DIA DE LOS MUERTOS

a homily delivered by the Rev. Dr. Tim Jensen
at the First Religious Society in Carlisle MA
Sunday October 30th, 2005

This is a time of year when the Realm of the Living and the Realm of Death seem especially close together. It is the season of harvest, when growing things that have ceased to grow are gathered from the fields and into barns. It is also the traditional season of slaughter, when animals fattened on the abundance of summer were butchered and “cured” in anticipation of winter. It is the season of autumn, the twilight of the year, when the trees drop their leaves and the weather grows cold, and the earth shifts into survival mode. And it is also the time of year when we seize back that extra hour of sleep in the morning that we sacrificed the previous spring, in exchange for an extra hour of recreational daylight in the evening.

This is also a season when many societies set aside time to remember their departed loved ones. All Saints Day, All Souls Day, Halloween, the Day of the Dead...occasions when we come together to recall the lives of those who went before us, and to whom we owe so much. We celebrate their lives, and grieve their deaths, clean up the cemetaries where their bodies now rest, come together as families to renew connections, and revitalize our relationships with one another. Because this is a season when the Realm of the Living and the Realm of Death seem especially close together.

In just a few moments we will begin reading the names of our own loved ones who have passed away, and whose memory remains dear to us. And there are a couple of names on that list I’m pretty sure are familiar only to me, so I thought I’d say a few words about them now, just so all of you will know who they are. The first name is John McClure. The Thanksgiving after I had moved back to the Pacific Northwest from West Texas to start working as a new congregation organizer, I found myself urgently in need of a plumber, having foolishly tried to stuff all the potato peelings down the disposal at the same time, only to have them revolt and refuse to go. So I desperately opened up the yellow pages and started letting my fingers do the walking: Roto Rooter, Rescue Rooter, Reliable Rooter...and then I saw an ad that simply said “The Sewer Man With a Conscience.” It even had a picture of a little angel working a drain-cleaning snake. So that was the number I called, not at all sure that anyone would even answer; but when someone miraculously did I told him my problem and where I lived and what my name was and as we approached the end of our conversation this unfamiliar, disembodied voice on the other end of the phone unexpectedly asked “Now, are you the same Tim Jensen who is the new Unitarian minister?”

Well, that kind of caught me off guard, as you might imagine. It’s one thing when something like that happens in a little town like Carlisle, but Portland, Oregon, is a pretty big city. But it turned out that “the Sewer Man with a Conscience” was actually one of my new parishioners, who had just started attending church a few weeks earlier, and as we got to know one another better, it also turned out that John and I had the same birthday: October 22nd. I eventually left the ministry of that church, and a few years later John stopped attending there also, but we continued to live in the same part of town, and occasionally we would run into one another at the supermarket or a High School basketball game or our local brewpub. We were friends, although we didn’t really see one another that much. I was back in school working for my Ph.D. and traveling all over the Pacific Northwest on weekends preaching and consulting with small, lay-led fellowships; John was working day and night trying to support his growing family and keep his small business afloat. John was also a very talented musician, who was constantly trying to organize small, pick-up bands to go out and perform in clubs, following his passion and supplementing his income at the same time; while (as you all know) I can hardly carry the tune of a simple hymn unless I’ve heard it about a million times. My daughter was an athlete who played competitive Volleyball for four years of High School and four years of College, and I was the parent with a flexible schedule and a reliable car; John’s son competed in the Special Olympics, and John was his basketball coach. So our lives were similar, but they were also very different; mostly though we just kind of liked one another, and enjoyed each other’s company, even though we didn’t really get together very often.

And then four years ago, the week before I left Portland to move out here, I got a message on my answering machine from a mutual friend telling me that John was dying of lung cancer, and that he had just come home from the hospital and was under the care of hospice. So naturally, I phoned his house, and went over there that same afternoon to visit with him and his family, and to say goodbye. And sometime that following week, while Parker and I were driving across the country on our way to Nantucket, John passed away. And I think of him every year now around this time, in this season of our shared birthday. He truly was a very remarkable guy; I feel privileged to have known him, and know the world is a lesser place without his presence in it.

