My Grandpa’s funeral ended with “We Are The Champions.” This delighted and didn’t really surprise anyone. His death was a surprise, even through he was heading toward his 93rd birthday, but I had long known he wanted “We Are The Champions” at his funeral. I don’t think this was a theological statement, but a life mission statement. If the funeral had been pre-COVID, I imagine there would have been an audible response once folks recognized the song, their grief would have lifted, and smiles would have spread. However, as it was, the only folks in the room were my parents, my aunts and uncles, and a few cousins; my brother and his family were in another room listening, while Mike and Lila watched the funeral on Facebook in the car. So, rather than an a collective lift of energy, we watched hearts stream across the Facebook feed. The pandemic requires us to be flexible and the time warn patterns are not available, the short cuts and muscle memory can not serve us now and so we grieve together, apart. Hugs and casseroles, big funerals, singing hymns and drying teary eyes all have to be thought through and measured for risk. The rituals, patterns and paths we know are under construction. We remember together in separate spaces. We worship in unique sanctuaries. Every happening from birthday parties and graduations to funerals and weddings has to be reimagined, everything asks us to consider what is essential - even this Sunday, All Saints Sunday, must be reimagined.
This is a season when we name grief, we look it in the eyes and this year, perhaps more than ever, we feel the weight of grief. We feel the wight of grief over the ones we love and miss, but we feel this ambient presence of loss impacting every aspect of life. The events, milestones and journeys on pause; the names, stories and numbers every evening on the news of our neighbors dying with COVID-19. This year we remember our grief, our mortality and our loss with a particular heaviness.
Every year we gather for this work. All Saints is born of the traditions of Northern Europe woven through with Christianity. Centuries and generations have paused as the hours of evening gobble up the daylight to name their fears, their worries and their grief. They have even dressed as what scares them most: goblins, ghouls, and death itself. We do this every year and the gift of this practice, the gift of being rooted in tradition is we don’t do it alone. You show up. We show up remarkably, in a culture that prefers youth and would give anything to live forever, we show up to name our mortality, in a culture that prefers us to be not only fine, but awesome, in this space we show up to grieve together. That is the essential of All Saints Sunday, we show up, with intention to name our fear, our mortality, our grief rather than letting it sneak up on us alone. We do it not to dwell in despair, but to live with care. We remember our mortality so that we make every breath matter.
This is a season when we lean into saints and into relics. If you journey to European churches and Cathedrals, you will find little reminders of saints and leaders onto which folks quite literally wanted to hold. When I was 20 and knew everything, this seemed silly, like medieval nonsense. But the truth is, I hold a lot of relics and praying with the saints (whether they are Mary, Francis or my Grandpa) is not praying to them. This is a season of leaning into the reminders of the folks who spark life, breathe courage, and nurture our being. It is leaning into their presence as we find our own way. I love this stopwatch, it is weighted with good construction and 40 years of track experience. It’s so durable my parents don’t mind Lila playing with it and I love, most of all, that my Grandpa tied it with a shoe string…no fancy lanyards needed. It winds and you can feel the seconds as they pass in your hand. He timed every lap and every race and noted every second of growth and every minute of improvement with this tool. He won championships, stopwatch in hand.
“We are the Champions” wasn’t really a theological statement about victory in Christ as much as it was a mission statement for life. My grandpa was not obsessed with winning at all costs, for four decades he told students he was proud of them before the race started, before they won or lost, he was proud of their hard work. Winning was about more than races. For my entire life, everyone knew my Grandpa and when they meet me they tell me delightful, hilarious, and heartwarming stories. But you know what they never say? “I know your Grandpa, he won a bunch of state track and cross-country titles.” No one says, “I know your Grandpa, he is in the Nebraska State Coaches Hall of Fame.” All of this is true, but no one has ever grabbed my arms and relished the chance to share that. People say, “I know your Grandpa, he bought me the first pair of new shoes I ever owned.” “I know your Grandpa, he kept me in school.” “I know your Grandpa, he taught me to do this, build that, or gave me a shaving kit before my job interview.” Everyone knew my Grandpa Cecil and my Grandma Lila, you could hardly go anywhere without folks knowing them, wanting to chat with them and they were always going somewhere or meeting folks for dinner or supporting the local team. He was, and is, beloved because he loved so many so well. He worked hard to nurture young people, he was proud of their growth, proud that his shop students graduated ready to take professional certification tests. He coached and nurtured folks, even if they weren’t on his team. He mentored and encouraged his fellow teachers and coaches, his children, his grandchildren and even his great-grandchildren. He loved sports, but he loved people more. He could have won one more state title, but it would have meant allowing my Uncle Scott to quit football and quitting on a commitment you made was just not an option in the McKnight house.
My Grandpa was warm, this strange glance of warmth and hard working discipline. He never held onto grudges or hurts, I have to assume he had them. In thinking on his life and how he never had a story of “that guy or administrator or coach that wronged me,” I wondered. Maybe he didn’t get involved in the school politics or face off with a principal, but the truth is he worked to change some rules. Once he pushed to allow young men who had fathered children the chance to play sports and he won and they won all together. He refused to be bogged down in vendettas or let wounds be salted. And he evolved. He lived eight years shy of a century and he managed the world changes without a hard heart or a deaf ear. He started coaching in the 1950s. By the end of the 1970s, girls were running track and cross country. He coached them all the way to state, too…even if he had a rough time learning that girls cry during practice. He grew with us again in the 2000s when my youngest brother brought his boyfriends home. He chatted them up, included them in family photos and loved them just like he had when I brought a boy home. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Greg’s first boyfriend was a sportswriter.
My Grandpa would chat folks into chatting, listen folks into sharing and remember whether he saw you a week later or a year later what you had shared, what was going on, and what obstacles you faced. There is this great wisdom in his stopwatch and in his life. He coached every sport, but the ones he loved the most were the sports with a stopwatch or measuring tape. The race wasn’t just against the people lined up next to you, the race was with yourself. He loved growth, the discipline that lead to growth, that made you better and stronger and more capable. He loved the sports where you raced yourself and he was as proud of folks growing into the best possible person they could be.
I hold this stopwatch and I sit at a desk he made for my Grandma. I feel his presence nudging me forward, reminding me to do my best work, to let go of what would hold me back and to bring warmth and love into the world. He is one of my saints, one that I can lean into when I feel unsure on the next step, and one that defines champion beyond the medal count. Perhaps you have that person, perhaps you can hold a relic or remember holding a hand. That’s what All Saints is all about. Naming these saints who breathe courage and grit into us, naming our fears and moving forward to a life of abundance where every step matters.
May we have the courage. May it be so. Amen.
Prayer for All Saints Day
God of Day and God of Darkness
As the TV’s flickering fades into the background
and the curve of evening extends its long arc,
we can often find our hearts restless.
Our longings and wonders come as visitors,
reminding us of the people we feel more than see or touch.
Some are loud and ruckus, with laughter and wild bursts of tears.
Others are steady, ever-present guides
on whom we lean and in whose memories we often rest.
In this season of longer nights, pumpkin pie lattes and big family feasts,
we pause with generations before us,
to name the broken spaces that can’t be sugar-coated
and claim the mystery of the connection we cannot see.
Your love is the sacred thread that connects us as one holy family.
Your love defines us beyond past, present and future.
And so we pause, with our saints, to remember we are not alone
and they walk with us still.
When the path is a struggle, open our ears to their cheers,
when we feel unsure, open our eyes to their spirit that lights the way
and when we feel lost, open our hearts to your ever-present love guiding us always. Amen.
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