in success and triumph. Success tends to have a blinding effect. It easily misguides. Suddenly, one thinks she has become invincible. A deity. The very master of his destiny. A captain of his fate.
You will surely die.
I’ve often wondered why it wasn’t the emperor who reminded the victorious general of his death. Why a servant? Here, one can certainly admire the wisdom of the Romans. There couldn’t be a better person to humble the general than a servant. He had nothing. He was nothing. Literally. A servant was, therefore, the perfect person to humble the general. For both shared the same fate, death, reserved for all human beings. Whether you’re rich or poor, powerful or oppressed, a general or a servant, you will die. Thus, the servant stood to remind the general of the one thing they had in common: the inevitability of their shared destiny.
A Problematic Roman Practice
But wait a minute. We have a problem here. We’ve got all sorts of problems. The first is the servant himself. If what he whispers in the general’s ear is meant to humble him, how do we know that the servant himself doesn’t need to be humbled? In fact, reminding the general of his death could very well make him proud. But what about him? Who will remind the servant of his own death? And by the way, what does he even know about death? Isn’t it sad that the servant’s humbling words are devoid of hope?
The sevant’s humbling words are devoid of hope.
The second problem, just mentioned, is hope. If the general is reminded only of his death, what hope does he have? In their article on the history of memento mori, Daily Stoic describes the concept as seemingly haunting but actually inspiring. Is it so? Does anyone feel inspired to be reminded of the frailty of the glories we laboured to earn, at the very moment we’re set to enjoy them? The reality of death isn’t “seemingly haunting,” it’s terribly so. By it we realise that ultimately we have nothing—no achievement, joy, pleasure, success, or glory—that will withstand the destroying power of our inevitable death. If we’re honest with ourselves, there’s nothing inspiring about memento mori. Like the Roman general, it brings everyone face to face with the dreadful prospect of an irreversible leap into nothingness.
The Romans needed a better servant. We all do. Like all other human ideals, the Roman ideal of humility and readiness in the face of death falls short of its promises. It is incapable of bringing true humility and preparing the Romans for what is beyond death. We need someone who not only reminds us about the reality of death but also points to real hope in the face of death.
A Better Servant
First century Romans soldiers should have been familiar with a rather unique type of servant. He was unique because he was unlike a Roman servant. Sure, he knew what it meant to be humiliated, despised, beaten, and rejected. He knew betrayal and defeat. However, unlike typical Roman servants, he also knew victory. In fact, no Roman general ever experienced triumph over death. This better servant is mysterious and paradoxical. For while he knows defeat, he is also triumphant. Though he suffers death, he defeats it. “I died,” he tells the apostle John, “and behold I am alive forevermore” (Revelation 1:18). Added to this, he is both a servant and Lord.
Living in Light of Death, Ours and His
Thinking about death has tremendous potential to alter the course of one’s life, provided you start at the right place. Unlike other religions that centre around the teachings of some founding figure, Christianity centres on the death (and resurrection) of its founding figure. Christians insist that unless we’re prepared to accept the truth of Jesus’ death and resurrection, his teachings are inconsequential.
Unless we’re prepared to accept the truth of Jesus’ death, his teachings are inconsequential.
Many people, in light of their death, commit to doing maximum good for as many people as possible. They build schools and hospitals. They work to leave the world a better place than they found it. But what difference does it make to create a heaven on earth, only to find yourself neighbouring the evilest person who ever lived in hell? In the end, it doesn’t matter whether you lived like Hitler or Mother Teresa. For Jesus’ death asserts that the dividing line between a good and a worthless life isn’t sought in how carefully one has lived in light of one’s death, but in Jesus’. Only the latter can sing:
No guilt in life, no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me
From life’s first cry to final breath
Jesus commands my destiny
No pow’r of hell, no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from his hand
‘Til he returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand.
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