I know I tell a lot of stories about my grammie, Mary Doyle MacKenzie Unwin. But she has been very present with me this week as I’ve been thinking and praying about All Saints Day. So I hope you’ll indulge me in another story about her.
Grammie was born in Inverness, Scotland in 1905. In her many stories, she often told me that her father’s first language was Gaelic and that his English wasn’t that good. She loved to recount the story of going to visit her father’s family in Applecross, a tiny village on the side of the mountain on the West Coast of Scotland.
On this particular evening, she was taking a walk with her uncle Murdo who spent most of his time dressed in tartan and hiking in the mountains since his job was to be the hunter for the wealthy land owner. As the darkness fell, Uncle Murdo turned to Grammie and said, “would you like to talk with Robbie Burns?”
Now, Robbie Burns was one of my grammie’s favorite poets. She had memorized dozens and dozens of his pieces—many of them in Gaelic. As he was known as the Scottish national poet, you can imagine that my grammie would have been thrilled to talk with him.
But she responded to Uncle Murdo’s request with deep fear, “Uncle Murdo, Robbie Burns has been dead for over a hundred years.” To which Uncle Murdo replied, “Ay, Lassie, a spirit like that never dies.”
Tomorrow we are marking All Saints Day. For me, my Uncle Murdo’s wisdom lies at the heart of this day. “Ay, Lassie, a spirit like that never dies.”
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the word of God, so that what is seen was made from things that are not visible.
But there’s a bit more to the story of Uncle Murdo and my great-grandfather. As I said, they had grown up in Applecross, on the West Coast of Scotland. But our family had originally lived in the Western Islands.
The story of how they got to Applecross is rooted in a century of brutality known as the Highland Clearances. In the mid-eighteenth century, as punishment for participating in the Scottish Clan uprising against English colonization, the Scottish wealthy class began clearing people, including my MacKenzie relatives, from the communal lands in the Highlands and the Western Islands. Then, those same lands were given to wealthy people to develop large-scale sheep farming.
The Clearances were marked by violence and brutality and often removed whole villages off their land on short notice. People were often left homeless, without any source of income or food. And, if they stole food to feed their families, many were arrested and sent to penal colonies in places like Australia. Additionally, wearing tartan was outlawed and punishable with arrest and deportation. And speaking Gaelic was discouraged and suffered greatly.
This use of forced displacement and cultural destruction as punishment for liberation struggles, coupled with rewarding the wealthy who are already aligned with the colonizer, are old, old tactics.
Robbie Burns, by the way, wrote much of his poetry during the Highland Clearances, in Gaelic. And his voice was one of resistance and resilience and cultural reclamation. These, too, are old, old tactics.
And what more should I say? For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets-- who through faith… obtained promises… won strength out of weakness… others suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment.
So perhaps the second lesson of All Saints Day is that the spirit that never dies isn’t just the spirit of a single person. Perhaps it is the spirit of extravagant love and justice that never dies, either. Perhaps the promised resurrection that is both already and yet to come is both of our bodies and selves AND of the time of jubilee and justice and genuine shalom.
Ay, lassie, a spirit like that never dies!
But, it seems to me that there is yet a third All Saints Day lesson:
Yet all these, though they were commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised, since God had provided something better…
You see, even as the spirit of Robbie Burns is alive and well, even as the spirit of jubilee and justice and genuine shalom surround us here and now, the fullness of God’s promises are not ours. We stand in a long line of those who have been surrounded. And we have been given the honor and the gift of tasting and feeling the promise. But ours is not to realize the fullness, but to rather bring God’s promises more fully to life so that we may hand our children and our children’s children the fruits of our faithfulness.
I have to tell you, I couldn’t help but be drawn over and over again to the story of Standing Rock as I remembered the stories of the Highland Clearances. And I can’t tell you how painful it is to know that some of my people, whose ancestors were violently cleared off of their land, whose language was stolen, whose cultural practices were repressed, some of these same people are now beating, shooting and pepper spraying Water Protectors who walk in the spirit of justice and love that never dies.
So, maybe there’s even a fourth lesson of All Saint’s Day: we have a choice of which spirits we hearken to.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us.
When my grammie died, I sang this song written by Bernice Johnson Reagon at her memorial service. I think my Uncle Murdo might like it.
They are falling all around me
They are falling all around me
They are falling all around me
They are falling all around me
The strongest leaves of my tree
Every paper brings the news that
Every paper brings the news that
Every paper brings the news that
The teachers of my sound are movin' on
Death it comes and rests so heavy
Death it comes and rests so heavy
Death comes and rests so heavy
Your face I'll never see no more
But you're not really going to leave me
You're not really going to leave me
You're not really going to leave me
It is your path I walk
It is your song I sing
It is your load I take on
It is your air that I breathe
It's the record you set
That makes me go on
It's your strength that helps me stand
You're not really
You're not really going to leave me
And I have tried to sing my song right
I have tried to sing my song right
I will try to sing my song right
Be sure to let me hear from you
Amen.
