“I work, I want to do something, and I’ve forgotten that everything will end, that there is—death.”
Between my sporadic Sunday School attendance this summer and my wrist falling numb under the weight of my nightly reading, I’m not sure which book I’m in lately: Anna Karenina or Ecclesiastes. If you’ve never had the pleasure of reading Leo Tolstoy’s works, I commend them to you. However, you need not go down the rabbit hole of Russian literature to understand the human experience expressed in the quote above.
Anna Karenina is not just a story about the societal expectations and scandals of 19th century Russia; it follows the results of the fall from Eden to now. The frustrations experienced are part socio-economic, part relational, part vocational. I’m through about two-thirds of the novel, where the frustrations are largely vocational—but not at the root. At the root the frustration is death.
Konstantin Levin is a protagonist in Tolstoy’s story, and the reader can find him relatable in his natural pragmatism and solution-oriented reasoning. His brother, Nikolai Dmitrich Levin, is quite the opposite: heavily philosophical and driven into a little bit of madness by speculation and addiction. Konstantin (Levin) owns a large estate and is in the farming business, while Nikolai has spent much of his time in the city as some loose version of the prodigal son. The two brothers spend a lot of their conversations missing one another like ships in the night. Where one is spinning his wheels seeking to understand the solution to inefficient farming and agricultural work, the other is burying himself in political movements and skepticism.
During one notable visit from his brother, Levin quickly realizes that Nikolai is dying. He shows up to Levin’s door quite sick, both understanding what neither one will admit. As he coughs deeply into the night in the other room, Levin has the soul-shaking epiphany that death will end it all. For everyone.
Death, the inevitable end of everything, presented itself to him for the first time with irresistible force. And this death, which here, in his beloved brother… was not at all as far off as it had once seemed to him before. It was in him, too—he felt it. If not now, then tomorrow, if not tomorrow, then in thirty years—did it make any difference? (pg. 348)
Ignorance is Bliss?
This painful reality should feel somewhat familiar to each of us. Whether it’s a sudden onset, or a slow realization, at some point we each turn a corner and see a glimpse of our fragility. Here Levin is trying, in vain, to circumvent the reality that faces him now, with raised eyebrows and a taunting grin.
To which Levin answers, I thought nothing of you at all.
I remember reading a verse in Ecclesiastes shortly after confessing Christ in college: “It is better to go to the house of mourning than the house of feasting…” It struck me so oddly as a twenty-something who loved a good gathering of laughter. I remember wondering if the author was being contrary for dramatic effect or had intended his proverb to be read with a hint of sarcasm. Choosing a funeral over a party? I had no category for that. Wasn’t death the enemy? I hadn’t yet watched suffering, I didn’t have friends who miscarried, and I wasn’t familiar with faces that had seen war. I, in Levin’s company, hadn’t given death much thought at all.
About seven years later, kneeling beside my father’s hospital bed, I finally realized that life was delicate, and I read Ecclesiastes in a new light. There was something validating and freeing in the Preacher’s words. Like Levin, I caught sight of something greater that would swallow me up without a Savior. And like Levin, I faced loss, and with loss, I faced life. What did it mean to live if this is what it was to die? Even the best memories fade like a lingering breath and we must face the fact that our hard work and legacies will one day buckle underneath the weight of an ending. Similarly to you, perhaps, I realized that every day begged the question, then what for?
The Only Ground is Gospel
The rest of Ecclesiastes 7:2 reads, “for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart.” This is instructive for our smiles and for our sorrows, no matter our age. The end of all mankind is the house of mourning, and death is no respecter of persons. Neither the Preacher, nor Tolstoy, gives us anywhere else to land. And therein lies the great hope of Christ. There is another side and its name is Eternity. The low blows and deep pains of this life are overshadowed by the Son that never sets. Because of the gospel, we have an endless peace that doesn’t delude itself into thinking there is meaning to be found here outside of Christ. He saw the great vanity of mankind for what it truly was—the senseless suffering that it actually is—and instead of avoiding the gaze of death, he entered into it. He overthrew it. He conquered the absurdity of this meaningless mess.
And still, he calls it good that we might enter the house of mourning. The God of Scripture compels us to stare down our fragility without wincing. We must see the suffering to see the joy. We must look deeply into the eyes of hopeless toil if we’re ever to work for the glory of God. We must step over the threshold of the sick and dying if we’re ever to hold a newborn baby dearly. We must stand near the coffin if we’re ever to laugh well with our friends.
I’m fairly certain that Nikolai will die of the illness he carries. I’m not sure about the course of Levin’s life. I don’t know if the redeemable qualities of Tolstoy’s writings will trace the gospel call to the lost and dying. But one thing I know is that God has used, and will use, the frailty of our frame to remind us of his perfect strength. Deepening wrinkles, graying hairs, and weakening bones will all serve to remind us that this is not our true tent. Business lost, money made and spent, houses built and torn down all stand as a blare horn for our hardened and arrogant hearts. Come, be humbled at your humanness, and live.
