This text has been translated with DeepL (www.deepl.com).

Stefan Kahle

Death. It is always around us, always within us. And now, almost every day, we find ourselves bombarded by reports of danger and disaster on the news channels, which – much like the opening Bible verse of the cantata – hang menacingly over us. War in Europe, a global political landscape that seems to defy every attempt at prediction, and a shift in social relations that seeks to destabilise them ever further …

Dying is clearly situated on the side of life, on the boundary that lies between death and life. For dying is a process, it is change, transformation. Death in the biological and medical sense, on the other hand, is a state. Dying is inevitable for each of us; we are all finite. And yet most of us find it difficult to talk about it.

Even when confronted with death in films, books or, as in this cantata today, it remains somehow abstract. It may move us, prompting reflection on the losses we have already experienced. But do our thoughts ever cross the threshold into our own mortality? Unfortunately, only rarely.

For our society is not designed for that. Everything is meant to endure; everyone is meant to rise above their own horizons, to achieve. Each ‘I’ increasingly becomes the seemingly inexhaustible measure of all things. Death simply does not fit into this picture at all.

In his cantata ‘Denn sie werden euch in den Bann tun’ (For they will put you under a ban) from 1725 (the second based on this text), Bach manages to clothe the inner journey of the self in the face of impending doom in such accessible music, thereby creating a kind of comforting dialogue with one’s own mortality – a dialogue that flashes through so many of his works and constantly seeks anew to relieve the listener of the fear of confronting one’s own death and mortality. For in today’s cantata it becomes abundantly clear that engaging with death is not about renouncing life and all that it means to each and every one of us – on the contrary. This is also audible in every one of the movements.

Even in the tenor’s aria, which lyrically comes across as wonderfully defiant and unabashed – like a spontaneous rebuttal of the preceding monstrous Bible verse from the Gospel of John – a very different emotional world is nevertheless depicted musically. And in doing so, it undermines any seemingly heroic, yet in its impulsiveness hollow, martyrdom.

I have no fear of death’s dread terror,
I shudder not at misery.

Since Jesus’ arm will guard me safely
I’ll follow glad and willingly;
Would ye deny my life protection
And think God thus your service do,
He shall himself at last reward you,
So good, with this I’ll be content.

The aria is less resolute in tone; rather, one can hear in it a clinging to life. However strong, self-assured and convinced the text of the aria may seem, Bach nevertheless turns it into almost a kind of mantra through the numerous repetitions and the long, sometimes entangled phrases between the tenor voice and the cello piccolo – a mantra which the ‘I’ must recite to itself again and again in an attempt to fill the resolute words with their inherent power.

The impending doom can only be accepted by turning to and drawing strength from faith, so the cantata tells us. We can rely on the higher power that protects and sustains us. It is particularly through this that Bach, from his perspective firmly anchored in faith, demonstrates that accepting death is not a struggle in itself – rather, it is a process of negotiation.

Like the reflection that follows a deep breath, the alto recitative then seems to give one’s own thoughts the necessary stability to truly become aware of the source of one’s own strength. This deep breath, this overcoming of doubts, of worries and perhaps also of guilt, ultimately makes it possible to let the liberating feeling of letting go shine through amidst all that which appears so heavy. Just as in the soprano aria, in which the ‘I’, buoyed by the certainty of that higher power, finds an almost spirited way of dealing with the prophecy of the biblical text. Moments in which one is at peace with oneself and turns, almost light-footed, towards the approaching end.

As a funeral director, one witnesses each of these phases during pre-arrangement consultations: from reassurance and struggle, to negotiation, and also inner peace. From the first tentative steps of coming to terms with one’s own death and funeral, right through to completely candid ideas and wishes regarding how one might wish to arrange one’s own funeral.

How each individual arrives at this openness varies completely from person to person. If it is not faith, then it may be the environment one has created for oneself, the beautiful, cosy home that offers a sense of security and is a true home. The fulfilment of a long-cherished dream, or simply the people who are there for you when your own strength wanes.

Yes, as they face death, people seek support from their fellow human beings, yet sometimes it is precisely this search for support that makes talking all the more difficult: about one’s own fears and worries regarding what may come after death, how the signs of dying manifest themselves within one, or what burden one is placing on one’s loved ones. Perhaps another illustration:

In the hospital. A young doctor goes on his rounds to see an elderly woman who has been receiving inpatient care for some time. Cancer has been a recurring visitor over the past few years. Outside the ward door, he meets the patient’s husband, who is pacing thoughtfully up and down the corridor. The doctor realises he is already expected: ‘Doctor, I can sense it in my wife. She is dying; I can feel it. But please don’t tell her that. She should enjoy the time she has left and spend it carefree. As long as I can prepare myself and then make all the necessary arrangements, that is enough.’

