ramblings on death
In November 2022 I took an unplanned day trip to Oxford. Having struggled to sleep, I made the impromptu decision at 4am to catch the next train and make my way north. On the train I wrote in my journal about how moved I was at All Souls Mass at the London Oratory, where they played Mozart’s Requiem. I have heard the masterpiece many times, but never in its rightful setting of the Catholic mass, where its powerful solemnness matches the profoundness of the liturgy.
I attended mass at the Oxford Oratory before doing the usual touristy things in town; taking the time to visit the Ashmolean and see parts of the famous university campus. And then I did something I suspect few visitors do: I caught a bus to a local cemetery.
I always enjoyed walking around cemeteries. They have a unique, tranquil charm, and this one was no exception. Perfectly situated in a quiet neighbourhood in the grounds of a beautiful, gothic revival Anglican church, it was a lovely spot to pray the rosary for the souls that lay there and think about what it means to die.
It’s always important to contemplate one’s mortality. Memento mori. Death confronts each of us, often as an unwelcome mental guest that looms large over life. It’s intimidating, morose, and inevitable - frightening in its certainty. As a Catholic, I think about death a lot. Although I fear it like any human, there is a counterbalance: a hope inspired by God’s promise of eternal life beyond earthly existence.
The Catholic Church sets aside the entire month of November to pray for the faithful departed, not those whose lives and legacies are remembered by history or hallowed as saints, but the everyday people; the silent lives buried in unvisited graves like those in this cemetery. We honour them to acknowledge that, in death as in life, we are equal before God. I think that’s beautiful and it’s my favourite time on the liturgical calendar.
This is where I admit this particular November cemetery visit was not random. I had sought out one particular grave to pay my respects. Among the rows of headstones at Holy Trinity Church, Oxford, is the resting place of C.S. Lewis, a man who needs no introduction. His stories, essays, and reflections on faith have influenced generations of readers, including my own family’s Catholic faith despite his being an Anglican (my dad would argue Lewis’ theology was mostly Catholic), and here I was standing over his very simple tombstone in a quiet corner of the world. It was quite the contrast to the legacy he left behind, though it seems he would have preferred it that way.
The parish website makes a small note about Lewis’ death, and the lack of fanfare:
C S Lewis died on 22 November 1963 and his funeral took place just four days later. It was a cold and windy day with flakes of snow in the air. As Lewis had died on the same day as President J F Kennedy had been assassinated, the news of his death was delayed in being made public. Consequently, many of his friends and colleagues were unaware of his passing and his funeral. J R R Tolkien was one of only about 30 people at the funeral. Maybe that is how Lewis would have wanted it. He hated being in the limelight and thought that he would be forgotten five years after his death. He would probably be amazed, bewildered and not a little annoyed at the praise that is now heaped on him and the national acknowledgement of his greatness with a memorial in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey.
I guess one way to retain some privacy in death is to die on the same day as the assassination of the president of the United States.
It’s hard to describe what I felt standing at Lewis’ grave. I’ve been to the graves and tombs of many saints in my lifetime, but I never felt as close a bond of Christian fraternity to any of them as I did to Lewis that day. He was arguably the most influential Christian of the 20th century, and you could certainly make a strong argument that he is a saint, yet in that moment I felt like a friend paying respects to someone whose words had profoundly shaped my understanding of faith, hope, and the Christian life. The Chronicles of Narnia was my first experience of Christian literature and Mere Christianity one of the first theological texts I read.
I prayed there quietly, for Lewis and those around him, but also for myself and anyone else so inspired to come pay their respects here. I left some rosary beads and a small written note for someone to find, perhaps a future pilgrim, someone who might share in the quiet reverence of the place, as I had.
Lewis will certainly never be forgotten. His legacy of writing will survive as long as the English language. But sometime in the not so distant future the world will forget Lewis the man. What was he like as a husband, father, brother and friend?
Soon, no one will be left who remembers him personally - no one to recount stories of his kindness, his quirks, or his struggles. That’s a second kind of death: when the intimate, lived experience of someone fades entirely from memory, leaving only their public legacy behind. It’s a death that no amount of fame or acclaim can stave off. This is the quiet, unspoken end - the loss of the person, as opposed to the legend.
This excerpt of a letter from J.R.R Tolkien to his daughter on Lewis’ death is particularly moving to me in this regard:
“Endured in memory” is such a beautiful phrase, symbolic of a greater contribution to life than any published work: friendship, fellowship, and fraternity. That’s what matters in the end, and how we are all judged after death.
Standing at the grave of a man whose words shaped my faith, I was struck by an unsettling thought. How will I be remembered? By God, certainly, but also by those whose lives I’ve touched, however briefly. Will I be known for kindness, for compassion, for the moments of love that make a life meaningful?
When will I last be spoken of? And if so, will it be with love?
We know how we want these questions to be answered. In the end, we are not measured by our worldly success, but by our faith in Him who has conquered death, offering us a life that knows no end. The most important legacy we can have is to die in the warmth of God’s love, trusting in His promise of eternal life, as is the hope of every Christian. It’s what we pray for one another in life and in death. It’s what I prayed for Lewis that day, and for those buried beside him - that their souls rest in peace and remain held in the love of God.
Lewis himself, in his writings, often spoke of the deeper, eternal truths that transcend earthly life. In The Chronicles of Narnia, particularly in The Last Battle, he paints a vivid picture of the transition from this world to the next - where death is not an end, but the beginning of a life far greater than we can imagine. He wrote, "The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." It’s a reminder that what lies beyond the grave is far more wonderful than we can grasp, and that love, once kindled in God, never fades.
The headstones in cemeteries are markers not just of death but of love - a love so enduring that it refuses to let the person be forgotten. A withered bouquet, a name slowly fading into stone, a photograph sealed behind glass. These small tokens remind us that someone was here, that someone mattered and was loved.
As I reflect on the lives of those who have gone before me, I am reminded that the path of death is not an end, but a transition toward an eternity where love never ends, where prayer never ceases, and where all are remembered, forever in the heart of God. That is the hope of all Christian people.
The unplanned journey became a moment of grace - a reminder that while death comes to us all, so too does God's love, often in unexpected ways and unplanned places. And perhaps that's the final lesson: that in life, the most profound moments of spiritual connection often arrive not when we seek them, but when we simply allow ourselves to be led.