Living with the Dead

Martha Hodges (Interim Minister) - 2005-10-30

We, the living, are unwilling to let them go, the dead. Whether seriously or in jest, we invite the dead back into our lives in traditions such as the Day of the Dead. It is difficult to conceive of a world that is no longer home to those we knew and loved. But whether we believe in an afterlife or reject such a possibility as mere superstition or wishful thinking, ours is a culture that fears and rejects death. Here in the United States, we deal with its mystery in a very different way than in Mexico. How enviable that easy and even jaunty relationship with death, which, in the words of the poet, embraces death, celebrates it, and even plays with it!

The ghosts in our folklore and popular culture are not the benign spirits who visit us once a year to pay their respects and enjoy a glass of beer with us. Our ghosts tend to be frightening, gory, vengeful creatures. In horror films, ghost stories and in even in the celebration of Halloween, we Americans attempt to tame our fears by mocking them - by mocking death itself. We turn the dead into caricatures, at best spiteful, and at worst, murderous. By exaggerating their otherness, we reassure ourselves that they do not exist. The angry, fearsome ghost becomes a cartoon character -- laughable, and so, less frightening.

But why, I wonder, do our ghosts tend to be so scary -- so threatening? Why are they portrayed as out to get us? Well, maybe, as a culture, we don’t deal so well with bad consciences. For, make no mistake -- we are haunted -- and not for just one day a year. At least, I am ... And I suspect you are, too. I live daily with the spirits of the dead.

Oh, not the kind of spirits that haunt the attic, wailing, sobbing and blowing out candles. I don’t hear unexplained knockings in the middle of the night. No, my ghosts are easier to explain. If they are frightening, it is only because they remind me of my own failures -- most often, failures to live up to my own desire to be a loving person. In memory, I relive moments in which I spoke harshly, or kept silent when I should have spoken. Moments when I withheld an embrace or a smile, a grudge I refused to let go of.

I was twenty-one when my father died and still harboring an adolescent’s resentment of a parent who had proven imperfect. After he died, I did not believe for a moment that his soul hovered about, watching over me. But I found myself wondering, “If I did believe that, what would that feel like? If he were here, what would he say to me? Would he forgive me for my coldness, my sulks and dirty looks?” And I decided that he would. I decided that if, by some stretch of the imagination, people do continue on in some conscious form after death, surely they must have transcended the petty emotions of the living. From their vantage point beyond life, surely they must understand all, and, understanding all, forgive all. They must love us. And this conclusion comforted me.

Now that I am older, I understand this somewhat differently. Our ghosts are the stories we tell ourselves about the dead. They are remembered facial expressions and gestures -- a raised eyebrow or a raised voice. We find ourselves repeating their favorite phrases. Sometimes in the middle of a funny story or ridiculous situation, we notice ourselves thinking of how they would have laughed. Sometimes we realize with a shock that we know exactly what they would say about that bumper sticker on the car ahead of us, or the amount of garlic we are putting in the spaghetti sauce, or even our choice of mate or career. If they are our parents, perhaps we even catch a glimpse of them in our mirror when we brush our teeth or see their features in the faces of our children. They haunt our dreams. They color our expectations of ourselves and of the world. This is the “silent ministry” of the dead.

But what if this ministry is not so benign? What if the memory is of an abusive or rejecting parent? A friend who betrayed us? A spouse who wounded or belittled us? These ghosts, too, we must live with.

Over the years, with any luck, we become more able to choose the stories we tell ourselves. Will our ghosts be friendly or reproachful? Will they taunt us or comfort us? Will we forgive and be forgiven? We do have some freedom to decide how we will go on living with the dead. We will not forget past wrongs -- theirs or ours -- but with time, we can learn to live with them in peace. For they are with us, for better or worse, of this I have no doubt.

That perspective that I attributed to my father’s spirit -- that all-knowing view from another dimension, far beyond the reach of resentment and anger -- may be more than we, the living, can manage. It is not easy to forgive some things. But for our peace of mind, we can try. We can remind ourselves that those who hurt us were living with their own ghosts, as best they could.

Our ghosts are only what we create -- what we choose to see. In a real sense, we do summon them, just as the Mexicans do on the Day of the Dead. Perhaps the stories, the ghosts we summon have a purpose. Perhaps their ministry -- the ministry of our memories -- is to teach us how to live. For those for whom our grief is mixed with old angers -- that is to say, for most of us -- the lesson may be to rebel, to have courage, to survive. Perhaps the deads’ lesson to us is that life is precious and that happiness is worth fighting for, despite the pain -- the pain that remains from hurtful relationships -- or the pain that lingers from the loss of loving ones. Perhaps to remember the dead really is to celebrate life -- as Carlos Cortez stated in our reading this morning. To celebrate not just their lives, but our own.

So let us raise a glass to our ghosts. May we welcome their presence among us with honor and gratitude. Living, they helped to make us who we are; their continuing silent companionship helps us to grow into who we will become. May we learn to live with them in peace.