Rev. Patrick D. Heery
These are strange times. Businesses are shuttered. Schools are closed. Hospitals and nursing homes are denying visitors. Masks cover the faces of strangers. A new phrase, "social distancing," has entered our vocabulary, as people adjust to a stay-at-home order. A virus none of us had even heard of seven months ago has become the leading cause of death in the United States. For the first time in US history, every state is under a disaster declaration. Protestors are demanding a return to normalcy, while experts warn of a possible resurgence if we end social distancing too soon. Worries abound for the millions who are especially vulnerable to this fast-acting, easily spreading virus, as well as for the many who are out of work, the businesses that may never reopen, the children and youth who are being irrevocably changed by this experience, and those who are especially unsafe right now: abuse victims, people struggling with addiction or depression, people with disabilities, farmworkers and other immigrants, and low- or no-income families.

At a time when people need the church more than ever, church buildings are closed. Doors are locked. Programs are canceled.

It may feel like these are unprecedented times. I've certainly never experienced anything like this before; there's a good chance neither have you. And yet, we are not the first to tread these waters.

Our story, as Jews and Christians, was born in these waters. The Torah tells us that when the people of the earth sought to gather in one place, and eliminate all differences among them, and thus posed a danger to the world, God struck down the Tower of Babel and "scattered" the people (Gen. 11). In the Book of Exodus, God commands the Israelites to shelter in their homes, while disease traveled through the land. From this day comes the Feast of Passover, celebrated by Jesus himself: "And when your children ask you, ‘What do you mean by this observance?’ you shall say, ‘It is the passover sacrifice to the Lord, for he passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt, when he struck down the Egyptians but spared our houses.’ And the people bowed down and worshiped" (Ex. 12:26-27).

The laws instituted by God in the Books of Exodus and Deuteronomy make special provision for the protection of the most vulnerable: widows, orphans, the poor, the immigrant, escaped slaves. These laws demand that the rest of society make sacrifices to ensure their wellbeing. These laws even make special note of how to guard against the spread of disease, implementing an ancient version of social distancing.

According to the Gospels, after Jesus died, the disciples were scattered, isolated. Though a few came to his tomb, the resurrected Jesus did not wait for the disciples to gather together in one place. No. He came to them and found them where they were. He met disciples on a highway to Emmaus; he met others in a locked house, who sheltered in fear; yet others, he met on a lakeshore, essential workers whose fishing could not wait.

The early church of Acts was not one of grand steeples and packed stadiums. Mostly, it consisted of house churches, underground movements, small cadres of people proclaiming the love of God. The gospel spread one household at a time. It was in that context that the Apostle Paul penned these words: "Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Rom. 8:35, 37-39).

When Paul wrote those words in Romans, stating that nothing, not coronavirus, not social distancing, can separate us from the love of God, or the love of one another, he did so remotely. All those epistles from Paul, they were all written from afar, sometimes from prison, sometimes from illness, sometimes across whole continents. He knew that the Word of God could travel any distance; the Church does not close. We may not be together physically, but we are always the body of Christ, and that body cannot be broken. Paul's letters became the visible link between those separated households of worshipers, and eventually became the bedrock of a new movement, first called the Way, and then Christianity. Far from a hindrance, those letters spread the gospel; they left us something permanent we can read to this day.

Paul used letters; we're using letters too: mailings, newsletters, phone calls, social media, online worship. He used trusted disciples to deliver his messages; we're using the Internet, perhaps not as trustworthy(!), but certainly quicker! And just as Paul, from afar, connected with his siblings in Christ through prayer, so do we. Churches did this during the pandemic of 1918, commonly and mistakenly known as the Spanish Flu, and we're doing it now.

I think we've never been closer to our roots than right now: facing hardship and fear, we make the difficult choices necessary to love and protect one another, while refusing to cease in our worship and praise of God, in our proclamation of the Love that vanquishes even death.

