In sharing these “thoughts” with you each week, I am mindful that my “brief” is to share ways in which our Catholic faith informs our daily lives: whether it is how we worship or how we can be “salt and light” for our world as citizens. Thus, over the past few months, we’ve explored aspects of the Catholic vision of political responsibility—a responsibility which continues even after votes have been tallied and officials have been sworn into office. But with the recent election in the books, I can for a time turn to a more uplifting topic than the contemporary American political scene:
Death.
November is the month that we as Catholics set aside to remember our beloved dead. The month begins with the Feast of All Saints (Nov. 1) wherein we remember ALL those in Heaven, and continues the next day with the Feast of All Souls (Nov. 2) where we remember those in Purgatory. Most of us know this: what we may not realize is that the rest of the days of the month are set aside by various nations and religious orders to remember the named and unnamed of their communities who are in Heaven (e.g. the Jesuits (Nov. 5), Ireland and Africa (Nov. 6), the Franciscans (Nov. 29)).
In this last month of the liturgical year, as days grow shorter and colder and as trees shed their leaves, we (in the Northern Hemisphere, at least) can see nature itself reminding us that life comes to an end. And so we remember those whose lives here on earth are over.
We Brennans have a “unique” relationship with death. Blessed with a big family and many friends, we find ourselves being regulars at the Catholic funeral homes of the south and west sides. We visit cemeteries. A lot. Crossing the border to the east side means a visit to the Cleveland Museum of Art…and Lakeview Cemetery. When we visit a new city or town on vacation, we (at least Kathleen, Danny, and I) check out the architecture of the local burying ground—the headstones (and their symbolism) and mausoleums—as well as the landscaping. While I may be revealing my “inner Goth” by saying so, visiting cemeteries really is a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
At least our forebears thought so.
In 19th century Europe and North America, city planners developed the idea of the “rural” or “garden” cemetery, usually on the outskirts of cities, wherein the dead could be buried in a more open, pastoral setting—away from overcrowded and stinking church graveyards. In addition to providing ample room for the dead, in the days before public parks these spaces became places to which people could retreat on holidays to relax in the fresh air amid various species of flora and spend time with their family members—living and dead. Theirs was an era where death was an ever-present (if unwelcome) companion: children died at alarming rates, people passed on in their homes—where their bodies were washed and prepared by loved ones—and they were waked in their front parlors. To picnic in a cemetery was seen as normal—in much the same way as the tradition of the “Day of the Dead” is part of life among some Hispanic and Latino cultures. In Spring Grove Cemetery in Cincinnati (the Queen City’s admittedly “better” version of Cleveland’s Lakeview Cemetery) there are even cottages scattered throughout the space for families to stay when they came to visit their dead in an era where travel was long and expensive.
What our ancestors understood and Latino culture recognizes is the fact that even as brain and body function cease, we don’t really die. Those who have gone before us live on in a fullness of life we cannot even imagine—this is the essence of the “Communion of Saints” we profess in the Apostles Creed. That various saints, especially the Blessed Mother, have appeared in apparitions is further proof of the living connection between those of us on earth and those who enjoy eternal life.
That said, we nonetheless grieve when a loved one passes on. November in the Christian calendar acknowledges this. But as Christians we have perspective. As St. Augustine noted:
Of necessity we must be sorrowful when those whom we love leave us in death. Although we know that they have not left us behind forever but only gone ahead of us, still when death seizes our loved one, our loving hearts are saddened by death itself. Thus the apostle Paul does not tell us not to grieve but “not to grieve like those who are without hope.” Let us grieve, therefore, over the necessity of losing our loved ones in death but with the hope of being reunited with them. If we are afflicted we still find consolation. Our weakness weighs us down, but faith bears us up. We sorrow over the human condition, but find our healing in the divine promise. (Sermon 172)
It is an observation made earlier by his teacher, St. Ambrose, who reflected upon the death of his brother:
But we have not committed a serious fault by our weeping. Not every display of sorrow is a sign either of lack of trust in God or of weakness in ourselves. Natural grief is one thing, sorrow which comes from lack of hope is another....Tears are… indicators of devotedness, not inciters of grief. (On the death of his brother Satyrus, Book I, 29).
The deaths of our beloved ones hurt—badly at times—but our faith reminds us that death is not so much a “goodbye” as it is an “until we meet again.”
There are no accidents in God’s Providence, and so I think that it is significant that we as Catholic Americans are in a month in which we at once honor (and grieve) our dead but also celebrate Thanksgiving. We should give thanks for those who have touched our lives in such significant ways that when they went to God, we miss them and feel their loss. But as the Fathers remind us, we grieve them—but in a spirit of hope—because (and with apologies to William Faulkner) our dead are never gone…
They’re not even really dead.
A.M.D.G. / B.V.M.H.