“Day of the Dead”

A sermon by Rev. John Gibbons

delivered on Sunday, October 31, 2004

at The First Parish in Bedford, Massachusetts

 

 

Today’s service is one that we seem to be doing annually because it is Halloween and, give or take a day or two, it is also the Mexican Day of the Dead and the pagan Samhain, and for Protestants it is All Soul’s Day, for Catholics it’s All Saints Day, and for our Transylvanian friends tomorrow is their Day of the Dead – Hallotak Napja – when they (and we here also) will place candles and flowers beneath the kopjafák, the memorial poles, the female and male grave markers – and in Transylvania the shimmering light from the cemetery candles can be seen across the valleys from village to village.

 

There are all sorts of nuances to the differing commemorations. The more orthodox venerate the saints of the church; others include saints and everyday people known and unknown; the veil that separates the living from the dead is thought to be thinnest and most transparent at this dying time of the year; and then for others – as in Mexico – the veil drops altogether and the dead return for feasting and drinking. Make a place at the table!

 

The writer Octavio Paz observes that, undaunted, the Mexican has no qualms about getting up close and personal with death, noting that Mexicans “...chase after it, mock it, court it, hug it, sleep with it; it is their favorite plaything and most lasting love.”

 

Others, likely ourselves among them, are more daunted. Death is often daunting, synonyms for which are intimidating, discouraging, and disheartening. Last year, this service concluded with raucous singing of When the Saints Go Marching In. Some even danced in the aisles. But I know that some people did not catch that spirit and they told me so, for perhaps their intimacy with their own or others’ mortality was, well, daunting.

 

There’s a poem by John Stone titled “The Truck” with which many of us may identify.

 

I was coming back from
wherever I’d been when
I saw the truck and
the sign on the back repeated
on the side to be certain
you knew it was no mistake

 

PROGRESS CASKETS
ARTHUR ILLINOIS

 

Now folks have different
thoughts it’s true about
death but in general it’s
not like any race for
example you ever ran
everyone wanting to come in

 

last and all And I admit
a business has to have a good
name No one knows better
than I the value of a good
name A name is what sells
the product in the first

 

and in the final place
All this time the Interstate
was leading me into Atlanta
and I was following the sign
and the truck was heavier
climbing the hill than

 

going down which is as
it should be What I really
wanted to see was the driver
up close maybe talk to him
find out his usual run
so I could keep off it

 

Not that I’m superstitious It’s just
the way I was raised A casket
may be Progress up in Arthur
but it’s thought of
down here
as a setback.

 

I would not have death as our plaything nor our most lasting love, nor would I have us dancing in the aisles (unless we really want to). Nor would I have us substitute sentiment for true and complex feelings. Nor would I have us be haunted, or paralyzed, or tormented by fear. And, yes as the poet says, I suspect that it is nearly inevitable for us to regard death, not as progress, but as something of a setback.

 

And yet, nonetheless, I do believe that there is a way of honoring death as a natural and, sometimes though not always, a welcome part of life for. No matter the circumstances, it is our mortality that sharpens our awareness of this, this sentient moment, this breath, this light that enters our eyes, this elaboration upon our own heart’s beating that is music to our ears.

 

In other more orthodox religious traditions, the attitudes and rituals of death are prescribed. “Here’s what you’re supposed to feel, here’s what you’re supposed to do”. That, for some, is comforting but fortunately or unfortunately, that orthodox approach is not ours. Ours is a tradition of choice.

 

A few weeks ago I described Unitarian Universalism as “our chosen faith” and someone later argued that, to their way of thinking, one cannot choose a faith but that faith chooses us or that faith carries us when we cannot choose. I won’t continue the argument; I may even agree with that observation; but we do have the freedom to choose our behaviors, beliefs and attitudes , including those about death. These choices become our faith and then when there are times we cannot choose, our faith does indeed carry us.

 

I’ll talk about some of these behaviors and beliefs that build a faith.

 

Unitarian Universalists, I’m sure, are not alone in this but it seems to me that our foremost affirmation about death is that it is OK to talk about it. With our children, with our family and friends, with ourselves. Death is not to be denied, not drenched in sentiment, not exaggerated in terror. We also do not need to be sure of our answers. Benjamin Franklin, late in life, was asked his views of an afterlife. “Why speculate?” he responded, “when so soon I will know the answer first hand.”

 

Quite a few years ago, I recall a wonderful evening up there in the Bacon Room with a big group of little kids after one of their mothers had died. They shared great stories; they asked great questions. “Will I catch the cancer and die?” It was OK to talk about it, OK for kids and OK for adults. In fact, it seems harder for adults than it is for kids because, I guess, we’re supposed to be so much smarter. In the most awful of situations, I can’t tell you how many smart people don’t know what to say or do when the smart thing is to say, “I don’t know what to say or do but I am here with you in this awful situation.”