Our worship has seen more participation than ever, with hundreds and hundreds of people worshiping with us every week, including many folks who haven't previously been able to. Palm Sunday alone had 1200 views. Holy Week services of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Sunrise saw far more participants than I've ever experienced in my time with you. Every Sunday, people joyously interact, posting hundreds of comments, including prayer requests and worship responses. We're seeing faith become more personal, as people move from Sunday-only worship to daily spiritual practices. Many of you are engaging in acts of compassion and service, as you seek to care for others.

This is the day we remember: the church isn't a building; it's not coffee hour, or a pretty bulletin, or committee meetings, or thriving programs, or generous endowments, or even that wondrous organ. The church is people... people loving God, loving one another, when it's night and there's no apparent reason to do so. We are the Love that will not be stopped.

I can imagine no greater tradition for us to uphold in this time of social distancing.

by Jill Fandrich​
This isn’t the Easter column I thought I would write.

Our original Easter plans included a Palm Sunday processional and pancake breakfast, a potluck meal on Maundy Thursday, a sunrise gathering on Easter morning and a big traditional Easter worship service in the sanctuary with festive music, communion, and an egg hunt for the children.

In mid-March, in the blink of an eye, we found ourselves with the church building closed and all gatherings canceled, including worship. At first we thought it might only be a couple weeks. Then we realized we’d be closed through Easter. Now it looks like social distancing could last a long time, perhaps into the summer.

With lightning speed, the church adapted to being a church without walls. Our first attempt at on-line worship was a shaky hand-held video of the last sparsely-attended worship service we held in the building on March 15. It was broadcast on the church’s Facebook page, and we immediately found that we were joined not only by folks staying at home out of fear of infection, but also members and friends who have not been able to attend worship in person for a long time. A beloved member battling cancer was thrilled to be in worship for the first time in months.  Snowbirds joined us from Florida. Former members living out of state signed on. Shut-ins and their caregivers participated in worship.
In subsequent weeks, our pastor Patrick Heery led worship via Facebook Live from his study. We are finding that “attendance” is much higher than it is for in-person worship. In addition to our regulars, we’ve welcomed community members, college students, friends whose own churches aren’t offering on-line worship, relatives of our members, and many others. Folks without internet listen in on phones held up to computer speakers. Not only are the gatherings large, they are interactive and lively, especially for us usually reticent Presbyterians. The comments section is full of prayer requests, greetings, responses, amens, and words of encouragement.

On Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, and Easter, we celebrated communion “together.” The sacrament of communion, as the very word suggests, is supposed to be shared in community, with the gathered congregation breaking bread and drinking juice together. During this time of crisis, our denominational leadership has approved new ways to share communion, faithful to the sacrament.  As we gather on-line, Pastor Patrick breaks bread and pours juice, says the words of institution and blesses the elements, and invites us to eat whatever food and drink we have in our kitchens. Our “breads” are pancakes, goldfish crackers, cookies, toast, pop tarts, and granola bars. Our “wine” is orange juice, milk, water, coffee, tea, and wine (even champagne!). Communion this way is beautiful, sacred, and special. We recognize Jesus in our midst as we share common foods that sustain us, nourish us, and comfort us. For me, this has made the sacrament come alive in new ways.  

On Easter Sunday, we worshiped in our own homes, not unlike the early followers of Christ who heard the good news of Jesus’ resurrection while huddled in their homes afraid, confused, and scattered.

We are learning a lot about how to be the church during this crisis. For many of us, our identity is strongly connected to the building in which we worship.  I miss worshiping in the Westminster sanctuary with its inspiring Tiffany window and its magnificent Skinner pipe organ. I miss seeing the faces of my church family, singing hymns together, seeing the children run up the aisles, and gathering for studies and discussions (and even meetings). I look forward to worshiping together again.

But church buildings tend to compartmentalize our faith, making us think that God is only present to us for one hour on Sunday morning. But God’s grace reaches everywhere. While quarantined, we’re seeing faith lived out in our homes, on social media, and in the community throughout the week. Families are incorporating faith formation in everyday activities-- baking bread, making cards, sharing stories, and praying together. Individuals are reaching out to one another with phone calls and cards, making face masks, supporting local businesses, feeding the hungry, and showing Christ’s love through action.

