Unless a Grain of Wheat

A married couple, the Conroys, arrive at the home of the Misses Morkam on the eve of Epiphany sometime at the turn of the 20^th century, probably about 1904. They are welcomed into a home filled with Irish old world charm. The Misses Morkam are music teachers. Their Epiphany celebration is a Dublin tradition.

From the beginning, there is tension between the Conroys, Gabriel and Gretta. Gabriel makes a smart remark about the amount of time his wife takes to dress. Its sexism is grating to modern ears. Gretta is quiet, withdrawn, preoccupied. Gabriel is focussed on the speech he is to give at dinner. He wonders if he is speaking over the heads of the other guests. His concerns and theirs seem so different.

The evening is spent in reminiscing. The eldest Miss Morkam produces a rendition of a piece that had once been the jewel in her repertoire. Old days, old times and old stories are remembered and shared.

Towards the end of the evening, as the Conroys are preparing to leave, Gretta, hears another guest sing an old Irish piece which stirs the memories of her youth. When the couple retire to their hotel for the evening, having chosen not to make the long journey to their home in the winter night's snow, Gretta reveals to Gabriel a story from her past: a story about a young man who seemed to have died for her.

The story is simple enough and, yet, strange, too.

Gretta's husband, Gabriel, is portrayed as a forward-looking, Europe-centred individual. He writes for a newspaper with English sympathies. He views his companions with the patronising gaze of one who has decided that he is of better quality and capability than those with whom he is associated.

In contrast, Gretta, the couple's elderly relatives, and the Dublin society of the era are depicted as mesmerised by the past and unable to appreciate the new. The music of the past is celebrated. The stories of the past are enjoyed. The youthful successes of the past are remembered.

By the end of the evening, Gabriel, under the assault of successive waves of reminiscing, seems to have succumbed to the lure of the past, to the culture and the history of his Irish heritage, against what appeared to have been his better judgement at the beginning of the story.

The story is by James Joyce, and, traditionally, it has been regarded as the embodiment of a death-focussed preoccupation which succeeds in stifling life. The central figure, Gabriel, under the influence of his relatives, the evening's events, and his wife's painful memories succumbs to the power that death has over life. The very title of the story seems to be hinting in that direction. The story is called "The Dead".

So, too, must it seem for those who look at Christianity from the outside in. For indeed, in the celebration of the death of our central figure and the injunction that all Christians should choose an apparently similar path, anyone not initiated into the Christian faith could be forgiven for believing that Christianity is a death-focussed and life-draining belief system.

In our Gospel reading for today, we hear some of that apparent preoccupation: "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain..."; "Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life..."; "Now my soul is in turmoil, and what am I to say? `Father, save me from this hour'? No, it was for this that I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name.'"; "`And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.' He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die".

There is no doubt that facing up to death is a difficult task. Facing up to death means facing our own mortality, our own impermanence in the world, the fact that we are human beings whose bodies can only take so much living, the fact that we are not all-knowing and all-powerful and cannot, ourselves, control the direction of our destiny, although we'd like to do so. That's not something that our society has particularly encouraged in the past and even today many people choose to avoid facing this reality: drugging bereaved people so that they cannot feel the pain; avoiding conversation about dearly loved friends and relatives who have recently died; pretending that whatever we do will always be bigger, better, faster and higher.

However, there is a fine line between facing and accepting death, and becoming unhealthily preoccupied with it. For many traditional interpreters of Joyce's story, the main character, Gabriel, succumbs to an unhealthy preoccupation with death. For many people looking at Christianity from the outside in, Christians have an unhealthy preoccupation with death, and, more specifically, with the death of one person, Jesus of Nazareth.

There are, however, many ways of interpreting James Joyce's story. Some of them challenge the traditional interpretations by suggesting that, while Gabriel appears to succumb to a dead past, in fact, it is a past which is very much alive and well in the present, in the struggle for Irish independence, in the lives of the women who have carried on the traditions for many years, remembering, repeating, encouraging new generations, facing up to the reality of the deaths of their loved ones in the constant struggle for self-determination. These interpretations come variously from feminist, Irish historical and other voices that were previously overlooked by literary establishment interpreters. They seek to face the issue of death in the story of James Joyce in a way that also faces the reality of life which it seems to offer.

There are, also, many ways of interpreting Christianity: not all of them have been helpful to us as individuals, to us as a church, or to other people, as they look at Christianity from the outside in. Those interpretations have come from Christians and non-Christians unlike. There is a very fine line between those interpretations that succeed in facing and accepting death in the context of the Christian message, and those that come to an unhealthy preoccupation with it. And, of course, many, if not most, interpreters want everybody else to understand Christianity in the same way that they do.

Death is a part of the process of living, and of the living of life in all its fullness, yet, it cannot be allowed to destroy life, to negate life's meaning and beauty, since it is, indeed, part of life. Death must serve life and the living.