 

Harold Kushner tells the story of the child who tells his parent, “I helped my friend today when he fell and wrecked his bicycle.” “But you don’t know anything about bicycle repair,” the parent says. To which the child responds, “You’re right. I sat on the curb and, with my friend, I cried. And that helped.”

 

The smartest people, of course, are doctors and Sylvia suggested a story – told originally by therapist Rachel Naomi Remen – that also illustrates our innate wisdom of what to do.

 

Sylvia Stocker:

 

This reading comes from “Kitchen Table Wisdom,” by Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen.

 

“Several years ago, I was invited to give a talk about my work with people with cancer to a group of women physicians at a local meeting of the American Women’s Association. In the discussion after the talk, an internist commented that she would find this work difficult. She had avoided caring for people with cancer because a certain percentage of them would die and she found it upsetting to care for dying patients. ‘I hate it when I’ve run out of treatments, when there is nothing more I can do,’ she confessed. Others in the group nodded their agreement.

 

“I asked them when they first became uncomfortable in these situations. The women were surprised to notice that they had not been as uncomfortable before medical school. As the discussion went on, it became clearer that we were more uncomfortable in these situations as doctors than as women. As women, we knew there was something simple and natural in just being there, together. Slowly, some insights emerged. Women have always been present at these times, at death and birth and in many of the other transitions in life. Women have gathered at the transitions, as comforters and companions, as witnesses, to mark the importance of the moment.

 

“One of the physicians talked about caring for her dying mother when she was nineteen years old. She had expected a great deal less of herself then. At first she had driven her mother to her doctor’s appointments, shopped for food, and run errands. As her mother grew weaker, she had prepared tempting meals and cleaned the house. When her mother stopped eating, she had listened to her and read to her for hours. When her mother slipped into a coma, she had changed her sheets, bathed her, and rubbed her back with lotion. There always seemed to be something more to do. A way to care. These ways became simpler and simpler. ‘In the end,’ she told us, ‘I just held her and sang.’

 

“There was a long, thoughtful silence. Then one of the older women said that she too had tended to avoid situations when there were no treatments left. She had felt powerless. But she saw now that even when there was nothing left to do medically, there were still other things she could say or do that might matter. Kind things. Ways she could still be of help. She had simply forgotten. Her voice wavered slightly.

 

“I looked at her more closely. This tough and competent sixty-year-old surgeon had tears in her eyes. It was quite amazing.”

 

 

So our theme here is choice and, as I said, in more orthodox traditions you do whatever has always been done. Here it’s your choice. Among other things, we give you a piece of paper that asks your choices: burial, cremation, what music, what readings, do you want to end up in a cemetery or scattered here, there or in our Memorial Garden. (This Life Crisis Form is available in the church office.) Every step of the way there are choices to be made.

 

Unitarian Universalists have often been in the forefront of what may be called the “death education” movement. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, who died a few months ago, wrote the pioneering book “On Death and Dying” that observed the progressive emotional stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. After Jessica Mitford’s devastating critique of the funeral industry in “The American Way of Death,” UU’s have often been founders of memorial societies whose purpose is to simplify and dignify these important decisions. We at First Parish are members of the New England Memorial Society and we can help. Many well-intended members of this Parish have been taken in by funeral directors and so-called Cremation Societies whose fees are unnecessarily high. This is information worth talking about before the need arises.

 

A while ago, I became aware that it is also possible in Massachusetts to care for one’s dead oneself, without involving any funeral director. Though this is a choice that relatively few will make, it is a possible choice. In the church attic, we keep a small supply of cardboard boxes and all that is needed. I’ve met with the health director, the town clerk, the police chief and know not only that it can be done but now it has been done.

 

One of the most poignant experiences of my entire ministry unfolded when, last winter, Sohier Welch died after falling on the ice while walking in the woods with his wife Mary. For a time, he was on life-support at Lahey Clinic. With a dozen family members of all ages around in the ICU, his resuscitator was disconnected, Mary held Sohier’s hand and she memorably pronounced it a “most salubrious time.” Sohier died and, at the initiative of his adult sons and daughters, and with Mary’s total support, together we chose to take it all from there ourselves. It was a first-time experience for a reluctant Lahey and for us, but we knew the law and so – with a cardboard box hand-decorated by his granddaughter Lily – we took Sohier from the morgue, by way of his red Toyota truck, to the Welch’s home and then to the church where – on our stainless steel kitchen table – we washed, dressed, blessed and toasted his body and soul with ancient liquor, before putting him back in the truck and taking him to the Mount Auburn Cemetery where he was cremated. Sohier was a self-reliant, do-it-yourself, let’s-keep it-simple, take-charge sort of guy – so too is his family – and this was a choice that made sense to them.

