Famous Last Words (Literally)

By Michael A. Schuler

August 17, 2023

   In his engaging book, Being Mortal, the eminent Americans surgeon and essayist, Atul Gawande tells us that in earlier centuries an abundance of resources were available to instruct people in ars moriendi – Latin for“the art of dying.”  One popular and definitive guide went through over 100 editions, attesting to the importance our forebears assigned to “dying well.”

    This would certainly entail “putting one’s affairs in order,” as we say today, but mostly it had to do with the psychological and behavioral issues that typically arise at the end of life.  It was considered of the utmost importance to approach one’s final exit stoically, free from the fetters of earthly desire and without obvious mental and emotional distress.  “These guides,” Gawande writes, “provided families with prayers and questions for the dying in order to put them in the right frame of mind during their last hours.”

    And, he continues, loved ones would hover near the bedside while life was ebbing away, attending closely to any words that might cross the dying person’s lips.  These last communications with the living, it was believed, might be heavy with potential meaning.

    For the importance ascribed to last words, one need look no farther than the Bible.  A goodly portion of each of the four Gospels concentrates on Jesus’ final days and hours, which culminate with the crucifixion itself.  While none of the gospel writers witnessed Jesus’ execution, each claimed to have known what he said before his strength gave out.  Nevertheless, they differ among themselves. 

     According to Luke, after reassuring a penitent thief suspended beside him that a place will be reserved for him in heaven, Jesus himself expires with a loud cry: “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”  In John’stelling, Jesus sips on a sponge saturated with vinegar – an offer he declined in the other three gospels – and then murmurs quietly, “It is finished.”

    The Jesus of Mark and Matthew’s gospels is much more desolate, in the throes of physical and emotional agony.  In both these accounts he cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Before giving up the ghost. 

     How does one account for such unexpected discrepencies?  It helps to remember that no one attending the event at Golgotha was taking notes, and that the Romans kept no detailed records of the thousands of crucifixions they administered during their lengthy occupation of Palestine.  In fact, throughout the Gospels we encounter conversations and declarations whose provenance is murky at best.  Who was eavesdropping when Jesus prayed alone in the Garden of Gethsemane while his disciples slept peacefully some distance away?  How did a transcript of Jesus’ private audience with Pilate reach his followers after the arrest?

     In cases like these – and probably many others – “inspired” writers attributed sentiments to Jesus that they felt were in keeping with their understanding of who he was and what he represented.  In the case of his “last words” each of the Gospel writers was “inspired” to create statements that made the most sense to them. 

     But truth be told, none of Jesus’ pithy last words were, in fact, wholly original.  Each one would have been familiar to anyone with a basic knowledge of Jewish scripture.  “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me,” is a direct quote from Psalm 22, as are the words of those who mock Jesus as he hangs on the cross.  Luke’slast words are also lifted from the Psalms, and John’s “It is finished” echoes a passage from the book of Job.  In the absence of legal restraints, no one was much concerned with plagiarism in those days.

    From a theological standpoint, these individual choices may be significant.  Mark and Matthew probably wanted to emphasize Jesus’ full humanity, and to underscore his undeserved suffering on humankind’s behalf.  The cry, “Why have you forsaken me?” would have served as a rebuke to those, like the Gnostics, who doubted that Jesus possessed a human, as well as a divine nature.  According to orthodox thinking, both are necessary for our redemption.

     Throughout Luke’s gospel, the emphasis is on God’s compassion and sensitivity to the plight of the downtrodden.  It is no accident that Luke’s Jesus is the only one who responds to the thief hanging beside him with kindness and reassurance.  He rewards the man’s trust in him with a promise of salvation.  Jesus’ own last words are consistent with those with which he comforted the thief: “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit” is a final demonstration of ultimate trust.

    John is the gospel writer who is most invested in the idea that Jesus has been a part of God’s mysterious plan from his original act of creation. “In the beginning was the word, and the word became flesh and dwelt among us.”  What we are dealing with here is the unfolding of a preordained story of fall and redemption that consummates with Jesus’ death: “It (the divine plan) is finished.”

    The last card in God’s hand has now been played and the death-dealing devil’s designs have been thwarted.  Jesus always knew what fate lay in store, and while he sometimes struggled with his commission in the other three gospels, John depicts a figure who is always in control, always sure of his calling. “It is finished” conveys neither uncertainty nor trust, but a sense of accomplishment.  It is not just Jesus, but God himself, who is speaking here. 