That's something that bears keeping in mind when we approach the verse in today's Gospel reading: "Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep if for eternal life." Sometimes this verse, and others like it, have been used to give Christianity an unhealthy preoccupation with death, rather than a balanced understanding of death as part of, and servant to life.

An eminent Lutheran theologian just prior to his own death wrote these words: "The fear of death, I'm convinced, is at the bottom of all apprehensions. To say of any of us that we do not fear death is a lie. To be human is to fear death. To love life is to hope and to wish not to leave it. And all people fear death. I think that is one of the most creative fears there is because it bestows a value, an affection and a gratitude for life which otherwise there would not be."

Life is gift: a gift from God. Equally, we discover in today's reading, that death is also a gift. And in the context of that reading, it is a gift of life.

In today's reading, Jesus uses the wonderfully simple illustration of the seed falling into the ground and dying, in an attempt to explain the significance of his own death. "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains that and nothing more; but if it dies, it bears a rich harvest." It is a carefully constructed story about the service to life that death gives.

Before sprouting, seeds must absorb water. They get this from the ground. Even a slight film of moisture will do for some seeds; just enough to soften the hard seed coat, enabling the plant embryo inside to push out and activate enzymes so that the growth process begins. Oxygen is necessary too, for the rate of respiration, of the seed's breathing, increases greatly at the time of germination, of the initial sprouting. Then light is needed for the seedling to grow BUT all this is nothing if the seed does not die. The death of a seed is in the service of life.

At the heart of the Christian message is the affirmation that God enters our dying ‑ that God, the creator of all things, the life of all life, has undergone that which is most common to us humans. The one of whom the church says, 'In this one is the fullness of God' not only died; he died a crucified convict. The Christian faith says that nothing in human experience is outside the experience of God. This means that the Christian faith does not abolish or eliminate the fear of death; rather it places alongside it, the affirmation that God is the life of life. God does not succumb to presence of death or to an unhealthy preoccupation with it. Everything, in God, is in service of life. If any one's life is a participation in the eternal life of God, that one's life is also part of that which cannot destroyed.

There is nothing more painful in life that losing someone whom we love or in facing the loss of ourselves, in all the myriad of ways humans can experience a sense of loss, and, yet, even our God, the life of life, has faced this challenge assuring us that death is indeed part of life and that unless the grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains that and nothing more; but if it dies, it bears a rich harvest.

At the medical school of the Sorbonne, a university in Paris, there is a room where autopsies are performed. An inscription is over the door of the room and it reads: "This is the place where death serves life." "This is the place where death serves life."

For ourselves, death is part of the bargain we make with life at birth. It is part of the endlessly rotating wheel of nature, of creation. It is not necessarily welcomed by life‑affirming people but when it is accepted for what it is ‑ part of life ‑ then it is no longer to be feared for it can be understood in terms of its place as part of life.

Paul Tsongas, a U.S. Senator discovered at the age of 42 that he had a form of incurable cancer. Tsongas wanted to get away from life, from the people, from the knowledge of his imminent death. He jumped across some rock ledges to a large boulder too far out in the river for easy access. There he lay on a large rock basking in the sun and allowing his mind to run free.

Eventually, he turned around and looked back to see where his children were playing. It was the first time he had envisioned them without himself. On the rock, too far away to be a part of the scene, he watched events which could have easily occurred after his death. At first his reaction was sadness. What a delightful scene and why couldn't he be a part of it always?

Then a sense of shock that indeed life would go on without him. Then a sense of comfort in realising that these people would pass through grief too and move forward to live their lives fully. Finally, Tsongas felt a sense of pleasure in the knowledge that his presence would always be felt by his absence and that life would go on. His presence would always be felt by his absence and life would go on.

Jesus struggled with his imminent death. John portrays this scene as being at a time when Gentiles are approaching Jesus asking questions, when the message is being heard beyond the Jews, when one would have presumed that it was just the appropriate moment for Jesus to branch out, to do a world tour and call a few more disciples. But for Jesus, the time is the time to accept the inevitability of his death: "Now my soul is in turmoil, and what am I to say? 'Father, save me from this hour'? No, it was for this that I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name."

In hindsight we can affirm that Jesus' presence is in some ways felt by his absence. Christ does not walk amongst us as the person who was Jesus of Nazareth and yet Christ's presence is always with us and often in the least expected places ‑ in the life of our community, in the life of individual people, in workplaces and homes and schools and community venues.

In hindsight, we can affirm that God enters every part of our life, even our dying, and that since death is part of life, it, too, is a gift of, and servant to life.

In hindsight, we can challenge an interpretation of Christianity that is an unhealthy preoccupation with death.

But none of this is possible without the facing and accepting of death which was demonstrated and evident in the life of Jesus. For, indeed, when a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, a harvest of great proportion can be produced, proving that, death is, and always has been, a gift of and servant to life.