While he had had a good report from his annual physical in the spring, his loss of weight during the early weeks of the summer made him look even thinner than his normal wiry self. His wife Vivian, a wonderful cook, tried to entice him into eating a variety of specially prepared meals, but he said he had no appetite.
In late July, she took him to one of Atlanta’s best restaurants hoping that it might encourage his appetite, but he only ate a little and the next day complained of discomfort that sent him to his family physician. A mass was found, tests were ordered, and a tumor was identified. Shirley was sent to an oncologist. He had, the doctor said, a virulent form of cancer.
Tom Guthrie, in the midst of a dissertation at the University of Chicago, came home to be with his father and mother. As news of Shirley’s cancer spread, friends and former students began to respond in numbers that almost overwhelmed Vivian and Tom. With the encouragement of Shirley’s colleague and close friend George Stroup, Vivian had friends to answer the phone at their home—a thoughtful arrangement that gave friends an opportunity “to do something.” After a few weeks into the treatment, Tom left for a quick visit to Chicago.
Vivian asked if I would help take Shirley to an appointment with his oncologist. They asked me to go with them into the examination room. The nurse was clearly concerned with the test results. The doctor, a young man, came into the room. He was kind, professional, and to the point. The chemotherapy would have to stop—he recommended home hospice care. When he left the room, Vivian and I were weeping. I asked if they would like some time alone. No, they said, that will come later. “I am not afraid to die,” said Shirley. “God gives us our life, and when our time comes to die, we give our life back to God. In life and in death we belong to God.” Shirley and Vivian spoke to one another with love and deep tenderness. We had a prayer together.
In this way, Shirley began his last days of teaching. On several occasions he said to different friends who were visiting: “The Christian life has forgiveness at its heart.” And to one close friend, with whom he had had many a contentious argument, he said: “Weren’t we stupid to argue like that. We wasted time doing things that were not important.” But then he added: “But isn’t it good that we loved so much that we are grieving.” When one friend of many years began to weep, he said: “Don’t cry so hard. We are going to be together again.” And he confessed: “When I was teaching, I did not always know if it was true—what I was saying about heaven—but now I know its truth.” When another friend noted that he seemed to be at peace, he responded: “Yes, and the peace is bigger than I imagined.” His pastors Scott Black Johnston and Buddy Ennis brought communion to him, which was celebrated with several friends. Before the service, “Guthrie stories” were told and there was much laughter. Then Shirley said in his typical fashion: “This is not about me but about the Gospel.” “Yes,” said George Stroup, “but it is alright for us to cry.” When the service was over, Shirley said: “Never has the Lord’s Supper meant more to me.”
As he grew weaker, Vivian and Tom gave Shirley—both day and night—strong, loving care. Shirley responded with deep gratitude and expressions of abiding love. He asked to see Eberhard Busch, a friend from Shirley’s days in Basel. Eberhard, who was spending the fall term at Columbia, had been with Barth during his last illness, and Shirley wanted to talk about how Barth had faced his own death. Eberhard spoke of Barth’s resistance to death until death drew near. “When death approaches,” whispered Shirley, “we give our life back to God.” “Yes,” responded Eberhard, “and God gives us the grace to do so.” “Yes!” said Shirley with his old, familiar smile.
ERSKINE CLARKE is Professor of American Religious History at Columbia Theological Seminary.
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