    But Christianity isn’t the only major religion that has placed significant emphasis on “last words.”  In one of her poems Mary Oliver references the Buddha’s final declaration: “Make yourself a light,” he is reputed to have said.  But as with the Gospels, we do not know for certain what Buddha’s last utterance was, as no written records of his teachings existed for at least two hundred more years.   

    Moreover, some of the acts and sayings attributed to the Buddha during his last days and hours seems “out of harmony with each other,” A.E. Burtt tells us. It isn’t easy, even for experts in Eastern religion, to make an accurate determination of which words most truly reflect the Buddha’s farewell teaching.

    Several sources do seem to indicate that something resembling “Make yourself a light” did come closest to what the Buddha might have imparted.  In one early sutra, the sick and dying Buddha addresses his most accomplished disciple, Ananda:

Therefore, O Ananda, be ye lamps unto yourselves.  Rely on yourselves, and do not rely on external help.  Hold fast to the truth of the lamp.  Seek salvation alone in the truth.  Look not for assistance to anyone besides yourself. 

   These words, as some of you may realize, are paraphrased in the lyrics of a popular Unitarian Universalist hymn.  They underscore the importance of first-hand experience rather than information and insight gained from secondary sources.  Before accepting any truth-claim as valid, we must test and measure it to determine its practical utility.  In effect, the Buddha was saying, “Don’t expect anyone else – a savior, redeemer, or whoever – to do this work for you.  Enlightenment and liberation are always the fruit of individual enterprise and persistence.”  

     As was true for the gospels, however, there was yet another end-of-life statement that later writers ascribed to the Buddha.  It, too, was consistent with his life’s work and philosophy: “All things pass away,” he said.  Therefore, seek your liberation with diligence.”

     There is a certain consistency in these differently phrased statements.  In each instance, the Buddha felt that he needed to prepare his grief-stricken followers for his final exit.  He reminds them of the central Buddhist tenet of impermanence, to which even he is subject.  And he insists that they do not need him as a physical presence anymore.  “Let the dharma and the discipline I have taught you be your teacher when I am gone,” he told those gathered around him a few moments earlier.

   For both the Buddha and for another ancient Axial figure – Socrates – these “last words” could well be said to represent the encapsulation of a lifetime of thought and teaching.  But the context in which they are delivered is also important.  What do we make of the deportment of these two men in their last hours?  How did they believe one should one act as death approaches?  Both the Buddha and Socrates have been held up as models of acceptance, peace, realism, and graciousness.  

     In his disciple Plato’s recounting of Socrates last hour, his teacher brushes off his followers’ pleas that he delay the inevitable.  He gently chides them for their lack of emotional control, and he treats the man who delivers the fatal cup of hemlock with kindness and respect.  With his final words – “Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius” – he wipes the slate clean.  All his debts, including this one to the Greek god of medicine – have now been paid in full.  

    Socrates once remarked that, for him, the ultimate purpose of philosophy was to “practice dying.”  If we spend sufficient time pondering the deepest and most significant questions of existence, we will come to the end of life free from fear and regret – in the proper state of mind to engage the great mystery.

    According to another tradition, the Buddha approached his demise in a manner similar to Socrates, his rough contemporary.  Already eighty years old, weak and sick, Buddha knew the end was near.  He had little desire to eat, but then, one day, a Dalit – a member of the lowly Untouchable cast – came to see him.  His name was Chanda, and this poor man venerated the Buddha and had brought a generous portion of pork and rice for him to enjoy.  But this was food that higher caste Hindus, which included the Buddha and his disciples, normally wouldn’t touch because of who had prepared it. 

    “You really shouldn’t eat this,” his disciples warned.  But Buddha didn’t want Chanda to feel rejected, and so he warmly accepted what was offered.  This would be his last meal, one which did, in fact, hasten his death. After eating, the Buddha lay down under a tree, too weak to sit up any longer.  “Go and tell Chanda that he has been one of my greatest benefactors,” he exclaimed without a trace of irony.  “For with this meal, I am going to Nirvana.”  It was after this expression of heartfelt gratitude that Buddha began the third version of his farewell discourse, saying:

Weep not for me.  Think not of me.  I am gone.  Work out diligently your own salvation. Each one of you is just what I am. I am nothing but one of you.  What I am today is what I made myself.  You must struggle and make yourselves what I am. 

