On November 26, I talked about what it means to be part of our community. Just days later, my colleague Kimberly Debus wrote a bit more about it. You can see what she had to say here.

I also stumbled on a bit of writing I did some years ago that resonates with that same message. I began it by quoting poet Adrienne Rich whose words have been scripture for me:

I have to cast my lot with those
who age after age, perversely,
with no extraordinary power,
reconstitute the world.

And here’s the story:

A colleague of mine – called Ant, short for Anthony – in the United Kingdom has a strong calling of offering funeral services. It may seem strange to US readers, but it is not especially unusual. He has a gift for meeting people in grief, and offering them comfort and a dignified, fitting service for their loved ones. He has become the person that the local funeral director calls when there is a need for a minister to provide a service for those who have no church affiliation.

A week or so ago, the funeral director called to ask him to hold a service for a body that had not been claimed for 3 years. I don’t know any of the story behind this body, only that the authorities didn’t even have a name to attach to it, only that it was only a body with no one to grieve, no one to even identify him. Ant was, of course, willing to offer a service for the man. In all his time of doing funerals, this was a first. He had spoken a service for a man with no mourners, but he could speak of him by name and knew at least a few details of his life.

This was different. The chapel at the crematorium (where most funerals take place in the UK) would be empty, Ant could say prayers and offer the words that you do at the end of a life, but it would be anonymous. There was a poignancy to the service that moved him. In church on the Sunday before the service was scheduled, Ant noted the upcoming service and the sadness that it evoked for him. After the service was over, the good people of his church offered to support him.

The rituals around death in England are quite different from those we are accustomed to in the US. The hearse bearing the body arrives at the crematorium chapel, and is led to the door by a funeral director in morning coat and top hat walking slowly ahead of the vehicle. The casket is lifted by bearers (sometimes family or friends, often by funeral home staff) and slowly carried on their shoulders into the chapel. The congregation rises in honor of the body, and once it is placed on the plinth at the front, the pall bearers and funeral director bow as one to the body before leaving.

This man whose name no one knew was borne a final time through a chapel populated by people who took time out of their day to offer dignity and honor to someone they didn’t know. A church member made a wreath to go on the coffin, a sweet gesture of love and respect. The congregation in the chapel didn’t know the shape of the life they honored, they didn’t know what he did or who he loved or the pain that twisted his heart sometimes. It didn’t matter. Church members and funeral home staff were present as the prayers were said. They sang hymns to the spirit of life and love and loss and mourning. Ant apologized that they didn’t know his name, but noted his sureness that God would greet him by name.

In the grand scheme of the world, this is a small moment that matters little if at all. It doesn’t bring peace to the war weary, nor does it feed the hungry. It cannot cure the diseases that destroy bodies and lives. This was a small moment unnoticed by virtually all of humanity.

And yet, this is precisely what saves us most: the small movements of kindness and compassion that occur everywhere all day every day. They transform those of us who are privileged to view them when we can clearly see their beauty. When we can be strengthened and inspired by such simple acts, we can – we do – change the world. Using nothing more that the very ordinary gifts of hospitality, love, attention and presence, we make the world a better place.

As the earth turns these final few weeks toward the dark, let us keep our eyes and hearts open for these ordinary gifts and graces. Seeing and knowing them, may we be uplifted in the dark, and turn our eyes to the dawning light of the new year.