All the Souls
By Rev. Terry A. Davis
Delivered at Northwest Unitarian Universalist Congregation on October 28, 2012
This time of year is one where reminders of loss and change seem to be all around us. Leaves are changing from green to gold to brown, and are falling off the trees. Warmer weather in this part of the country begins to pass away, and the nighttime air grows chilly. As the Earth’s North Pole continues to tilt away from the sun these coming weeks and months, those of us living in the Northern Hemisphere will experience a loss of daylight. Some of us may even find ourselves living almost exclusively by artificial light, as we leave for work before the sun comes up and find ourselves returning home to an early and dark evening.
It’s also this time of year that some of us – particularly members of the smaller set – enjoy celebrating Halloween, also more formally known as All Hallow’s Evening, or All Hallow’s Eve.
This holiday is Christian in origin, as it refers to the eve of All Saints Day (which was introduced in the year 609 and is held on November 1) and All Souls Day (which is celebrated on November 2). It was a time for honoring the saints and for praying for the recently departed whose souls had not yet entered heaven.[i]
A practice several centuries later known as “souling” – which involved baking cakes and sharing them with groups of children and poor persons who came door-to-door to collect them on behalf of souls suffering in Purgatory – is thought to be the origin of trick-or-treating.[ii]
Yet while All Hallow’s Evening comes out of the Christian tradition, it is also a holiday that historically was heavily influenced by harvest festivals and pagan festivals for the dead. In particular, some associate All Hallow’s Evening with the Celtic festival known as Samhain[iii].
Samhain marked the end of the harvest season and a time for preparing for the colder and darker days of winter ahead. It was a time when it was believed that the Otherworld opened its doors and the souls living there could leave and revisit their homes. Friendly spirits were warmly welcomed by family and friends with feasts and special places set for them at the family dinner table. Harmful or evil spirits . . . well, these weren’t so warmly welcomed . . . which some believe explains the origin of wearing Halloween costumes: it was a way to disguise oneself and not be discovered by the evil spirits and fairies lurking about.[iv]
As our Unitarian Universalist tradition recognizes Christianity and earth-based spirituality as two sources of our faith . . . and with Halloween’s rich history as a time to honor both saints and souls . . . it seemed fitting this morning to take a moment to do just that. As we conclude our month of examining the theme of seasons, transitions and loss, I invite us to consider those saints who have been a part of our lives . . . those persons who have exemplified our highest ideals and who have modeled for us the very best of human nature. I also invite us to consider those souls we have lost . . . persons we have known and loved or have admired who have died . . . persons whose intellect and whose kindness continue to influence our lives . . . persons who will live on in our memories, in our hearts, and through their contributions to society.
Saints and souls are not terms used frequently in Unitarian Universalism, and we are likely to have different understandings of them. Yet, perhaps we might all agree that they are references to those whom we hold deep in our hearts and high in our esteem.
We may ascribe to saints a certain degree of holiness . . . or a large degree of specialness. For some, saints may be understood as persons nearer than the rest of us to God. For others, a saint may be a person more able than the rest of us to live a virtue-centered life.
As noble as sainthood may be, however, pursuing a virtue-centered life is not for everyone. Songwriter Billy Joel wrote, “I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints. The sinners are much more fun.”[v] Joel’s song suggests that saints are tiresome . . . they’re persons who can be too serious – maybe even sanctimonious – and who don’t know how to enjoy life.
Maybe so. But on a very serious note, it seems to me that those who do choose to live a life dedicated to promoting the highest standards of human decency often endanger their lives by doing so.
A recent example of this can be found in the story of Malala Yousafzai, the 15-year-old Pakistani girl who, three weeks ago on her way home from school, was nearly assassinated for her outspoken advocacy of the right of all girls living in her country to seek an education. In considering Malala’s heroic young life, we might consider that a saint is someone who has the courage to bear the truth, no matter what the risk. As Unitarian Universalists, we stand with Malala and other truth-bearing saints who take life-threatening risks to uphold the principle that all persons have inherent worth and dignity.
In addition to honoring saints today, our recognition of All Hallow’s Eve is also about remembering beloved souls . . . those persons we have loved and who have died. I feel certain that every person here today has a connection to someone who has died, because death is an unavoidable part of life.
In considering the emotional pain we often encounter with the death of a loved one, I’d like to begin by revisiting the line from the Christian scripture quoted by Doyle in his reflection is from the Apostle Paul. The full text reads:
Death has been swallowed up in victory.
Where, O death, is your victory.
Where, O death, is your sting?[vi]
Paul believed that death held no victory because – while a believer’s physical body would perish – the imperishable spiritual body would be released to embark upon its everlasting life. Paul compares this change to a bare seed which, upon being buried into the ground, dies to release the life of the stalk of wheat within.
For those of us who believe that some form of life continues after physical death, we may derive meaning and comfort from Paul’s words – metaphorically if not literally. However, for others, it may be Doyle’s words that it is love – not everlasting life – that conquerors death and enables us to find peace. Doyle borrows from the Greek myth of Orfeo and Euridice and from his own personal life to illustrate the point that love may be able to rescue us from loss by comforting us as we grieve.
