One of the saints of our congregation died peacefully yesterday on November 1. The month of remembrance of all the faithful departed has thus began with the passing of this particular brother in Christ, a tall, deep-voiced poet who read Psalm 22 every year at our Maundy Thursday liturgy and could always be found with a twinkle in his eye.
Last week I attended a hymn sing in memory of Paul Manz, the great Lutheran organist and cantor. His son read a quote of C.S. Lewis that seems especially appropriate for this time of gathering with the living to ponder eternity and our own places in it:
It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour. . . . .the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. . . .Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. (The Weight of Glory, p. 9)
