Sermon for All Souls Day, given by Rev. Frank Clarkson
One of my earliest memories in life is of going to a cemetery; it was for the burial of my great aunt. I remember our family standing around the grave—all those grownup’s legs! Over the years, I noticed that things shifted in our family when there was a death: the was sadness, of course, also a sense of reverence; and something else—there was a warmer human connection. Reminded of what really mattered, we drew closer to one another.
I feel this way still, when I gather with a family to bury a loved one. That it is serious, and important; that we treat the dead and those grieving with reverence and care. And that it is natural, and good, and heartwarming—this is what we humans do, when someone we love dies—we gather together, we remember and give thanks for the life that has ended, we return their body to the earth. Being with people around the time of death, and conducting funerals and memorial services, these are, for me, some of the most meaningful and moving parts of ministry.
Over the past twenty months, people have not always been able to be with their loved ones around the time of death. Services have had to be postponed, or held over Zoom. How much grief and mourning has been delayed, or done in an unusual way? If there were services that you missed, or if there were opportunities for mourning with others that you couldn’t be part of, I hope that today might offer you some space to for that. To remember those who have died, to touch that sweet, sad, good place that of mourning those you have lost.
You might be thinking, “If I start counting what’s been lost, what I could be sad about, and mourn, will I ever stop?” Sometimes I fear that uncorking my own dark emotions will lead to being overwhelmed by them. But that’s not how it usually works. The UU minister Kate Braestrup, who’s chaplain to the Maine Wardens’ Service, has a lot of experience with giving death notices—telling people that their loved one has died. She says that when people hear such shattering news, they often end up on the ground, or the floor; and she says her job is to help them get safely to the ground, and be with them there.
But, Kate says, people don’t stay down there forever. That the crying and wailing do come to an end, that after some time on the ground, or on the floor, people do get up. We do get up.
This doesn’t mean the grieving and mourning is over. No, it’s just beginning. And it is good and holy and hard work to feel the pain and move with it, and through it. And it takes time. I’m grateful for faith communities like this one that hold open a space where people can grieve, and find support and care. Where there are rituals and practices and companions for mourning those we have loved and lost, and for remembering that we are mortal too.
“To live in this world,” Mary Oliver wrote
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
To let one you have loved one go is easier said than done, right? I don’t think Mary Oliver was saying that letting go is a quick or simple or easy process. It can, and should take a long time. During which we acknowledge the reality of death, that our life has been forever changed, that we’re learning to live into the ragged opening of that new reality.
In a memorial service, there’s a part near the end called the commendation. It’s an intentional acknowledgement that death is real and final; that this beloved person is gone from us and we have to let them go. I do believe that we can still be connected to those who have died; that they are not completely lost to us. But there is a finality to death that needs to be addressed, and the commendation does that. These are the words I use:
We must now give back, to that mystery, back to God, our beloved _______. To our heart’s remembering, and to God, do we commend their spirit; in the sure and certain hope that beyond what separates us from those who have died, there is a unity that makes us one and binds us forever together.
It’s a big letting go, giving back someone you have loved, that your own life depended on. It’s as big as anything we do in life. There’s a scene at the end of the movie “Out of Africa,” when Meryl Street is burying her beloved Denys, and she says this: “Now take back the soul of Denys George Finch-Hatton whom you have shared with us. He brought us joy, and we loved him well. He was not ours. He was not mine.”
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
The thing is, letting go is not detachment; it is not ceasing our mourning, our tears, or our railing against the pain and loss and unfairness of it all. No. As if that were even possible. And letting go is certainly not giving up caring. It is simply acknowledging what is real; giving heart and voice to that truth, that one you loved has died.
There’s a song that’s been going through my mind lately, by James Taylor, called “Shower the People.” These lines:
Shower the people you love with love, show them the way that you feel.
Things are going to be much better if you only will.
Some of us may be reluctant to show our more shadowy emotions. We don’t want to make others uncomfortable, or ask for too much. Maybe we don’t want to make ourselves vulnerable and needy. I’ve done this myself, held those feelings inside. And there is such a thing as having boundaries, and finding the right time and place for sharing our deeper emotions. But holding everything in is not a good strategy for living! We need to show people the way that we feel! Things are going to be much better if we only will!
The good news is this: that loving as fully as we can, while we can, and then, mourning as fully as we can, when that time comes, this creates in us the kind of strength and courage and openheartedness that we need, for the living of these days, and these lives. A broken heart is more open, is more able to hold compassion for others who are suffering, is more able to apprehend and appreciate beauty, and eventually, experience joy again. How rich and vulnerable it is to be broken-hearted! It’s not easy, but what’s the alternative?
This very human act of loving and letting go, which we are required to do, over and over again, it hurts and it is hard, and it is good for us—it cultivates in us presence and grace and gratitude for these lives we have been given, and for these companions. And practicing loving and letting go will help us prepare for our own dying.
It is our Universalist faith that we are all part of a great and abiding Love, that will never let us go. We are invited to have faith in that Love, to trust that death is not be be feared, and is not the end of the story. The mystic Meister Eckhart put it this way; he said, “God is at home. We are in the far country.”
Those who have died, they are at home. That great cloud of witnesses, they are part of the spirit world now. That one day, we will be part of too. It’s good, isn’t it? And as it should be. And so we sing, while we are here: “for all the saints, who from their labors rest; alleluia! alleluia!”
Amen.