Doyle’s account of acknowledging the grief of his father’s friend – as well as recognizing his own sadness for the father he lost and the grandson he never had – is a moving reminder that death intimately connects us with those parts of ourselves that are in need of healing and in need of holding.
In my own life, I have lost friends and family, young and old. Our dear neighbor Michael died suddenly two years’ ago at the age of 54 in what was an apparent heart attack. A vibrant and talented colleague in his thirties named Sean, who was a friend and fellow activist for LGBT rights, took his own life five years ago, tormented by his inability to kick his addiction to crystal methamphetamine.
As the maternity center chaplain at Emory Hospital, I can also recall those heartbreaking times when I was with a young mother whose unborn fetus had died before delivery or whose newborn died after delivery in the NICU. There were several occasions when a grieving mother asked me to conduct a memorial service. I remember one service in particular that was held in our tiny hospital chapel. It was overflowing with family and friends as the mother courageously and tenderly held her baby, who was wrapped in a soft white blanket. The young father stood next to her, his face stiff with grief. I couldn’t begin to imagine how much he was crying on the inside.
There have been other deaths in my life that were painful, but perhaps a little easier to handle. There was my congregant Ray, whom I wrote about in this week’s newsletter, who died at the age of 99. There was my Aunt Sissy, a feisty schoolteacher and independent spirit, who died at 94. And, there was my wonderful friend Helen, who suffered from congestive heart failure and declining heath for several years, and who eventually passed away peacefully at the age of 83. Just two months before her death, we had lunch at the restaurant at the culinary arts school Le Cordon Bleu to celebrate her birthday. Helen had lived in Paris as a young girl and had always dreamed of returning again for a visit. She insisted on treating me to lunch on her birthday, and she took great pleasure in ordering our courses entirely in French.
The most recent and perhaps among the most significant deaths in my life were the deaths of Gail’s parents, both of whom died three years ago this November. Buddy and Geneva Hyde were almost a generation older than my own parents – but not quite – so while I affectionately referred to them as “Mom and Dad,” there were times when they felt more like grandparents to me.
Gail’s parents were Depression-era children, and they brought a frugality to their way of living that could be maddening at times. Dad, for example, refused to buy anything new if he could get it cheap or free. This included furniture, appliances, gardening tools, and so on.
His favorites seemed to be those purchases that required repairs. And so his home and garage were filled with busted Dust Busters®, worn-out weed wackers, broken-down bicycles, conked-out Coo-coo clocks, and other non-functioning items. Once restored back to working condition, Dad generally gave away the finished product, as the fun was in the fixing rather that in the using.
Mom was the family glue . . . the one who insisted we all get together for every birthday, major holiday, or other significant event . . . and took all the photos to document those occasions. Our gatherings, which included Gail and me, and Gail’s brother’s family, were nothing fancy . . . usually a dinner of grilled ribs, southern-cooked vegetables, and Mom’s pineapple Jello® mold, followed by just hanging out in the living room together and talking.
Her parents, in my opinion, had perfected the art of hanging out. They knew the importance of just being together without a particular agenda. I believe Mom and Dad knew that memories of these do-nothing times would be the ones that would hold us long after their deaths, just as they had been held by memories of doing the same with their parents and siblings all those years ago when they lived in Florida. I think Gail would agree that those long, pleasant chats on Sunday afternoons are one of the things we miss the most.
Gail’s parents were in their early eighties when they died, just three weeks’ apart. Dad, who for years suffered from congestive heart failure, went first . . . quickly and in the hospital with Gail & her brother David at his side. Gail’s mother’s death was the slow and heart-wrenching descent that is Alzheimer’s disease . . . a disease that took her from us bit by bit, first cognitively, and then physically.
Throughout it all, Mom amazingly remembered who we were and was able to express her affection. Even in her final days when she had lost the ability to speak, Mom continued to rub Gail’s hand as she held it. On the day of her death, nearly all of us were gathered in her room at the residential hospice center. We were all together, exactly as she would have wanted it to be.
I think Doyle had it right when he said that love conquers death. While I miss Gail’s parents very much, I also feel extremely fortunate that I was loved by them . . . it’s the memory of their love that lessens the pain of my loss. They accepted my relationship with Gail right from the start, an unconditional acceptance that I will always treasure. They weren’t perfect people, and would likely not meet the qualifications for sainthood that we considered earlier. However, they were perfectly human . . . and in their perfect humanness they taught me the power of family and the importance of making time to be together.
As we move into our ritual of remembrance today, my hope for each of you is that the love you have shared with those you have lost continue to guide and sustain you. And, if our hearts still feel broken, may we be grateful for them today, for they remind us that we were people who mattered to people who mattered to us.
And, may we remember that grief has its own timetable . . . and that we can trust that our healing process will find its own and sure footing.
May it be so. Amen.