“When I am in a serious Humour I very often walk by my self in Westminster Abbey; where the Gloominess of the place, and the Use to which it is applied, with the Solemnity of the Building, and the Condition of the People who lye in it, are apt to fill the Mind with a kind of Melancholy, or rather Thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable.” (Addison, Spectator 26)
For being occupied by the people I had considered to be something beyond human since I first began to have any conception of England, it was a lot less glamorous than I expected. My first impression fixated on the clutter. How could the monolithic structure housing the most famous of British figures feel unorganized? The randomness of the sepulchers confused any sense of sanctity I may have managed to acquire as I wandered aimlessly. The click of fellow tourists’ cameras and the echoed mumbles of constant chatter stole the respectful silence that should have attended the resting places of dead. There was no peace, there was no contemplation. There was no honor, it seemed, in the place that had, for me and for a nation, so long been the symbol of honor itself.
At some point I realized, to my horror, that many of the stones upon which I walked had once portrayed the engraved name of some now-unknown Englishman whose body was buried somewhere beneath my feet. Over centuries, even a place among the most recognized of figures and a headstone with an inscription in granite could not preserve their identity or achievements. Even here the fame faded. Even here, accomplishments passed away from memory, lives fell into forgetfulness. Monuments collected dust in back corners, inscriptions wore away, most names were skipped over on the way to the graves of the small percentage still remembered. I also came to realize by the flashy monuments and inscriptions that many of those represented in white marble were only present among the others because they had acquired enough wealth, if not recognition, to place themselves where they thought they ought to go. Fame set in stone not only wore away or passed underfoot unnoticed, but it could also be seen to deceive, bringing to doubt the lives of all those interred within Westminster Abbey.
The irony in reading a reflection similar to my own from an Englishman living nearly three hundred years before myself struck the message I learned from Westminster Abbey even closer to my heart. I wonder if Addison would have felt the irony of his words as strongly as me if he knew that his thoughts would be contemplated again by a female American college student who wants to be a writer like himself. I also wonder if he would take as offense or compliment the fact that I expected him to be interred in Westminster Abbey when I made my visit there. Addison himself is now among the honored. His work can be found in anthologies along with the pieces of some of those writers whose memories are extended by an inscription in the Abbey. He has become like one of the figures on whose tombs he reflected so long ago. The irony of our mirrored reflections comes in the repetition of ideas throughout centuries, themes restated by male and female, young and old, famous and infamous alike. A few in every generation consider the nature of fame, honor, and death. Addison was one such person in his time, I am one in my own. It is God’s joke in our lives that, truly, nothing is new under the sun.
A second ironic commonality between us, separated by time and distance and gender and cultures, is that we both felt the need to record such thoughts in writing for others to consider. I wonder if Addison found reason for writing in the same observation as I did: I was alone among a crowd of tourists while contemplating the hope offered by those inscriptions pointing to something beyond the fame and honor that this world can give. While for me the chiseled words “My Redeemer Lives” and “All for the Glory of God” offered some hope in contrast to those stones whose inscriptions had been worn away by uncaring feet, I saw no one in the same quiet meditation as myself. Focus fixated on the most famous and recognizable names. No one seemed to consider their own mortality as they strolled through a building whose residents they would soon resemble as they turned to dust. No one seemed to care about hope after death; the only names noticed were those that offered hope of achievement in life. Even the courtesy they offered was superficial and fleeting, consisting of only fuzzy digital photographs of the names written in stone on the floors and walls. To me, this absence of introspection provided an image of the way today’s world approaches questions of immortality. Instead of looking to a greater power than themselves, many frantically look for others that can prove to them that some sort of immortality through memory can be grasped through fame.
Addison addresses my observation when he concludes his reflection with a reminder that death is the great equalizer. No matter how much fame, honor, respect, or glory we acquire, our bodies end up as soil, indistinguishable from someone who received not even a moment of recognition in their entire lifetime. If he were to clarify, it could be said that death is the equalizer of actions. Honor achieved in life does not cause one to decompose slower or to continue on to honor the dirt into which one disintegrates. As Addison notes, feuds no longer matter, deeds are forgotten, and issues become outdated. Death does not eliminate all distinctions, however. Death does not equalize, but rather reveals, the motivations and hopes behind those actions. The hope of the inscriptions professing God attest to the revelation that death provides after it has erased the importance of achievements. Death shows us that it does not matter so much as to what you do, but rather for whom you do it. If your motivation is the praise of men, then your hope dies when men forget your name. If you work for the praise of One who will not forget and who will not fail to reward, then you have reason to hope even in the face of death’s ultimate obscurity. No fear of death can touch the hope of true immortality when one is preserved by Someone who will never fade away.
I do not miss the irony for myself. Perhaps if I do become a writer someday, as well known as Addison or not, someone will read this reflection. Perhaps some other person who has shared my thoughts will rewrite them again for a new generation to consider the nature of true immortality. I only pray that I remember the lesson of Addison and Westminster Abbey, that true hope in the eternal comes from who I serve, not what I do. Other people cannot grant me immortality because they inevitably forget and will pass into forgetfulness themselves. The one who contemplates becomes the figure after death that inspires contemplation, and so the story of human history continues. I know, however, that no matter my achievements, I will not be forgotten or allowed to fade into obscurity. I am remembered not for what I have done or will do, but for the very fact that I have been given the capability to do anything at all by the One who will never forget my name.
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