Quarantine is changing how we are the church, and as strange as it sounds, a lot of it is for the better. When this is over, I think we’ll find ourselves appreciating what we’ve missed and returning to church with joy, but also continuing the new ways we are being the church beyond its walls.

Why is a church offering culinary classes?
by Chris Patch
 
One of my fondest childhood memories is Sunday dinner at my grandparents’ house. The smell of fresh bread in the oven and the sight of homemade spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove was the highlight of my week. I couldn’t wait for my family to gather around the table for dinnertime, and once there, I never wanted our time together to end.
 
As a former chef, I tried for years to recreate the recipe for my grandmother’s sauce. I bought the exact same ingredients, simmered the sauce all day and still the taste was never quite the same. As I grew older I realized it wasn’t the recipe I was unable to duplicate, it was the experience. The food is what brought us together, it is what we enjoyed and shared, but my memories were really about family, tradition and love. Over the years I have prepared many meals for family and friends, and as a chef for people whose faces I would never see, but with each plate I gave a part of myself, my family, my culture, my heritage and my heart. Preparing food for someone is a loving, humbling and meaningful gesture. As Cesar Chavez said, “If you really want to make a friend, go to someone’s house and eat with him… the people who give you their food give you their heart.”
 
Unarguably, food is an important part of life and culture, and the Bible weighs in on the topic as well. In the New Testament, multiple verses teach us that food is more than a substance for life. Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine. (John 2:1-11) He fed a crowd of 5000 with fishes and loaves and broke bread with his disciples at the Last Supper (Matthew 14:20-21, 26:26). In each occasion, Jesus used food to teach a greater spiritual lesson while encouraging a more intimate relationship with his followers. Jesus used food to cross the divisions of language, politics, religion and socio-economical status by sharing a meal.
 
But, food is more than a social experience. For many, it is a daily struggle to eat, and in many instances knowing how, or having time, to prepare food that is not precooked or microwavable is a challenge and frustration. The Bible, however, teaches that there is a responsibility to feed the poor and hungry. In particular, Matthew 25 is a powerful command to welcome the stranger, feed the hungry, and clothe the naked.
 
So, why is a church offering culinary classes for children? Because at Westminster Presbyterian, we embrace the command of Matthew 25. Westminster Culinary Kids will teach children basic cooking techniques, recipes and safety in the kitchen. But, the goal is beyond culinary arts. The hope is to encourage our next generation of children to build relationships outside of their social norms and learn that preparing food that touches the heart and soul and creates memories is not found in a microwavable container.
 
Culinary Kids classes begin in March. Classes will take place on Saturday morning in Westminster’s kitchen, for church and community youth. Kitchen space is limited, so classes will be small and by reservation only. We hope that if there is enough interest that these classes will grow.
 
Culinary Kids is one of several new offerings through Westminster’s REACH (Relate, Explore, Act, Care, Help) program. Others include Game Nights (at Westminster and off-site at Genesee Elementary School), small group discussions, Movie Nights, a drop-in center and support group for youth, Scouting events, a children's worship center, and a Matthew 25 Lenten series inviting our older children and youth to choose a mission focus for the church.
 
REACH is a new way of looking at children and youth ministries. REACH’s vision for children and youth at Westminster is one of transformative love:

• A place that welcomes all children and youth and empowers diversity
• A life journey in which all generations collaborate to nourish faith, raise up leaders, and meet the needs of the community
• A chance to wonder by asking big questions and exploring faith through multi-sensory experiences of nature and the arts
• A modern spiritual practice involving the whole community.

 
We all look forward to see “what’s cooking” for youth and families at Westminster!
 