    Then there is an ancient figure named Chuang Tse, one of the most important historical figures in the Chinese Taoist tradition.  Chuang Tse lived during roughly the same time period as Buddha and Socrates, and many legends and sayings, both serious and whimsical, are attributed to this idiosyncratic sage.  As was true for the first two , this account of Chuang Tse’s last words could serve as a distillation of a lifetime of teaching.

    His disciples venerated their teacher, and as he was approaching death, they informed Chuang Tse that they were planning an elaborate funeral celebration to commemorate his life.  But the old sage objected.  “The heavens and the earth will serve me as a coffin and a coffin shell,” he told those who wished to be present for his departure.

The sun and moon and stars will decorate my bier.  All creation will be at hand to witness the event.  What more need I than these?  

   The disciples were quite upset about their master’s intent.  “We’re afraid that carrion kites and crows will eat the body of our master,” they lamented.

    Modeling Taoist simplicity, common sense, and an appreciation for harmony with the natural world, Chuang Tse replied: “Above the ground my flesh will feed the crows and kites.  Below the ground, the ants and cricket moles.  Why rob one to feed the other?”

    Again, we really don’t know whether any of these stories accurately describe what really happened in those early times.  But they have been passed down for centuries for their instructional value, and as a source of inspiration for subsequent generations.  Last words represent a summing-up, one final attempt to drive home an important lesson or, in the case of the Gospels, a crucial theological point.

    Of course, just because they are a person’s “last words” doesn’t guarantee they will be wise, or even meaningful.  In a recent issue of The New Yorker, the classical scholar Mary Beard shared a few choice pieces from the Roman Emperors.  Vespasian is reputed to have said, “An emperor should die on his feet.”  This, Beard writes, seemed accurate since Vespasian was a notorious workaholic who had been doing paperwork and receiving embassies and delegations almost right to the end.

      As for the sadistic emperor Nero, he patted himself on the back while breathing his last: “What an artist is dying,” he said, overestimating his own artistic talents to the very end.

     The great Caesar Augustus requested a mirror and had his hair combed.  He then had some friends brought in and, turning to them, asked “Have I played my part in the comedy of life properly?” He followed up with a couple of lines of verse in Greek: “Since the play has gone down well, give us a clap/ and send us away with applause.”

    In more recent times, both Winston Churchill and the great theoretical physicist Richard Feynman had little to say about their own endings except that they were weary of it all.  “I’d hate to die twice,” Feynmancomplained, “It’s so boring.”  Of course, Feynman might have been implying that life is, or ought to be, an exciting and engaging project for all of us.  If for you it isn’t, try to make it so before it’s too late – which isn’t half bad advice.

   The British writer and bon vivant Oscar Wilde was a master of the one-liner to the end.  Lying on his deathbed he famously observed, “either this wallpaper goes, or I do.”  For his part, when a priest came to Charlie Chaplain’s bedroom and, sitting next to the actor, intoned, “May the Lord have mercy on your soul,”Chaplain replied, “Why not?  After all, it belongs to him.”  

    But for all the importance successive generations have attached to them, it could be argued that we tend to over-estimate the significance of these parting shots.  Doesn’t it make more sense to focus on the words we utter every day, striving to make them more thoughtful, constructive, and sensitive?

    Basho, a 17th century Zen Buddhist monk, and one of Japan’s most celebrated poets, was once told that when the time came, he must compose a death poem, as was customary for an artist of his stature.  Bashodemurred, saying:

Every moment of life is the last, and every poem a death poem.  Why then, at this time, should I write one?  In my last hours I have no poem.

   In any event, Atul Gawande has pointed out that in our own world of modern medicine where those who are dying are often sedated, or intubated, or confused and semi-conscious, a person’s final utterances may be nonsensical or garbled.  “Besides,” Gawande writes, “how do you attend to the thoughts and concerns of the dying when medicine has made it almost impossible to be sure who is dying anymore?”  People may linger for weeks, or suddenly rally for more years of life. 

    Still, I think all of us would prefer that if we were fully conscious and able to leave one last thought with others, it should at least be something affirming – resembling, perhaps, the sentiment Charity Land shared at the end of Wallace Stegner’s novel, Crossing to Safety.  “I say we should be happy and grateful and make the most of life. I’ve had a wonderful run, and I’ve loved every minute of it.”