Westminster Abbey is so full of monuments commemorating Britain's famous dead that even by the 19^th Century it was called her "National Valhalla." My favorite monument is a diminutive statue of William Wilberforce, a Christian Member of Parliament who won the abolition of slavery in the British Empire in 1833. But the monument I remember best is my least favorite: carved in cold stone, a skeletal Death, scythe and all, reaches a bony hand upwards to snatch a dying woman from her bed. The monument is grotesque, but worth remembering. It shows death for what it is. Death is monstrous. Death, says St. Paul, is "the last enemy to be destroyed." (1 Cor 15:26)

But, how can you destroy an enemy if you never see it? (It. We always, unfortunately, depersonalize our enemies.) Even were you to tour the Abbey, you might never see the monument. It is stuck against the back wall of the north transept, off the beaten path, and does not appear on any of the countless postcards to be had on your way out. It is rather hidden, in the same manner as the flag-draped coffins that arrive at Andrews Air Force Base. Much more likely, you would see the nearby monument to James Wolfe, slain in the Battle of Quebec in 1759. Here, winged Victory descends to place a crown of laurel. Death appears to be more glorious than monstrous, and the only enemy destroyed is the French.

So why bother to find and face the grotesque monument? Why not try to forget it? Because the consequence of ignoring death -- much less glorifying it -- is that death spreads, just as a cancer that we try to ignore. In a more innocuous form, death becomes the most popular fare for television drama and video games, where we can enjoy the illusion of controlling that which we're trying to minimize. In more sinister forms, it becomes a doctor's prescription for those who are suffering physical pain or emotional anguish; a state's solution for overcrowded and expensive prisons; a proliferation of handguns for supposed protection; an acceptable resolution of conflict between races and tribes and nations, even to the point of genocide; a ready recourse in lieu of diplomacy; an ever-escalating and widening cycle of violence. Death is spreading.

Hiding the grotesque monument somewhere behind James Wolfe's to keep Westminster Abbey a National Valhalla ought to have alarmed Christians long ago. The Church has maybe become an unwitting collaborator with those who try to reconcile the world to death, who treat death more as a friend than as the enemy. The Easter Gospel -- the Christian Faith -- is not that death doesn't matter. It does matter. It matters as something to be opposed rather than ignored, forgotten, or glorified. We had better take notice that it's monstrous, before it needlessly snatches us or one of our loved ones. (And hopefully, our loved ones include a very wide circle of neighbors.)

Still, I advocate the diminutive statue of William Wilberforce to be our favorite monument in Westminster Abbey. In his successful effort to end slavery, Wilberforce faced the power of sin and death. His is not as striking as Wolfe's monument, but now that a nation is again glorifying death and vilifying the French in a contest for empire, it's much to be preferred as a Christian witness.