Grammie was born in Inverness, Scotland in 1905. In her many stories, she often told me that her father’s first language was Gaelic and that his English wasn’t that good. She loved to recount the story of going to visit her father’s family in Applecross, a tiny village on the side of the mountain on the West Coast of Scotland.
On this particular evening, she was taking a walk with her uncle Murdo who spent most of his time dressed in tartan and hiking in the mountains since his job was to be the hunter for the wealthy land owner. As the darkness fell, Uncle Murdo turned to Grammie and said, “would you like to talk with Robbie Burns?”
Now, Robbie Burns was one of my grammie’s favorite poets. She had memorized dozens and dozens of his pieces—many of them in Gaelic. As he was known as the Scottish national poet, you can imagine that my grammie would have been thrilled to talk with him.
But she responded to Uncle Murdo’s request with deep fear, “Uncle Murdo, Robbie Burns has been dead for over a hundred years.” To which Uncle Murdo replied, “Ay, Lassie, a spirit like that never dies.”
Tomorrow we are marking All Saints Day. For me, my Uncle Murdo’s wisdom lies at the heart of this day. “Ay, Lassie, a spirit like that never dies.”
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the word of God, so that what is seen was made from things that are not visible.
But there’s a bit more to the story of Uncle Murdo and my great-grandfather. As I said, they had grown up in Applecross, on the West Coast of Scotland. But our family had originally lived in the Western Islands.
The story of how they got to Applecross is rooted in a century of brutality known as the Highland Clearances. In the mid-eighteenth century, as punishment for participating in the Scottish Clan uprising against English colonization, the Scottish wealthy class began clearing people, including my MacKenzie relatives, from the communal lands in the Highlands and the Western Islands. Then, those same lands were given to wealthy people to develop large-scale sheep farming.
The Clearances were marked by violence and brutality and often removed whole villages off their land on short notice. People were often left homeless, without any source of income or food. And, if they stole food to feed their families, many were arrested and sent to penal colonies in places like Australia. Additionally, wearing tartan was outlawed and punishable with arrest and deportation. And speaking Gaelic was discouraged and suffered greatly.
This use of forced displacement and cultural destruction as punishment for liberation struggles, coupled with rewarding the wealthy who are already aligned with the colonizer, are old, old tactics.
Robbie Burns, by the way, wrote much of his poetry during the Highland Clearances, in Gaelic. And his voice was one of resistance and resilience and cultural reclamation. These, too, are old, old tactics.
And what more should I say? For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets-- who through faith… obtained promises… won strength out of weakness… others suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment.
So perhaps the second lesson of All Saints Day is that the spirit that never dies isn’t just the spirit of a single person. Perhaps it is the spirit of extravagant love and justice that never dies, either. Perhaps the promised resurrection that is both already and yet to come is both of our bodies and selves AND of the time of jubilee and justice and genuine shalom.
Ay, lassie, a spirit like that never dies!
But, it seems to me that there is yet a third All Saints Day lesson:
Yet all these, though they were commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised, since God had provided something better…
You see, even as the spirit of Robbie Burns is alive and well, even as the spirit of jubilee and justice and genuine shalom surround us here and now, the fullness of God’s promises are not ours. We stand in a long line of those who have been surrounded. And we have been given the honor and the gift of tasting and feeling the promise. But ours is not to realize the fullness, but to rather bring God’s promises more fully to life so that we may hand our children and our children’s children the fruits of our faithfulness.
I have to tell you, I couldn’t help but be drawn over and over again to the story of Standing Rock as I remembered the stories of the Highland Clearances. And I can’t tell you how painful it is to know that some of my people, whose ancestors were violently cleared off of their land, whose language was stolen, whose cultural practices were repressed, some of these same people are now beating, shooting and pepper spraying Water Protectors who walk in the spirit of justice and love that never dies.
So, maybe there’s even a fourth lesson of All Saint’s Day: we have a choice of which spirits we hearken to.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us.
When my grammie died, I sang this song written by Bernice Johnson Reagon at her memorial service. I think my Uncle Murdo might like it.
They are falling all around me
They are falling all around me
They are falling all around me
They are falling all around me
The strongest leaves of my tree
Every paper brings the news that
Every paper brings the news that
Every paper brings the news that
The teachers of my sound are movin' on
Death it comes and rests so heavy
Death it comes and rests so heavy
Death comes and rests so heavy
Your face I'll never see no more
But you're not really going to leave me
You're not really going to leave me
You're not really going to leave me
It is your path I walk
It is your song I sing
It is your load I take on
It is your air that I breathe
It's the record you set
That makes me go on
It's your strength that helps me stand
You're not really
You're not really going to leave me
And I have tried to sing my song right
I have tried to sing my song right
I will try to sing my song right
Be sure to let me hear from you
Amen.
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