In Memoriam
Reverend Janet Parsons
Gloucester Unitarian Universalist Church
May 24, 2020
Do you know why we persist in referring to the influenza epidemic that began in 1918 the “Spanish Flu?” It did not start in Spain. In fact, historians believe that it is very possible that it started in Kansas. But when people began dying from this new strain of the flu, the first World War was nearing its end. Most countries, including the United States, were focused on winning the war, and on trying to ignore anything that might compromise the war effort. Reporting about the flu was considered bad for morale, and diverting resources to treat it was seen as detrimental. News about the flu was censored. But in Spain, which was neutral in the conflict, there was no censorship and newspapers were allowed to report on the flu. We came to associate the flu with Spain, unfairly, as it turns out. We humans love to blame someone else – anyone else – for calamity. Apparently the Germans called it the Russian Pest, and the Russians called it Chinese Fever. (New York Times, “Why are there Almost No Memorials to the Flu of 1918?” May 4, 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/14/business/1918-flu-memorials.html)
The more things change, the more they stay the same, as the old expression goes.
For most of the 20th century, the story of the flu pandemic has received relatively little mention. The story of the World War, the war to end all wars, took precedence. Then too, families who were suddenly devasted by the rapid and terrible deaths caused by the flu were likely too traumatized to talk much about it. Many of those who died were young soldiers, and it was seen as far more honorable to have died in combat than to have died from illness. As a result, a lot of stories have never been told. In fact, it came to light this spring that the President’s own grandfather died very suddenly from the flu, and the President appeared to be completely unaware of it.
We have not changed much since 1918. We are in the grip of another pandemic, potentially as deadly as the one 100 years ago. And reports are that some states are not reporting the numbers of cases of the virus. Why? Well, much like the old fear of such terrible news affecting a war effort, we fear the damage to the economy. A president fears that catastrophic news will affect his re-election. And so, once again, we are not finding a way to talk about the deaths, about the many human souls lost to this illness. We are not acknowledging the grief and the loss that so many people are struggling with alone.
And so we turn to Memorial Day. First known as Decoration Day, it was a day set aside in the aftermath of the Civil War for Americans to honor and remember their loved ones killed in the war. The practices of visiting cemeteries, as Roger read for us, leaving flags and flowers, helped us to remember people and their sacrifice, and kept their memories alive, their names in our hearts and on our lips.
Today the losses we are witnessing are not traditionally war-related. But yet, in a sense they are: we talk about the people on the front lines, the courage and the nobility of those who are risking their lives to save others. There is heroism, and death, and grief.
What we see from looking at our situation today and looking back at our past, is that we need these traditional practices; the flags, the flowers, the visits. We need to come together, to mourn in public, to lament our losses, or else it is too easy to simply stop talking about the deaths and remembering the people.
The practice of lament is an ancient one. Many of the Psalms in the Hebrew Bible are laments; cries out to God; protests. Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” A lament gives voice to our sorrow. A lament is the first part of healing; giving words to the suffering and the grief. Until it can be named, it is simply hidden, swallowed, unacknowledged. Pain and loss that is not acknowledged cannot heal.
This year there will be no public observances for Memorial Day; it is not safe to do so. In fact one of the stories from 1918 that has surfaced in recent months is a cautionary tale of what happened when the City of Philadelphia decided to go ahead with a parade to welcome home soldiers, and to raise money for war bonds. Doctors and public health officials warned against it, but their warnings were ignored. Three days later, cases of influenza exploded in Philadelphia. The second wave had arrived.
So we will not gather in large groups tomorrow, nor should we. But we should try to remember, to collectively name and feel the grief that we are experiencing over this great wave of loss that is crashing over our country and the entire world. As I write this we are closing in on 100,000 deaths in the United States. Yet there has been no official acknowledgment of this catastrophe. In most cases we don’t know who these people are. Their families grieve alone, left with the pain of not being able to say goodbye. How will this sorrow be expressed?
This morning the New York Times provided a partial answer. The Times researched and published on its front page 1000 names and descriptions of people who have died from Covid-19. The visual is staggering. And yet, the names shown are 1% – 1%! – of the American deaths so far. How and when will we confront this loss?
A seminary professor of mine, retired now, spends much of the winter in Seville, in Spain. This year she and her wife were forced to remain there, unable to leave when the country was locked down. She reported daily on life in Seville, and one thing she observed more than once was that every report or press conference began with a lament; an acknowledgment of how many people have been lost. When it is safe to do so, in Spain, there will be a national day of mourning. When I read her updates, I am struck again by how we only talk about numbers and the search for a vaccine. The president, the other day, referred to ill people as having ‘the problem’.
Recently, in an attempt to face this loss, and to get beyond the statistics, I also turned to the newspaper: I began looking at the obituary section in the Boston Globe on Sundays. It has been about 20 pages in length each week. I don’t read all the entries, of course, there are too many. But I look at each page, and the faces, so that I will remember that these are beloved people who have been lost; that each number reported on the news in the evening represents a parent, or child, a sibling, or spouse.
We have focused on the stories of the health care workers; those warriors on the front lines in this new, modern war. We have focused on the struggle to adapt to this new way of life, keeping a safe distance from one another, wearing masks, worrying about how to keep ourselves healthy. This is completely understandable. But this focus on the day to day has also helped to keep us from looking at the larger picture; that so many people are dying. We know it, of course. But are we allowing ourselves to feel the loss, the sadness?
Rabbi Naomi Levy wrote, “Death is tragic. It robs us of the people we love. But death is also part of life. We cannot avoid it, and we cannot escape it. Death awaits us as it awaits all those we cherish. Denying our mortality is not comfort. Refusing to talk about loss and mourning does not lead to healing or to uplift; it leads to confusion, isolation, and fear. After a loved one dies, healing does come…It comes when we allow ourselves to feel and express the pain of our loss…Our memories of those we have loved and lost are the beacons that light up our way.” (Naomi Levy, Talking to God, Doubleday, 2002, p. 201.)
This weekend, and whenever we can, I hope we can find a way to remember all those who are dying now, as well as those we have already lost. It is difficult without a public recognition, without ceremony. But if we understand the necessity, the requirement of mourning, of lament, then perhaps we can hold this grief close until we are able to express it more publicly. Like all of you, I hope that the day will come soon, so that we can move forward onto the path of healing; as people, as families, and as a nation.
May it be so,
Amen.
