Each November, our Catholic imaginations are invited to enter a world filled with memory and hope. The eleventh month in the Northern Hemisphere floods our hearts with rich colors, festivals and liturgical memorials, shrouded with ever-darkening days. This autumnal time of year calls us to savor the intricate communion in which we exist. It sets before us an array of opportunities to encounter life and death.

From All Saints to All Souls’ Day to Christ the King and the beginning of Advent; encompassing Election Day, Veterans Day and Thanksgiving; and reaching the end of daylight saving time and experiencing the falling of leaves; November can be a time to reflect on mortality and the possibility of new life.

I have chosen several November moments for this extended meditation about death and the dead. I hope these considerations will offer a starting point for further pondering the mysteries of life. From these, may we draw closer together in a communion of love and into a new humanity and the possibility of a new way of inhabiting reality. The Christian movement into death promises this future.

The Falling Leaves

One of my favorite poems for this season is by Rainer Maria Rilke. It is entitled “Autumn” and is translated by Robert Bly.

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up, / as if orchards were dying high in space. / Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.” And tonight the heavy earth is falling / away from all other stars in the loneliness. / We’re all falling. This hand here is falling. / And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

November is a time of falling. Not only are we in the middle of the fall season, but we are experiencing the falling of the year, both the civil and the liturgical year; each is coming to a close.

What is extraordinary about this poem is that it situates the falling of the leaves with the falling of the earth and the falling of our lives into death.

I have always found the autumn season to be a time of inner journey. The darkening of the days and the cooling of the weather have been invitations to me to ponder the waning of life itself. Sometimes, this inner journeying can be a frightful experience. It causes me to wonder what is on the other side of the falling. What will happen after death? The autumn season draws me into a world of wonderment, as well as fear.

Interestingly, this time of year, we are filled with distractions: sports events, elections and the hustle and bustle of preparing for the holidays. This time of introspection has become a time in which we are most distracted from the reality of life itself. We can, as one author put it, distract ourselves to death. I often wonder why.

Ernst Becker gives us a clue in his book “The Denial of Death” (Free Press, $18.99). He suggests that we live in a culture where our denial of the reality of human finitude is so great that we would do anything to avoid even considering the falling of the leaves or the falling of our lives into oblivion. He clarifies that we create immortality projects to bolster our sense of power. Self-esteem is the cornerstone that allows us to forget that we, like the falling leaves, are falling into death.

We, therefore, prefer the summer and springtime over autumn and winter. Summer and spring give us a sense of hope and assurance that life is in our control. On the other hand, the falling of the leaves and the falling of the snow haunt us with the reality of the impermanence of life itself. When the dark days arrive, we become so amazingly taken into the darkness that we look for a way out. We can clutter November with all kinds of ways to forget. And yet we are anxious to remember.

Where Do We Turn?

Rilke’s poem twists at the last line. Amid all this falling, he proffers to our imagination the image of Someone whose infinitely calm hands hold up all this falling.

Enter the Christian faith. We acknowledge that a loving God is the one who holds up all the falling. In Christ, who falls into death, death is conquered by death. It is no wonder we celebrate the solemnity of Christ the King toward the end of November. And this year, on Nov. 20, we will hear the Gospel of Luke proclaiming that the one who holds up all the falling summons the thief at his right into paradise by mercy, falling like the dewfall (cf. 23:35-43).

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CATHOLIC PRAYER FOR A DECEASED RELATIVE OR FRIEND

“God of the living and the dead, accept our prayers for those who have died in Christ and are buried with him in the hope of rising again. In your mercy grant them rest.”

— Diocese of Charleston, sccemeteries.org

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Let me give you a story from my own life.

When I first moved to Chicago, I was sad and lonely in a strange city. During November of that year, the depression worsened, and I fell into despondency. I was riding the city bus on many occasions at the time, and I found myself on a bus one day with an elderly African American woman and five little children, all jumping for joy around her and upon her. Through it all, she was calm, and I saw her full of love for these children. No anxiety, no frustration, radiating love.

We got off at the same stop and accidentally bumped into each other. I looked at her, and she looked at me, and we both smiled. Then, I had the nerve to ask her: “How do you find so much joy?” She looked at me, smiled again, patted my cheek, and said, “Child, I have learned to wear the garments of this world lightly.”

