Advent, Day 4: On Sacraments & Soup

(Day 4 of this year’s Advent series. Yesterday’s piece was about stillness vs. Mary. And today, I mark an anniversary.)

My friends, you know I am allergic to conclusions. When they show up, they are usually some sort of asymptote. But sometimes this is not the case.

A year ago, walking to work in the early December darkness, I received a phone call from my father. That call was, indeed, a conclusion. There was no ambiguity framing the end – the very particular cessation – of my mother.

We waited until August to hold a memorial. I am deeply grateful to have had nine months for words to form.

Today I leave those words here: not because you knew my mother specifically, but because the main points are ones which I hope might be helpful to anyone who finds themself caught between body and question mark.

That is, the practice of having a body is the only confirmed option we have for experiencing anything; whatever structures of revelation and/or faith and/or oblivion, there is no guarantee of reaching them except going through a body first – however you wish to read that.

Or on my less talkative days: have body, will speculate.

And that is precisely where things sit, this Advent.

One more note: my mother’s memorial was in fact a bit more akin to one of the parties she used to give. My father arranged her artwork around the room, set up spaces for all to sit and talk; a family friend miraculously and generously created a full meal, pimiento cheese and cucumber sandwiches and lemonade and tea and much more; and other friends played music, sang, brought memories, kindnesses, and their own knowledges of pain. I mention this so you have context for the specific references to the setting.

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On Sacraments and Soup

(Read in memorial of Leanda Maria Grogan, d. 12/04/2024) 

My friends – 

Thank you all for joining us here, this evening.

As each of you know, one of my mother’s great qualities was that she found rich meaning in preparing spaces for all to come together, to eat, talk, laugh or cry, and share. 

This is something which she did over and over, across changes in time, community and place, throughout her life. 

You may have seen her artwork outside. As pictured in one of the pieces, as a child growing up in the clay hills of Tennessee, she made cakes from earth and rose petals to share with her playmates. 

In her years of professional and teaching work, she put on gallery events and student showcases full of homemade treats and music, where the joyful atmosphere was as much an artist’s craft as anything on the wall.

Throughout my childhood, she made sure to host at least one party every year to bring together families traveling schedules’ divergent paths. 

And in the later years of her life, many of you received to-your-door baked goods or letters from her at times when you might have had need of such things.

Each time – each of these acts – she understood as a sacrament. A sacrament – according to Augustine – is “an outward sign of an inward grace;” or, if you prefer Merriam-Webster, “a sign or symbol of a spiritual reality.” 

Somewhere between inward grace and…grace that encompasses reality, then – we are left with the space in which sacrament-work is performed. 

Of all ways my mother could be remembered or labeled – obviously I am partial to “my mother” but “artist, teacher, friend, spouse, cook” all apply from different mouths – I have come to my own conclusion that “sacrament worker” – while clumsy of diction and unwieldy – is perhaps the most true to the sum of how she sought to live her life.

That is to say, my mother was acutely aware of the intersection between the physical and spiritual realms: between dusting or doing dishes, and Divinity. 

She not just saw, but invited, God – constantly – into the routines and spaces that surrounded her. 

Doing schoolwork in the next room over, I frequently overheard my mother have deeply engrossed conversations, for quite extended periods of time – with God’s Presence. These conversations were usually of such detail and familiarity that I would not have been particularly surprised to hear an answer back. 

The natural overflow of this sort of hands-on approach to inviting God was her deep-seated commitment to inviting others. And although my mother could carry on quite a conversation – all while insisting she was a very quiet person – it is important to note that these invitations were not all of the spoken or mail-box-delivered kind. 

By this I mean: she made many incredible things throughout her life, things that were beautiful and things that were delicious and things that were full of meaning. 

But – through all of her artwork or cooking or writing or teaching – there was really only one thing she was trying to make. 

And that was a space where God could enter the world. 

A space where, for however long that miracle took place – those who wished to, could catch a glimpse of something sacred. 

Something – sacred? 

My friends, please understand. I do not use that word lightly, but I also do not use it, in anything other than completely profound ignorance. 

Unlike the definition of “sacrament” or even “sacrament work” – it would be utterly disingenuous of me to place the bushel basket of definition over it. 

From the glimpses my mother’s work afforded me, therefore, all I can whisper is this. The sacred is – whatever is found in a space, that sends guests out with the beauty or courage, truth or words or silence, to carry them just a bit further along their path than they had thought they could make it, when they arrived. 

In the course of your friendships with her, I do not know what you might consider the last sacrament she left you with. Whatever that might be for each of you, it is now uniquely yours to cherish, and to carry forward as best and however far along your path you are able.

Of those things I have just named, what has stayed with me –  is silence. As my mother’s breathing failed in the last portion of her life, she had no words. 

I do not know what conversations we might have had if she had been able to speak, the last year of her life. As I’ve said, my ignorance is profound. All I can hope, for her and for myself, is that sometimes Grace is best found in the silence left by – simply having no words. And for the end of my mother’s life, I truly have no words. 

Out of my carrying of that silence, then, let me lay out these three truths:

Most things go unfinished. 

Most things go unsaid. 

Most things’ meaning is unknown.

I do not know the meaning of my mother’s life. It feels unfinished, and so much feels unsaid – the obvious things, like the last, “I love you” – and also – the things simply not thought of until there’s no time left to speak. Perhaps you, too, feel the same. 

I also do not know the meaning of her death, other than to try to understand it as a sacrament – and one in which each of us will eventually take part. That is the real meaning of the intersection of the physical and spiritual worlds: that last glimpse of the Divine opening up in this world. The threshold of that sacrament is the space where all of us will arrive as empty-handed guests, from whatever path we’ve been traveling.

Of course, for those of us here tonight, we are all still firmly on the physical side of that threshold. Our hands are still full. We are still doing dishes, and dusting, and maybe having conversations of which only one half can be heard, from the next room over – 

On behalf of whoever’s in that next room, then: please allow me to offer this invite – to remember these three truths. 

First, most things are unfinished; second, most things are unsaid; third, most things’ meaning is unknown.  

That is to say – faith is found in what is unfinished; hope is made on things yet to be said. 

And the meaning of love is, as yet, completely unknown to us who live here in profound ignorance, guests under our bushel baskets as it were – still working, still sharing, still making spaces in the weave of those baskets – where the sacred can come pouring in around us. 

In invitation, then, to my fellow guests, let me close with a poem. 

Twofold Cup

The sacrament of death is twofold –
A cup shared in parts, one sip offered
To the self who departs, 
And the dregs for those who carry still 
The lifeblood mark.

It is the greater rule of love,
This table set – a place for each, 
That all may find – yet –
Their seat by love, which says: 
My brother, my window, my heart – 
My precious unknown other,
My breath apart: 
How would I know your face, 
If not given us to meet
Bound by this table of sacrament? –
As lifelong friends we greet:
So by embrace, this grave hospitality –
We join each in whole to learn 
This untold gift, eternally.

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