2 Nov 2016
Solemnity of All Souls
Every night when our day is over, we turn out the lights and
go to sleep. The light of the sun is
reflected in the soft glow of the moon.
The stars twinkle above in the black sky. We put our head on a pillow, and God looks
down on his sleeping children. Sometimes
the darkness is just a time of rest; there’s nothing to be afraid of. And the blackness of night is just part of
the experience of peace and quiet, and rejuvenation.
When the day is done, we go to sleep to wait for the light of
a new day. And today we remember all the
faithful departed who have gone into the sleep of death and wait for the light
of a new and unending day—the Light of heaven.
Yesterday the Church celebrated those who have died and who
already see that Light, the Light of God’s glory. We celebrated the Saints who have gone into the house of God and are enjoying the
banquet of heaven. Today, though, we
celebrate and we pray for those souls of the faithful departed who are on the
porch, who are in the front hallway of God’s house.
They already went through death and are there, getting ready
to go into the fullness of what their faith has promised them, what Christ has
promised them. We pray for our brothers
and sisters who sleep the sleep of death by the soft glow of the
moonlight. And even though they sleep
under the twinkling stars of the dark sky, they can hear the feast going
on. They can see the Light of God’s
glory shining from under the dining room door.
We pray for them, for those
who have been faithful . . . the faithful
departed who haven’t yet finished their journey of faith.
They aren’t in a bad place at all; they’re closer to heaven
than we are. Christ is their Shepherd
and he’s led their souls right to where they should be. And for some of us, that is very comforting
and encouraging. But for others, well,
we’d rather have them back here on earth with us. It depends on how they died, and what age
they were, and what the circumstances were.
In many ways it’s almost easier
to celebrate the Saints, especially the big ones: St. Peter, St. Paul, St.
Joseph, St. Vincent, St. Nicholas, and so on.
We only know them as Saints,
as people who have always just lived in heaven, it seems. It’s harder for us to mourn them and their
passage from this life to the next—because we never looked into their
eyes. We never heard the sound of their
voice. We never heard them laugh or saw
them weep. And so, they’re a bit more
removed from us. Even the more modern
Saints can seem distant and almost unreal.
But those faithful departed—our loved ones, our friends who
have died . . . they aren’t so removed from us.
We know their names. We know
their faces. And they knew ours. Even if they had died at a ripe and old age
and had lived a good life, there’s a part of us that might still mourn the
physical separation that death brings.
Regardless of our experiences of death—whether they were
tragic, unexpected, or seen as a blessing—this Solemnity of All Souls and this
time of the year reminds us of the frailty of human life. And it reminds us of the importance of faith, and the importance of being there
for others and praying for others,
especially the dead.
As we go outside and see the Autumn leaves strewn all over
the place, it’s good to remember that not that long ago they were lush and
green, high in the trees. And then
Autumn came and they turned into their burning golds, oranges, yellows,
purples, and reds. But now they’ve
completed their short life. They’ve
turned brown and dry, and have returned to the earth to help get ready for next
year’s Springtime.
When we visit the graves of loved ones, or think about them,
or go outside and see the bare trees and the fallen leaves, it’s hard not to
remember the frailty and the shortness of human life. And we can see death either as something to
be afraid of, or as something to wonder about and even peer into with childlike
curiosity. As Christ says: The Kingdom
of Heaven belongs to such as those who are like little children.
We faithful people here on earth are curious, we wonder about
things, we wonder about death and our faith tells us there’s more there than
meets the eye. Of course, the faithful departed would tell us: There is. Indeed, there is. As we heard from the Book of Wisdom: “The
souls of the just . . . seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and
their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us,
utter destruction. But they are in
peace.”
People around us may not believe in life after death. Or they may be afraid to admit their own
fears of death. But we are a people of
faith. We believe that with death, life
is simply—or dramatically—changed, but not ended. Life is never ended, unless we choose it to
be.
Christ asks the blind man and us the question: “What do you
want me to do for you” [Mk 10:51]? Of
course, the answer comes from our soul, not from our mouth. The blind man living in the darkness of death
said, “I want to see.” And so it happened. Eternal Light and life is ours—if we want
it. We already know that “the will of [the]
Father [is] that everyone who sees the Son and believes in him may have eternal
life.”
The faithful departed answered that question in the same way:
They want to be with God and their loved ones in the full ecstasy of heaven. That longing was in their soul, and God knows
the truth of our soul. Of course, no one
longs for God and for heaven perfectly.
That’s why the faithful departed are on the porch and in the front
hallway of God’s house.
They’re already there.
They can see the Light from under that dining room door. And they can hear the feast going on. And we pray for them, that God bring them
into what they have longed for. And, of
course, we pray the same for us. They
may be the faithful departed, but we
are the faithful here on earth. And even though we’re not yet at the doorstep
of God’s house, we too can hear the singing and the music of the heavenly
banquet.
We too can see a dim glimmer through the darkness of
death. There’s something there where
Christ has gone before us. No, life
doesn’t end with death. It only
changes. And the only thing the faithful
suffer is anticipation. Anticipation of heaven. Anticipation
of what our earthly life will change into when we ourselves will pass
through death and stand at the doorstep of God’s house. Anticipation
of what it will be like to be counted among the faithful departed.
In the meantime, we keep in mind the moon’s soft glow at
night when we lay our head to rest. The
stars twinkle above, and God looks down on his sleeping children. There under the black sky, we dream dreams of
heaven, and we rest up and get rejuvenated for a new day. We may not yet be departed, but we are still
God’s faithful. And that’s what the
faithful do: they dream of heaven.
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