Voices Beyond the Grave

A Sermon Offered by Rev. Tim Kutzmark
October 30 , 2005 • Unitarian Universalist Church of Reading

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"We are not snuffed out at death
But absorbed into a greater flame."
--Anne Morrow Lindburgh

What will we leave behind when we come to the end of our "one wild and precious life?" 1

I did not want him to die.  I wanted—I needed—to hear his voice one last time.  When Grandpa was hospitalized at age ninety, he was near the end of his season of living.  He knew this, even if I—at eighteen years old—still denied that, at the end of the road, near or far, stands always our death.  But Grandpa was going to greet his death on his terms, because wanted to leave something behind.  He declared, "There is no way in hell I'm going to sit forever in a hospital and let the goddamn doctors bleed away all my money."

See, he had worked hard all his life, using his hands, as an electro-plater at the Kinney Hinge Company, a factory that manufactured hinges for industrial and residential use.  He was not rich, but Grandpa was proud that he had fifteen thousand dollars put aside, five thousand each for his three grandchildren.  He had worked hard years to save that money, and now, in his last days, he was not going to have it go to any medical system.

And so, on an early January morning, he walks himself two miles through the gray streets of Pittsburgh, through gusts of freezing rain, to admit himself for the final time at South Side Hospital.  He has already made up his mind.  He changes out of his plaid green shirt and his brown corduroy slacks.  He put his black boots in the small closet.  He climbs into the hospital bed, and he stops eating and drinking.  He knows he’s dying; he’s just going to push the process along.

I plan on visiting Grandpa that weekend, but the shadow of death arrives before me.  I wanted—I needed—to hear his voice one last time.  But at his bedside, I hear only the eternal silence of the grave. 

Years later, as I look back on it, my Grandpa’s death is heroic to me, he turned it into a final gift to the grandchildren he didn’t always understand but that he loved completely.  He left me something, a financial gift from which I was able to create more than he or I could have ever imagined.  But I wanted more.  I wanted more than his money.  I wanted to hear him to tell me what he knew, the insight he had gained through ninety years of living.  I wanted the wisdom he took with him to the grave.

It is a human impulse isn’t it?  The desire to hear again from those we have lost.

It is a human need, isn’t it?  The desire to leave something behind, to leave an imprint on the world.

Whether we are the one dying, or the ones grieving, we all want something to live beyond the grave.

Many ancient people believed there was veil, a barrier between the world of the living and the world of the dead.  Three thousand years ago, the ancient Celts called this The Great Shield of Skathach; it protected the living from being haunted by the past.  But this time of year, as light and warmth faded earlier and earlier into cold, long nights, the Celts believed the Shield of Skathach, the barrier between the living and the not living, became thinner and thinner.  And finally, on one night, tomorrow night—October 31st—the barrier would become so, so faint that with the gentlest touch, the softest breeze, or the brush of one dry leaf, the barrier would . . . dissolve.  And for one night only, the two worlds would become as one, and those who had died, and those not yet born, could cross over and move amongst the living.  The dearly departed could come home again.

To assist this passage, the tribes would gather on hilltops and light huge fires, into which they would throw the bones of dead cattle. The sound of hot bones cracking in the fire would fill the night air.  These bone fires (or bon fires as we now call them) would become sight and sound beacons to guide the departed back into the world. 

Once safe passage was assured, the living would move from the fireside to the tableside, carrying coals from the bone fires in hollowed out turnips.  They then celebrated the great Feast of the Dead.  They served the favorite of food and of friends and family who death had claimed, believing they had come home again to enjoy these tastes missed once more; other treats were left outside to feed the spirits passing by through the night.  After sharing stories of the dearly departed, the living would drift into sleep, a sleep into which, at last, the voices of the dead would whisper. 

The ancient Celts called this miraculous night Samhain (pronounced as “Sow-in”).  The spiritual echoes of Samhain can still be heard in our secular celebration of Halloween, with costumes of the dead, candles burning in hollowed-out pumpkins, cardboard skeletons and candy treats all harking back to an ancient time when it was believed the dead walked among us. 2

When I think about my Grandpa, when I think about the veil between the living and the dead, when I think about tomorrow night and Samhain, I sometimes find myself wishing I believed as the ancient Celts did, and as modern Pagan and earth-based religions still do.  I wish I could light fires and feast once more with Grandpa (beer, kielbasa and sauerkraut).  I wish I could hear him whisper into my ear one last time.

There is a way for the dead to speak again.  It is something that has been practiced and passed down for thousands of years, in many cultures and religious traditions.  There is a way for the dead to speak again.  And we post-modern Unitarian Universalists could easily make this power a part of our religious life. 