Somewhat taken aback, but reassuring the man, the doctor continues on, carefully opens the door to the ward, goes inside and turns to the woman. Alone with her, he studies the file and examines her. Yes, death has already crept into her room. Her heart is beating only weakly. Her breathing is shallow. A soft, barely perceptible rattling accompanies every breath. Her hands and feet are cold, for the heart now supplies only the vital organs, as it no longer has the strength to pump blood through the whole body. The first parts of the body to be cut off from this supply are the extremities. For they are, so to speak, a luxury, and there is no energy left for them. It is a matter of staying alive.

As he moves the stethoscope across the patient’s back, listening to the faint rattling in her lungs, the woman sighs: ‘Oh, Doctor, you don’t need to say a word. I can feel it’s coming to an end. I don’t want to fight any more, either. It’s been a lovely long life, sixty-five years of marriage and more than enough happiness in that time. But Doctor, please don’t tell my husband! He wouldn’t be able to cope with it, and in these final days of mine, I’d like to remember him unclouded as the man who has given me so much joy over all these years. If he knew, then everything would just revolve around the end.” This episode stays with the doctor for quite some time, and when he leaves the clinic at the end of the day, he takes both promises, kept, with him.

As in this story – which is often shared, in this or a similar form, as a thought experiment with aspiring end-of-life and bereavement counsellors – dying today usually takes place in private. In hospitals, care homes or hospices. The reasons for this change lie primarily in the extremely rapid urbanisation and the wartime experiences of the last century, when the seriously wounded suddenly flooded the hospitals.

There was neither the time nor the capacity to bring the dying back to their home environment for their final journey, to continue the old customs that not only prepared families for the death of their relatives, but could also carry them through the first hours or even days following the passing.

Frequently changed hot compresses, for example, and the accompanying washing of the dying to repeatedly stimulate circulation and prevent bedsores in bedridden patients, certainly offered moments of profound exchange between some parent-child generations, but also of a very conscious perception of death with all the senses: the skin turning pale; the gaze that is increasingly unable to follow what is happening; the moments of wakefulness that give way more and more to deep sleep; and, not least, the smell that subliminally heralds the end.

What began as a necessary solution, however, continued to form the basis of our present-day approach to dying and mourning even after the war ended. That, and the emergence of capitalism – which today shapes a large part of our social interactions – have ensured that, above all, the way we deal with grief is often outsourced and suppressed. For grief paralyses. Grief does not produce results. Grief seemingly means stagnation. In a world that all too often strives for the greatest possible profit, there is no room for that.

But grief is not just any feeling. Grief is – much like the deep-breathing, contemplative old recitative in the cantata – the breathing space that everyone should claim for themselves in order to come to terms with the loss they have experienced. It is the solution, not the problem. Grief is a pause in one’s own existence from which, if consciously lived through, one can shape one’s daily life with new images and organised memories, perhaps even emerging from it with renewed strength.

Many bereaved relatives are now able to find this pause through newly discovered rituals during the funeral process. Through a conscious farewell to the deceased whilst still at home or in a care home, naturally within the timeframe prescribed by law, which in Germany is between one and two days, by painting the coffin and designing the urn, or perhaps even by writing a funeral diary in which one notes every step planned and experienced together with one’s funeral director, and which is placed in the grave at the burial or interment; thereby freeing oneself somewhat from this path at the graveside.

But not everyone finds the necessary peace, strength or courage during this time. After all, the period leading up to the burial or interment of the urn is also associated with an endless number of decisions, tasks and deadlines. In Saxony, for example, a burial must take place within fourteen days. If, as a relative, you had the opportunity beforehand to ask about some of the wishes and ideas, have the necessary documents already well organised and ready, and were perhaps able to prepare yourself for the death in some way through a longer period of care, this may be intense but manageable.

But as soon as the overwhelming nature of the unpredictable is added to this organisation: where is there then any room left to process it all? The fact is: sooner or later, grief always finds its space. For several years now, guided grief counselling has therefore become increasingly important and widespread, because human beings are simply not designed to suppress feelings of loss and fear, and eventually they stumble. It is not uncommon for the decision to seek help to come only months or even years after the initial trigger of grief. Even if, as is possible in Switzerland, one takes the urn home after cremation, this constant proximity to the deceased can also lead to inner conflicts, which can be worked through in grief counselling.

Everyone grieves differently and needs different things or small rituals to cope with the loss they have experienced and to find a way to let go. The most important thing, however, is that we all find the courage in our daily interactions to acknowledge the feelings and physical reactions that grief triggers in us, and to talk about them. That we discuss the subject of our own mortality with those who are important to us, exchange wishes and build closeness through this. For as mentioned at the outset: death is always around us in one way or another, and it is time that we accept this fact and set aside the narrative surrounding the great taboo subject of death and dying.

When we turn to the works of Johann Sebastian Bach – particularly cantatas such as today’s – we repeatedly bear witness, in a wonderful way, to the deep comfort and peace that lie within all that which seems so heavy. ––– Thank you.