By Steven Norris
We live in a fragmented world. Tribalism, jealousy, ego, pride, gossip, fear, death — the sources of division are as old as time itself. By the third chapter of Genesis, the story of humanity is forever marred by alienation and relational rupture. How do we remember that our story does not begin with the fragmentation of Genesis 3?
This Sunday, many churches will observe All Saints’ Day, an occasion often overlooked in Protestant traditions. At our church, we will read the names of those who have died during the past year and light candles in memory of others whose lives have shaped our community.
Memory is a strange thing. Over time, details that once seemed unforgettable begin to fade. We struggle to recall the sound of a loved one’s laughter, the smell of their perfume, or the familiar way they called our name. Sometimes that realization brings a fresh wave of grief. We may even feel guilty, as though forgetting a detail means we have somehow forgotten the person.
Death has a way of making us feel disconnected, as though a part of ourselves has been torn away. The empty chair at the dinner table, the birthday without a phone call, or the holiday gathering with one less familiar face reminds us of what is missing.
The educator and spiritual writer Parker Palmer offers a helpful image in his book To Know as We Are Known. He plays with the word “remember,” suggesting that remembering is a kind of “re-membering”—bringing separated parts back together. Its opposite, in this image, is not forgetting but “dis-membering.”
I find that distinction especially meaningful as All Saints’ Day approaches.
Lighting a candle or speaking a name cannot bring someone back. Neither can these rituals erase our sorrow. Grief does not follow a predictable timetable, and healing does not require us to stop missing those we love. These simple acts do, however, make room for gratitude, sorrow, and hope to sit together.
Christians believe that the Church is more than the people gathered in one building on a Sunday morning. Scripture calls it the Body of Christ, a community held together by a love stronger than death. When we speak the names of those who have gone before us, we do not create that unity. We remember that, by God’s grace, we have never been entirely separated.
The writer of Hebrews describes us as surrounded by “so great a cloud of witnesses” (Hebrews 12:1). Their lives still bear witness. Their love, courage, faithfulness, and even their mistakes continue to shape the people we are becoming. We honor them not simply by looking backward, but by carrying their best gifts forward.
Perhaps that is what our fragmented world needs most: opportunities to remember that we belong to one another. In a culture constantly urging us to divide, the quiet act of remembering becomes a declaration of hope.
Death is real. Grief is real. Division is real. Yet none of them gets the final word.
Love does.