Listening

I suppose we all occasionally find ourselves listening with our minds, not our ears, to persons we may not have seen for years, who in fact, have died. These conversations may be as real as if the dead were sitting in the next chair. Although long gone, the departed seem very much alive if only in the deepest recesses of our inner world. 

 
And then there are those who believe that the dead have been reincarnated and are living in another reality, or even in another earthly life, but with whom the living can still communicate. While this way of looking at death is unlike anything many of us can even imagine, we must respect those who hold to that very different reality. No one has a right to stand in judgment or even to question someone’s esoteric or private experiences. If there are charlatans who have bilked the unsuspecting, claiming they can produce encounters with deceased relatives, there are those who sincerely believe that communication with the dead is possible.

There has recently re-emerged a passionate fascination with one’s family tree. This interest in genealogy has been fed by Mormons who search historical records in order to identify relatives who are then baptized into the faith in a ceremony that employs a proxy. I know those who have traced their family histories back as far as the tenth century. Now a genetic test will tell you what percent of who you are comes from your Viking or your Neanderthal heritage. Ours is one of the few cultural traditions that does not make room for the active participation of ancestors. In most cultures no ceremony is complete without recognizing that the ancestors are respected as still being part of the ongoing community.

At times we may hear of someone who has died asking that they be turned loose so they may rest in peace. I was not able to go on with life until weeks after the death of my son, John. One night he appeared in a dream telling me, who longed for a reunion with him, that he was dead, was not coming back, and I needed to let him go, and get on with my life. Surmising what I know about John, he would want me to move on beyond my grief, not spend my emotional energy hoping for a new personal encounter with him.

In the Christian tradition we still speak of the community or communion of saints, with a focus on what they have to say to us. We experience them and are surrounded by this “great cloud of witnesses,” cheering us on as we “run the race that is set before us.”
I cherish reliving conversations and encounters with people from my past. Some of these encounters come both in my hours of sleep and in wide-awake moments. I have had dreams over the years that involved clear, memorable conversations. Most of the conversations that take place as I sleep quickly vanish the moment I wake up. Try as I might to lure them back, the encounter has slipped away never to be retrieved.

And then there are wide-awake memories that are as clear as any present reality. I remember my father running beside me the first time I ventured out on my big-boy’s bicycle. I knew I was going to crash, but there was my father right beside me imploring me to “keep peddling.” I can still hear my mother saying, “Charles, I’m so proud of you.” Or perhaps that is what I believe she might have said.
Someone long ago compared his current generation to a bouquet—lovely for a while but rootless and destined to fade. Sometimes we progressives are tempted to believe that the only things of value consist of what we have thought and created. Henry Ford is credited with saying, “history is bunk.” No, history is what makes valuable whatever we have and whoever we are. The generations of all those who have gone before still speak, are part of who we are, and our most important guides and teachers, and if we are wise enough, we will listen.