I was touched profoundly and somehow, I felt as if in the middle of all my falling, a hand was there, reaching out, holding me up. This woman became, for me, a gift from God. She had shared with me the wisdom of our faith. It is a pearl of simple wisdom: If you wish to find yourself, you must lose yourself. And so, walking home that evening, I smiled, and I just let myself fall and fall into the hands of the one who divested all his clothing and died naked on a cross, welcoming us into paradise.

All Saints and All Souls

Traditional categorization of the Church in time and history suggests three dimensions to the Communion of Saints.

The first was the Church Militant; second, the Church Suffering; and, finally, the Church Triumphant.

What I always found interesting about this threefold dimensionality was the fact that there was interconnectivity and an inter-belongingness of these dimensions of being a member of the Body of Christ. There is a beautiful sense of interaction where every group communes with another group. Every part of the body was involved together symphonically.

November begins by placing us into this inter-belonging firmly. We start with the saints in glory. They are known as the Church Triumphant. Then we continue with the souls in purgatory, known as the Church Suffering. And, we, alive and well, celebrate these liturgical feasts at the falling point of the year. We are known as the Church Militant.

I was first made aware of this interconnection when I was a child. We lived next to a Conventual Franciscan church in Schenectady, New York, Sts. Cyril and Methodius. It was a beautiful old church, and I found great comfort there growing up.

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Be Alert and Ready

As we journey into Advent, Nov. 27-Dec. 24, the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops website notes: “The Advent season is a time of preparation that directs our hearts and minds to Christ’s second coming at the end of time and to the anniversary of Our Lord’s birth on Christmas. From the earliest days of the Church, people have been fascinated by Jesus’ promise to come back. But the Scripture readings during Advent tell us not to waste our time with predictions. Advent is not about speculation. Our Advent readings call us to be alert and ready, not weighted down and distracted by the cares of this world (cf. Lk 21:34-36). Like Lent, the liturgical color for Advent is purple since both are seasons that prepare us for great feast days. Advent also includes an element of penance in the sense of preparing, quieting, and disciplining our hearts for the full joy of Christmas.”

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Each year on Aug. 2, the Franciscan friars at the church would invite us to a devotion established by St. Francis of Assisi. It is known as the Portiuncula devotion. We were told that this mirrored the Nov. 2 feast of All Souls’ and undoubtedly resonated with the Church’s tradition of praying for the dead and their journey home to God.

According to tradition, St. Francis received a gift from Christ, assuring him that if he went through the little door, the portiuncula, of his little church and there prayed for people who had died, they would be purified by Christ from whatever remains needed to be let go of and enter swiftly into the kingdom of heaven. In other words, St. Francis was promised that if he prayed for the Church’s suffering, Christ would hasten their way to become part of the Church Triumphant.

I was inspired by what I heard from the Franciscan priests in Schenectady such that I practiced what St. Francis practiced during my school years.

So, I did my part to assist those who needed me. I entered the church that first year and began the exercise. I said six Our Fathers, six Hail Marys and six Glory Bes for the intention of our pope. I named the person that had died, and I trusted that that person would be moved from purgatory into heaven, from the Church Suffering to the Church Triumphant.

I walked out of the church, and then walked back into the church and did the same thing. I gave another name to a person who had died and hoped that they were brought into the kingdom of heaven.

I had been instructed that I could do this as many times as possible during that day and that, according to the tradition of St. Francis, many suffering members of the Church would be brought into the realm of the Church Triumphant. The best I can remember, I did at least 750 that day. I started at 7 a.m. and concluded at 7 p.m. I was drinking only water when necessary. As you can tell, I was a very pious child.

Many years later, I looked back and asked myself what was happening inside the practice I was doing. In other words, what was happening inside that devotion so compelling to that young boy?

I now understand that I wanted to be part of something big. I now understand that I wanted to help people who needed me. And, in turn, they would help me.

On Aug. 2 and Nov. 2, the veil between the living and the dead was thin. It was a thin place of encounter. I, a member of the Church Militant, would help someone suffering in purgatory. They, in turn, would enter heaven and then help me in my life by praying for me. It was a magnificent harmony between the living and the dead. It was an invitation to be part of this communion by making my ritual contribution of walking in and out of a little church and saying prayers, remembering the dead.