Now before you think I’ve jumped off the Unitarian Universalist deep end, let me explain.  I’m not talking about magic or mystery or midnight divination.  I’m referring the very human power of something that is called an ethical will.  An ethical will is a way for voices to speak wisdom from beyond the grave.  Dr. Andrew Weil, popular author, health specialist and author of the current best-seller “Healthy Aging” writes in a recent issue of Time Magazine: “An ordinary will or last testament concerns the disposition of [our] material possessions at death.  An ethical will has to do with nonmaterial gifts: the values and life lessons that [we] wish to leave to others.”

We place so much emphasis on preparing to leave behind our material goods.  But how much time and effort have we put into ensuring that our loved ones are taken care of spiritually and emotionally when we are gone?  Have we ensured that when our spouse, our children, our grandchildren, our great grandchildren, our siblings or our friends need to hear our voice, we have left our wisdom behind?

An online guide to writing Ethical Wills says: “An ethical will reflects the "voice of the heart." Think of it as a love letter to your family [and friends]. Every ethical will is as unique as the person writing it.”  But things we might want to include could be: important personal values; key spiritual beliefs; hopes and blessings for future generations; life's lessons [as you’ve learned them]; forgiving others and asking for forgiveness.” 3

Three weeks ago I had the honor of officiating at a memorial service where such an ethical will was shared.  It is a statement of how one fallible human being strived to live his life.  It was written by a man named Mike Montore.  His sister, Margaret, is a member of our congregation, although Mike was not.  Mike lived a hard life as a child, growing up poor, tough, self-protective, and bursting with uncontainable rage.  But his life journey transformed him, re-shaped him.  Time, love, parenthood, and personal reflection caused Mike’s heart to soften and a new man emerged.  Mike’s widow Judi gave me permission to share her husband’s ethical will, words this once abrasive man compiled into a stunning statement of how he wished to live his adult years, and how he hoped to be remembered.  There is much we can learn as Mike speaks to us from beyond the grave:

[THIS IS MY] INTENTION by Mike Montore

To live in a sacred manner, grateful for the gift of life, with reverence for the earth and all of nature, aware of the fire of life burning in all things and the priceless value of the present moment.

To grow spiritually, through a gentle, strong conviction that living with a searching mind and an open heart is the path . . . to a life lived with awareness and gratitude.

To love people and all living things as if they were dying, as if I was dying, because we surely are. I will nurture love through understanding, by approval of what is best in others, and by teaching, through example, how to live well and to be happy.

When I have left them, they shall say to one another;

He loved me.

He believed in me.

He sought, and found, the best in me, and in the world we shared, and by his example he helped me learn to find it too.

He walked softly in his life, sensitive to creation’s gifts, consuming little, leaving much.

To my living spirit they shall say in silent visitation;

Thank you Mike, thank you Dad, thank you Dado [Grandpa], for allowing me, as I wished, to see into your wonderful life . . .

Thank you for your legacy; my treasured memory of you, it’s gentle guidance, it’s subtle inspiration.

Ethical wills are not just for the dying.  Creating an ethical will can be a deep spiritual practice no matter where we are on our life journey, no matter how young or old we may be.  One guide to writing ethical wills suggests: “Couples preparing for marriage can use an ethical will to help understand each other’s values and contribute to building a [shared] foundation for the marriage.  Expectant and new parents can use an ethical will to provide a base of common values upon which to approach childrearing.  Divorcing Couples can use an ethical will to provide some security and reassurance for the children involved, by providing tangible evidence of what's important to their parents.  Growing families use ethical wills as way to declare their family values, allowing kids and adults to share together what is most important to them.  Empty-Nesters can use an ethical will to launch adult children [into the world], as well as provide a basis for discovering the new relationship that the couple will now create.  For those in middle age and in our senior years, writing an ethical will is an opportunity to harvest our life experiences, convert this experience into wisdom, and allow for the fulfillment of our responsibility of passing this wisdom on to future generations.” 4

What will we leave behind when we come to the end of our one wild and precious life?  An ethical can be an answer to that universal question. 

My Grandpa never wrote down his wisdom, his legacy.  I wish that he had.  But I do feel that, at last, I discovered it.  A decade after his death, I used his financial gift to travel to the deserts of New Mexico and live for a time in simplicity under the wide open sky.  It was there, on a lonely mesa, that I began to discover the spiritual voice that spoke inside of me.  It was because of that time, it was because of Grandpa’s gift, that I entered seminary, was ordained, served congregations in Hingham, MA and Richmond, VA, and now stand before you this morning as your minister. 

And so, when I speak, it is also my Grandfather who speaks through me.  His voice is now my voice.  And in this way, he does speak from beyond the grave.

As Maya Angelou so hauntingly writes: “When great souls die, after a period, peace blooms.  Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed.  They existed. They exist in us.

May it be so.  Blessed Be.  Amen.

Copyright 2005 Rev. Tim Kutzmark