The second name is Bob Vail. Bob was a retired Coast Guard officer who served for two years as the President of the Olympic Unitarian Fellowship in Port Angeles Washington while I was working with them to help grow that congregation and eventually to purchase land and build a place of their own. Bob and I were a great team: he had a vision of what that congregation could become, and the determination to “make it so;” I had the education, the experience, and the expertise to help them get there. Once a month I would finish teaching my morning class at Oregon State University and then drive six and a half hours to the “Homeport Homestead” on South Bagley Creek Road, where I would have dinner with Bob and his wife Mickie, and we would finalize the plans for the weekend: typically breakfast with the leadership team, followed by some sort of training workshop on a subject we had agreed upon earlier, perhaps a committee meeting or some pastoral visits in the afternoon, some sort of fellowship event Saturday evening, the Sunday morning worship service, and then a little time to tie up loose ends before heading home again sometime Sunday afternoon: this time generally by ferry through Seattle, so that I could have a little time on the boat to decompress and write in my journal. That first year in particular, Bob and Mickie were my regular hosts. Later on other members of the congregation started to take turns providing home hospitality for the visiting minister, but by that time Bob and I were fast friends -- he typically attended every meeting I did, and then “held the fort” the rest of the month until my next visit. Between visits we were in regular contact by e-mail, as he kept me up to date with the news of the church, and we strategized about next steps.

I also suspect Bob provided at least some of the inspiration for our own “Gilligan’s Island” ingathering event in September. My final weekend in Port Angeles coincided with the end of Bob’s term as President. That Saturday night we celebrated with a “roast” of Bob, at which I was the final speaker. Earlier speakers had lampooned Bob’s navigation and seamanship abilities, his cooking skills, even his charisma as a public speaker -- a difficult challenge, since Bob actually excelled at all these things. I took a somewhat different approach. I had this Captain’s hat hidden in a brown paper bag, and I casually made sure that Bob could see it without letting on that I was letting him see it, while I began to talk very sincerely about how in a small fellowship people often wear a lot of different hats, but that there was one person in particular who had worn a very important hat...and then I pulled this hat out of the bag, and put it on my head, and of course underneath it was the floppy white “Gilligan” hat for my little buddy, Captain Robert Vail USCG ret. -- who was then serenaded by the entire congregation with an anthem relating his various accomplishments, naturally set to the tune of the Gilligan’s Island theme song. And Bob and I both were laughing so hard tears came to our eyes -- it was truly one of the finest moments of my ministry (and really of my entire life)...and I know that a lot of you have already heard this story often because I like to tell it so much, which is why I suspect at least some subtle inspiration on the theme of last month’s dinner.

Bob later went on to become very involved in the work of the Pacific Northwest district, and was eventually designated as the Lay Chaplain of the Olympic Fellowship by the members of that congregation. As the years went by, we continued to stay in touch although as you might imagine with decreasing frequency, especially after I moved out here. Which was why I was so surprised and delighted to see an e-mail from him in my in-box two weeks ago. Unfortunately, the news was not good -- the message was actually from Mickie, who was informing everyone in Bob’s address book that Bob had passed away suddenly on October 15th at the age of 57. Mickie had been traveling, and had phoned him early that morning to tell him what time she would be arriving at the airport -- when Bob wasn’t there to meet her, she phoned their neighbors who went to the house and found Bob dead -- presumably because of the lingering viral infection he’d been battling for about a week. His Memorial Service was held yesterday, at the small Fellowship Building which I can say without reservation would not have existed without his efforts; carpooling was encouraged, and Bob left explict instructions that no one was to wear black. Bop was also a truly remarkable guy; I feel privileged to have known him, and know the world will be a lesser place without his presence in it.

I share these stories not only because I want to honor my two friends, but because I want to remind all of us all once again that each and every one of the persons whose names we are about to hear has stories like this that can be told about them. None of us will ever know all the stories there are to know, but when we recall them: when we tell them, and hear them, and share them with one another, we evoke our memories of those we have loved and bring their spirits to life again -- and the realm of the living, and the realm of death, grow closer, and more familiar, and less mysterious to one another...and we feel inspired, and revitalized, and no longer quite so frightened or alone....

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