Severe Mercy

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Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting? (1 Corinthians 15:54b-55, NLT)

My ministry for over 50 years could be summed up as “often in the presence of death.” I’ve been with families losing grandparents, fathers, mothers, teenagers, and infants. Several times a week, I walk around Ferncliff Cemetery for exercise and prayer, where, over the years, I have officiated at over 100 interments.

One book has influenced my understanding of death and been most helpful in my ministry with those passing into glory. It was written in 1977, telling the story of a college professor losing his wife to cancer. 

The book — A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken

Sheldon, a friend of C.S. Lewis, writes about his wife Davy and their last two years together. I’ve read the book several times. My current version is on Kindle, and I’ve highlighted so many quotes that when I open the book, I just see yellow. And I admit, every time I read excerpts from this book, I shed tears.

With only 500 words, I’ll try to tell Sheldon and Davy’s story using the quotes below, with no OG comments from me:

“There were to be grim days ahead, but we faced them together in the co-inherence of our love.”

Then I said, “Davy . . .” She looked at me, and I smiled at her. She smiled back. “Dearling,’ I said, ‘this—this illness—is maybe going to mean our parting—for a while.’”

From this day forward, we never quite lost hope. We didn’t doubt the medical findings, of course, but there are too many inexplicable ‘miraculous’ cures for anyone, including doctors, to suppose that medicine has the last word.”

I had moved her big bed into the living room of our house, and she entertained there like a queen all during the month of August. The incredible thing about the stream of callers was that they came with love to cheer her, and they went away cheered and strengthened.

But if Davy was a tower of strength to everybody else, I was allowed to be, a little, her strength. That is an exaggeration, for her real source of strength was her crucified Lord, and yet, humanly, she leaned on me.

T. S. Eliot in the Four Quartets says what it is to be a Christian: “A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than every-thing).” I might not altogether understand those lines, but for Davy: it was the condition she had attained.

Then Davy prayed. “Oh God, take me.” I knew then with certainty that she understood that she was dying. I said: “Go under the Love, dearling. Go under the Mercy.” She murmured: “Amen.”

As I stood there in that suddenly empty room, I was suddenly swept with a tide of absolute knowing that Davy still was. I do not mean that I thought her body might still live; I knew it didn’t. But past faith and belief, I knew quite overwhelmingly that she herself—her soul—still was. The door opened and the head nurse came in, and I formed the words, “She’s gone.”

Months afterwards, during one sleepless night, drawing on to morning, I was overwhelmed with a sense of cosmos empty of God as well as Davy. ‘All right,’ I muttered to myself. ‘To hell with God. I’m not going to believe this damned rubbish any more. Lies, all lies. I’ve been had.’ Up I sprang and rushed out to the country. This was the end of God. Ha! And then I found I could not reject God. I could not. I cannot explain this.

Okay, back to me, the reason Sheldon couldn’t extinguish his faith in God is a thought that he develops, along with C.S. Lewis, in the closing chapters of the book — a concept called severe mercy. This severe mercy can only be learned when something important, perhaps the most important thing, is lost. 

Will we reject God, or allow his mercy to restore our love for Him? Yes, severe, but also merciful.

To better understand the severe and hopeful mercy of God, I suggest that you read …