Death in Kristin Lavransdatter
By Tyler Blanski
Those who have read Kristin Lavransdatter, the epic trilogy by Catholic convert and Norwegian Nobel Prize winner Sigrid Undset, have read it at least twice. This formidable tale of farming and holy pilgrimages and family in the shadow of white-peaked mountains hurtles the reader into all the pain and love and last rites of death—death, and the hope of glory.
Kristin Lavransdatter shoves a poker into the cold embers of our hearts, every page dry kindling, every chapter a gust of wind, until the flames are hot with the conviction that to die Catholic is to die in the bosom of God.
A violent confrontation with contemporary culture, Undset’s tale is a clarion reminder that to be human is to die. But ours is a culture that is Victorian when it comes to death, and the denial is increasingly morbid. This time, the skeleton in the closet is actually a skeleton. From vampire romances to abortion, from corpse-like models to pornography to zombie apocalypses, we are the walking dead. Youth is for sale, but the mortality rate is still 100 percent.
What of the Church in America? Awash in niceness, few dare to hold vigil for the deceased. Funerals are turned into “life celebrations.” Requiem masses have gone the way of the buffalo. Like everyone else, we outsource the care of our dying to specialists—Hey, I’m not the doctor!—diminishing opportunities for prayer, reconciliation, and goodbyes. The wake of Vatican II has stripped the laity of the once-familiar spiritual nourishment of Extreme Unction. And the so-called Healing Mass, where everyone receives a quick Anointing of the Sick before returning to the pew, leaves us wondering what kind of inward grace can be found in such a casual outward sign. Have we traded in the sacraments for such a pittance?
Kristin is a wake up call. By tracing the proud and beautiful character of Kristin through most of her life in fourteenth-century Norway, we are in fact tracing the human condition. The scenes are worth pausing over. Kristin’s is a story bursting with life precisely because it is set squarely in the vice-grip of death. But have we forgotten how to prepare for a holy death, how to grieve, how to die, how to pray for the dead, and in the process we have forgotten how to live? It is impossible to finish Undset’s tale without suspecting that something precious, something holy, has been lost to us. Have we willingly given up our birthright in exchange for soup?
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Read more: www.crisismagazine.com
A violent confrontation with contemporary culture, Undset’s tale is a clarion reminder that to be human is to die. But ours is a culture that is Victorian when it comes to death, and the denial is increasingly morbid. This time, the skeleton in the closet is actually a skeleton. From vampire romances to abortion, from corpse-like models to pornography to zombie apocalypses, we are the walking dead. Youth is for sale, but the mortality rate is still 100 percent.
What of the Church in America? Awash in niceness, few dare to hold vigil for the deceased. Funerals are turned into “life celebrations.” Requiem masses have gone the way of the buffalo. Like everyone else, we outsource the care of our dying to specialists—Hey, I’m not the doctor!—diminishing opportunities for prayer, reconciliation, and goodbyes. The wake of Vatican II has stripped the laity of the once-familiar spiritual nourishment of Extreme Unction. And the so-called Healing Mass, where everyone receives a quick Anointing of the Sick before returning to the pew, leaves us wondering what kind of inward grace can be found in such a casual outward sign. Have we traded in the sacraments for such a pittance?
Kristin is a wake up call. By tracing the proud and beautiful character of Kristin through most of her life in fourteenth-century Norway, we are in fact tracing the human condition. The scenes are worth pausing over. Kristin’s is a story bursting with life precisely because it is set squarely in the vice-grip of death. But have we forgotten how to prepare for a holy death, how to grieve, how to die, how to pray for the dead, and in the process we have forgotten how to live? It is impossible to finish Undset’s tale without suspecting that something precious, something holy, has been lost to us. Have we willingly given up our birthright in exchange for soup?
.....................
Read more: www.crisismagazine.com
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