While this practice may sound superstitious to some, to me it still holds the symbolic density of something I am afraid we are losing: an image of the vast expanse of the communion we share in Christ — an icon of the bedazzling inter-belongingness that we as humans have with the dead and with the vastness of things seen and unseen. A cosmic oneness in which all creation belongs.

I was mystified recently by this fact from astrophysicists: What we can see in the vastness of the universe, even with the impressive new telescopes we have, is only 5% of the reality that they surmise is the reality of the cosmos — that 95% of the cosmos, we do not perceive. Wonder ensues.

It is a beautiful gift of the liturgical calendar that we celebrate All Saints and All Souls’ together, and that given to us from the heritage of our tradition is the sense that we are not isolated on this planet, that we are not alone. As the poem above says, there is the reality of God holding it all together in a great communion of love. It is as Dante said, the love that moves the cosmos.

The same practice of communion between the living and dead is celebrated in Mexico, Latin America, the United States, and around the world on Nov. 2 in another creative and imaginative way: Día de los Muertos — the Day of the Dead.

In a 2017 film, “Coco,” the Day of the Dead (the elegance and beauty of it) is displayed. At the heart of the movie is the importance of remembering the dead. The remembrance of the dead is essential for their survival. While not aligned with the Catholic purgatory tradition, the film acknowledges the essential interconnectivity between the living and the dead. It is a film that celebrates memory, communion and love’s impact.

November 1 and 2 also tell another story. These festivals narrate the hope that we are all in this together, in life and death. As the days darken and we move toward the winter solstice, we are held up by one another in a great Communion of Saints. And this communion is held up by the wounded and glorified hands of Christ.

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The Communion of Saints

“The Church is a ‘communion of saints’: this expression refers first to the ‘holy things’ (sancta), above all the Eucharist, by which ‘the unity of believers, who form one body in Christ, is both represented and brought about.’

“The term ‘communion of saints’ refers also to the communion of ‘holy persons’ (sancti) in Christ who ‘died for all,’ so that what each one does or suffers in and for Christ bears fruit for all.

“We believe in the communion of all the faithful of Christ, those who are pilgrims on earth, the dead who are being purified, and the blessed in heaven, all together forming one Church; and we believe that in this communion, the merciful love of God and his saints is always [attentive] to our prayers.’”

— Catechism of the Catholic Church, Nos. 960-962

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The November Trio

My mother had pictures of her three sons on the piano in the living room. My two brothers and I were portrayed in all our youthful glory in three golden frames connected by two hinges. She called it her three sons in a triptych! It was one of those new words we learned. A triptych is basically what it says: a three-part unfolding of a common subject. Each part is unique and yet connected by hinges to create a lovely trifold of meaning. And believe me, that triptych on my mother’s piano was full of meaning for her. She had it on her bed table when she died at 94 years old.

November gives us a beautiful triptych. Within days of each other, we celebrate Christ the King, the Thanksgiving holiday, and the beginning of the Advent season, a new year of grace.

We could all write about each of these three moments of the triptych. What I find most interesting, however, is the meaning of the two hinges.

So let’s meditate on the first hinge: the hinge that holds together Christ the King and Thanksgiving. What is it that unites these two November festivals?

Everything hinges on bedazzlement.

My doctor father, David N. Power, in this autobiographical book, “Love Without Calculation: A Reflection on Divine Kenosis” (The Crossroad Publishing Company, $24.95), put it this way:

“It is impossible to be a Christian without being in wonderment, without being bedazzled by the form of the Word made flesh, from whose being all the beauty of the human drama, in its various eventualities and manifestations, emerges. While it is in prayer that one is bedazzled by wonder, when one can pray in all kinds of ways provided, one is fixed by the awe of divine initiative, by the God who first looks upon us and does so in such hidden and humble ways” (Page 192).

The fourth Thursday of November in the United States is Thanksgiving Day. It is my favorite holiday because there’s no pressure to perform, only to be present and give thanks and praise. While a civil holiday and not a Christian feast, it acknowledges what is at the heart of our Christian understanding of being called by God. We are baptized and confirmed to give thanks and praise always and everywhere. Not only is it our duty, but it is also our salvation. We have been called to be bedazzled by life, so our response of thanks and praise spills over from the wonderment we feel in living.