 

(Mary Welch then poignantly shared her perspective on her husband’s death, the preparation of his body prior to cremation, and the memorial service that followed.)

 

Now, after a story like that, what else is there to say but, “How ‘bout those Red Sox?!” And what about this election we’re having on Tuesday? I want in conclusion to wrap these two matters into this morning’s theme – and our theme is that we utterly fail to comprehend our life situation if we do not give death and life their due and appreciate our privileged place in the great chain of being, the sinew, tissue and tendon that connect the generations of humankind.

 

At memorial services I often quote David Rhys Williams who said, “We are the indispensable link between the world that was and the world that is to be.” Somehow it wasn’t maudlin to read in the Globe that so many fans’ thoughts turned to “their favorite uncle who was buried in a Sox jersey, or the hot dog vendor who used to sneak children into Fenway Park, or the neighbor who cried the night the ball went between Bill Buckner’s legs – all the loved ones who should have been there to share the moment….These are the ghosts that matter to us…A mother whose 16-year-old son was stabbed to death when he came to the aid of a friend in a street fight planted a Red Sox flag at his grave at Mount Auburn Cemetery, saying ‘I felt the connection…I feel like he’s here. And I was happy.”

 

One of Sylvia’s brothers mailed her late father’s Red Sox cap to a brother in St. Louis so he could wear it to the game.

 

The great events of our lives expose the continuity of past, present and future.

 

And, as for the election, late on Friday afternoon I received an email from my colleague Meg Riley who directs the UUA’s Washington Office. Meg says:

 

“If the Republicans carry Ohio, pundits will knock each other over to deliver verdicts about why it occurred. However, I am confident that none will mention the true reason – the death of my mother, Marty Wilson, in 2002.”

 

Meg goes on to describe her mother’s activism from the civil rights movement, her door-knocking, her getting-out-the-vote on behalf of winners and losers, known and unknown, remembered and forgotten.

Meg says that, had her mother been born male there is a strong likelihood that she would have made a life of public service and been a candidate herself. “Instead, she lived as thousands of others do – volunteering her time and considerable energy behind the scenes, with no intention of making history as an individual, but every desire to do so as part of a bigger, justice-centered force in history.”

Meg says, “My sister and I are probably channeling her energy as we work in our own states in these final days – serving as election judges, juggling our precinct lists for phoning and doorknocking lists with our guilt about how little time and attention we have for our own daughters. (Halloween? Right, that is Sunday, isn’t it!)”

 

Meg recalls “another friend, quite active in Florida, is doing her precinct phoning from her father’s bedside as he lies comatose in hospice care. “I figure if he can hear me making these calls, it will be good for his peace of mind,” she tells me.

 

And then Meg concludes, “When the Red Sox won the World Series, I was among millions who were moved to tears by the tales of those who went to their deaths without seeing this victory. The sheer power of the generations, rooting for this team, couldn’t fail to elicit awe. For many of us, political work has this same across-the-generations quality. Next Tuesday, I will carry with me the spirits of my mother and her own mother, both of whom died in the years of George W. Bush’s presidency, as we watch the returns roll in from the 2004 election. My joy in victory will be accompanied by their gladness; my despair in defeat will hold their own. Together, we will look ahead to what the next chapter of our nation’s history will bring.”

 

I knew Meg’s mother Marty Wilson. She was a parishioner in UU Church in Akron, Ohio where I served my internship. She reminded me of my mother who – having witnessed at first hand the human toll of a government disinterested in human suffering during the Great Depression – also worked behind the scenes and tirelessly all her life for justice. My hunch is that neither Marty nor my mother Mary Lou gave a damn about baseball, but then they didn’t live in New England and, most importantly, they did make sure that Meg and I know full well that unto our own generation this nation’s democratic promise remains unfulfilled.

 

Let us conclude with prayer, the words again of David Rhys Williams. Spirit of Life and Death, of Faith and Freedom, of Believing and of Choice:

 

Here on a little planet-island, in a vast ocean space, for a brief moment in time, we are brought together and whether we like it or not, we must live together and make the best of a common lot. If we have the wisdom, we shall strive “to be comrades in the quest for the high places of life.” We shall perfect the art of helping one another, and the science of mutual understanding. We shall continually keep our faces toward the Light. We shall gladly shoulder our share of Duty, however far we may be from solving the riddle of its meaning. We shall realize that we are the indispensable link between the world that was and the world that is to be. We shall resolve to pass on the torch of Knowledge, at least undimmed, and if possible with even brighter flame. We shall bequeath to those who come after us a better and a kinder earth than we have found.

 

Amen.