It is said that dogs do not have short-term memories, that they don’t have the same concept of time as we humans do. It certainly is true of my Cairn Terrier, Bertie. When I come back home after being away for a few hours, I get the exact same welcome as when I come back after being away just a few minutes having forgotten something. For humans, whose lives are dominated by time as well as space, memory is crucially important. I guess that is why it why dementia or Alzheimer’s is so distressing, for memories not only fade, they get jumbled and mixed up.

I had a parishioner in New York, her name was Jo Brans – she died a few years ago. A literary scholar, she wrote books, had a column in a big magazine in Texas, and was larger than life. But in her old age, dementia had made her a shadow of her former self. She wrote an article on aging, and recalled a poem by Philip Larkin, titled ‘The Old Fools’:

Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms
Inside your head, and people in them, acting.
People you know, yet can’t quite name. Each looms
Like a deep loss restored…That is where they live:
Not here and now, but where all happened once.

Poignantly, she said that there seemed to be more ‘lighted rooms’ now in her own head, then, turning to her beloved husband, she borrowed some words of Robert Browning but made them her own: “Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be, and that will be remembering.”

Remembering is not only what makes us human, it also forms bonds that create community; and communities use ritual and liturgy in order to connect with the remembrances of the past in a vivid and beautiful way. That is what we are doing tonight, my friends.

We live in an age when so many funeral customs have all but disappeared. Gone are the days of washing and preparing the body, bringing the body home, sharing stories, and even feasting around the body; many funerals, these days, do not even have the body present. As we heard in our first lesson, so many find death a discomfort even to talk about; “In the eyes of the foolish they seemed to have died, and their departure was thought to be a disaster.” But what does the writer go on to say?

“…they are at peace. For though in the sight of others they were punished, their hope is full of immortality.”

Bishop Richard Holloway suggests that Christian remembrance is not simply about memory but is an active engagement with the past and its effect on present realities; he suggests that Christians might use a better term for this kind of remembrance, making them actively remembrancers.

In his book with the most cheerful of titles – Anger, Sex, Doubt, and Death – He says this:

“We would be remembrancers even if we lived for ever, but it seems to be the presence of death that provokes the keenest remembrance. The living we can revisit, but the dead we can only remember. And we do: sometimes in little glimpses, like the credit flashbacks at the end of a film; sometimes in more elaborate sequences, in which we reconstitute as much about a person as we can. It is death that makes us look back in sorrow, makes us remembrancers. But it is also death that makes us look forward in dread.” (1).

In the prophecy of Isaiah there is a beautiful image of a person’s life journey described as a tapestry or carpet. When a carpet or tapestry is being woven, as it grows in size, it is impossible to carry on without rolling it up, and the roll becomes bigger and bigger and the pattern becomes obscured. It is only when the rug or tapestry is complete that the weaver cuts it off from the loom and unrolls it. Isaiah says: “like a weaver I have rolled up my life; he cuts me off from the loom.” (Isaiah 38:12)

Being cut off from the loom that was essential to the creation of the tapestry in the first place is a process of separation; it is an image of death, yet it is necessary in order for the tapestry or the rug to be of any use. But the most beautiful thing of all is that, it is only when it is cut off from the loom that the carpet can be unrolled, and the rich tapestry with its unique pattern can be revealed.

Jesus said “the hour is coming, and is now here, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear will live.”
Of course, we are taught that with death also comes judgment. Jesus also speaks about judgement in our Gospel reading:

“The Father … has given all judgment to the Son.”

Now that the beautiful tapestry with all its rich colors and pattern is spread out for all to see, it is also possible to see the flaws that were created during its making. We fear our flaws being revealed, but they are what makes the tapestry so unique and, therefore, precious. The process of coming to terms with the entirety of the pattern that is our life is what we call judgement – which, for the Christian, is not something to be feared, but a means of growth into the loving embrace of God – into accepting all that I was, all that I am, and what I shall be.

For some, that journey will be hard – meeting God who is pure love and forgiveness may be too much for some to accept all at once – perhaps some might even want to roll up the tapestry again, for they are not yet ready to see it in its entirety spread before them. Archbishop Michael Ramsey used to teach about this by using another uncomfortable word – purgatory – but not as a place of torment; rather, as he described it, a stage on the journey as we comes to terms with the reality of our lives and come closer and closer to God who, unlike us, is always pure love and ultimate forgiveness. As Professor Philip Sheldrake once said, “Holiness is a process, a continual movement towards God.

In the same vein, I love the story that Cardinal Basil Hume used to share about a priest preaching at a funeral. The priest started his homily, “I want to speak to you today about judgement.” And the congregation visibly shuddered. “Judgement,” the priest continued, “is whispering into the ear of a merciful and compassionate God the story of my life which I had never been able to tell.”

Judgement, is whispering into the ear of a merciful and compassionate God the story of my life which I had never been able to tell.

Let us pray.

A prayer by David Adams:
Light of the world, enter into the depths of our lives.
Come into the dark and hidden places.
Walk in the storehouse of our memories.
Hear the hidden secrets of the past.
Plumb the very depth of our being.
Be present through the silent hours,
and bring us safely to your glorious light. Amen

(1). From ‘Anger, Sex, Doubt, and Death’ pub. SPCK 1992