Now the hinge to Christ the King.

It appears that what we celebrate on the last Sunday of the liturgical year is how Christ demonstrates his sovereignty by a total self-emptying gift of himself to all creation. The self-emptying gift of love is bedazzling, and we are Christians because of such overwhelming kenosis that hits our hearts.

To put it another way, we best demonstrate our thanks and praise by being linked into the sovereign kenosis of Christ, and in our discipleship of laying down our lives for others, God is indeed praised and thanked. We are initiated and find our salvation in receiving the initiative of God and accepting it in our lives laid down for others in service and humble self-giving.

Now the second hinge to Advent.

For this triptych to be complete, the second hinge is significant. Advent begins with a call to stay awake and not become drowsy with the world’s expectations.

The world expects perfection, success, pleasure, productivity, power, praise and total completion of one’s potential. Such expectations can cause great anxiety because the reality of living itself seems imperfect and fragile and never quite satisfied. Some call this obsessive-compulsive behavior. One compulsively wants to be perfect. One wants to be in control of happiness without need or vulnerability.

This anxious way of living is all too common, especially as the holidays approach. The perfect gift, the perfect house decorations, the perfect Christmas cards, the perfect holiday dinner, the perfect husband, the perfect wife, the perfect family, the perfect dog, the perfect Christmas tree.

This second hinge of the Advent season is the reminder and the declaration that we live on the front side of the eschaton. Christ has not yet come again, and we are to wait in joyful hope for the possibility of fulfillment. The deception of the world, expecting perfection, is an emotional roller coaster. When we gather for Eucharist, we pray that we will be freed from all distress as we await the coming of the sovereign Christ.

Advent invites us into a hinge that allows our lives to be bedazzled while, at the same time, acknowledging the imperfection of it all. Advent asks the question, what do we expect on this side of the Second Coming? We cannot expect perfection. We cannot expect completion. We cannot expect fulfillment. Humbly, we are invited to give thanks and praise for the ordinary that becomes extraordinary so that we may become extraordinarily ordinary servants of God.

Welcome November

As the autumn season approaches and the days of October move us into November, a song plays in my mind. It is composed and written by Barry Manilow and entitled “When October Goes.” The lyrics of the song conclude with these words:

“I should be over it now, I know / It doesn’t matter much how old I grow /I hate to see October go.”

The sentiment is genuine. When October goes, we move into the darkest part of the year; everything seems to be falling. When November appears, death is fully displayed, the days shorten, and the human reality of finitude is poignant.

While the song concludes with a kind of lament by saying farewell to October, it seems pathetic. The sentiment lacks the wisdom of the years.

For Christians, as we grow old, each November can refine our desires. The predictable passage of the year to its conclusion can purify our fear, allowing us to face the reality of death and embrace November as a way of Advent hope. We can embrace death as a way of being embraced by life, a way of rejoicing in hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ. To welcome the one whose hands infinitely, calmly hold up all our falling.

When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come to pass: “Death is swallowed up in victory” (1 Cor 15:54).

Welcome, November. Welcome, November.

FATHER RICHARD N. FRAGOMENI, Ph.D., is a priest of the Diocese of Albany, New York, and professor of liturgy and preaching and chair of the Department of Word and Worship at Catholic Theological Union.

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Commending the Dead to God’s Love

The General Introduction of the Order of Christian Funerals explains: “The Church through its funeral rites commends the dead to God’s merciful love and pleads for the forgiveness of their sins. At the funeral rites, especially at the celebration of the Eucharistic sacrifice, the Christian community affirms and expresses the union of the Church on earth with the Church in heaven in the one great communion of saints. Though separated from the living, the dead are still at one with the community of believers on earth and benefit from their prayers and intercession. At the rite of final commendation and farewell, the community acknowledges the reality of separation and commends the deceased to God. In this way it recognizes the spiritual bond that still exists between the living and the dead and proclaims its belief that all the faithful will be raised up and reunited in the new heavens and a new earth, where death will be no more” (No. 6).

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