Third Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:11-14


As Halloween approaches, it is said that the veil between this world and the next becomes thin allowing passage and communication between here and there. This is the reason that some years ago they televised a séance that attempted to talk to Harry Houdini. Goes to show that our day is not that different from Saul's and a desire to talk to the dead has not gone out of fashion.


Over the weekend, my wife and I sat in the October night and talked about the dead. Namely, we talked about her dad who we lost a little more than a year ago. Perhaps it's that thinning barrier between what-is and what's-next. But he has been in our minds a lot lately and, with him, are things we wish we had said and done.


For reasons I will never be able to explain, my father-in-law liked and loved me almost instantly. I loved him as well. First, because he was the father of the woman I loved. But, soon, I loved him because of the man he was. And I've felt cheated because I only had a few years to know him before Alzheimer's began eating away that person—strong, independent, intelligent—and replacing him with one who was nearly the exact opposite of those things.


He was also, perhaps because of his personality or perhaps because he was my father-in-law, a little intimidating. I suppose it was this or the excuse of it that kept me from returning a lot of the affection he had for me. And before I could begin to correct this, he was disappearing into the fog of the disease that killed him. I was left, as I am now, wishing I had said and done things that I will never have the chance of saying and doing in this world.


This month, I've been thinking and writing about fear. And, I suppose, that theme plays in with regret since it is fear of experiencing that regret as others I love (hopefully later than sooner) pass on that pushes me to say and do more than I have before. Perhaps not all fear is wrong, as long as it does not overtake our lives.


But, in the dark autumn night, my wife and I talked about another fear: that those who are gone must wait until death or the transformation of all things to hear the words we left unsaid and long, now, to say. In reality, there is no medium in Endor to call up those on the other side. We can never say these things that weigh down our hearts face-to-face.


Yet, I do not believe they need go unsaid. Perhaps once upon a time there was a barrier that kept voices from passing back and forth. But just as I believe that the One who broke through the heavy stone of death hears me, those with him are not deaf to my whispered, regretful words. So like, but unlike, Saul, I do talk to the dead.


Resurrected Christ, comfort us with the knowledge that those who have gone before are, as we too will be, with you and the love that binds us cannot be broken by tombs or crosses.