Chris Patch is the Children's and Youth Coordinator for REACH ministries at Westminster Presbyterian Church. He holds a Masters in Theology from Northeastern Seminary. In a former life, he worked as a chef. He lives in Auburn with his wife Kim and their children.  

by Patrick Heery

In our culture, success means more: more people, more money, more fame, more comfort. The bigger the better. It’s made a lot of us—from churches to non-rofits, from print media to the arts, from justice advocates to working people — feel like failures. But I wonder if we’ve gotten it wrong.
I think back to my first year in college and to how I would have been alone for Easter but for a small kindness. Many of the students had left for the weekend, and to be honest, it was hard not feel a little lonely, a little homesick. The thought, however, that I could skip the measly offerings of the dining hall made me smile. An older couple at my church had invited me, along with several other college students, to Easter dinner.
It was like going home. The hug I received at the door. The smell of roasting turkey and buttery stuffing. The table full of green beans, carrots, toasted rolls, mashed potatoes and pies. A family of sorts around the table, though several of us had just met.
I don’t know exactly why this moment out of so many has stuck with me. I suspect it’s because I felt loved in a very simple and familiar way.
Here in this smallish congregation, people wanted to know me, talk with me, sit with me. That year, I started going to a small Bible study before worship. I connected with the pastor who took me out for coffee. I was invited to preach and read Scripture. I met friends as we gathered in the church basement to watch and discuss "The Matrix." I threw on borrowed gloves to plant flowers outside the church. Every Wednesday, I stopped by for a free, home-cooked lunch for students.
There was nothing particularly fancy about the church — traditional worship, no projector screens, no sweeping catalog of programs, no big-budget website. But I felt loved. And really, that’s all I wanted.
I talk with so many congregations that feel like they’re failures because they’re small. They think they can’t accomplish great things because they don’t have the money or the membership numbers. They are battered almost daily with doomsday messages of decline and the need to “grow.” And through it all, one terrifying thought persists: that all their devotion, all their love, is not enough.
Maybe you can relate. Churches aren’t the only ones struggling these days.
As I listen, all I can think of is Jesus on some slapped-together cross, perched on a hill beside thieves, most of his disciples nowhere to be seen, a paltry dozen to begin with. And I wonder: Was there ever a moment that Jesus thought to himself, “I’ve failed”?
To be clear, we are not Jesus. We are, more often than not, the disciples who were not there at the cross that day. But the image does raise an interesting question: Would the Joel Osteens and Dave Ramseys of the world have considered Jesus a success if they had lived in the first century, or would they have chastised him for driving away his flock by demanding too much from his disciples, associating with the unwanted, failing to maximize his financial potential, and “settling” for the small moments of footwashing and breaking bread?
The fact is that being faithful to God can mean that we’re going to be small. In our churches, in our professional endeavors, and in our personal lives.
That doesn’t mean that there aren’t large, faithful congregations or small, unfaithful congregations. There are plenty of congregations that are small because they are change resistant or just don’t want new people.
Being small, though, should be the least of our worries. These are the questions that matter: Are we present in our community? Do we welcome strangers? Do we have the courage to speak up even when it’s unpopular? Are we growing in our faith and putting it to practice in our daily lives? Is our worship passionate? Do we risk thinking and creating in new ways? Are we obedient to Truth and Justice?
And most importantly: Do we love?
In this, we pray we will not fail. In all else, let us, whether large or small in number, gladly, ambitiously, triumphantly, be failures. I’ll settle for a home-cooked meal with the lonely any day.

by Jill Fandrich

​​These columns are due a week before they appear in print, which sometimes puts me in a bit of a time warp. As I write this, I am wrapping Christmas presents, mailing a few last cards, and getting ready for the arrival of my family. When you read this, all the presents will be unwrapped, the cards will be received, the tree will be down, and the kids will be gone.  For the moment, I have one foot planted in the expectation of Christmas and one foot planted in post-Christmas daily life.  But in reality, isn’t that pretty much how life is-- living out our stories, rooted in the past, living in the present, and hoping for the future?
 
In the church world, Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus—the arrival of God on earth as a baby in human form, sent to live among us.  Everything about his birth is a surprise.  His birth is announced by an angel. He is hailed as a king, yet his parents are humble people. He is born in a strange place surrounded by animals. The first people to worship him are shepherds, and later, wise men from other countries. Even his parents wonder what child they have brought into the world.
 
The surprises keep coming.  Jesus grows up. There are very few stories about him as a child, so in a few quick weeks at church, we skip right to the stories of Jesus as a man, being baptized into public ministry by his crazy cousin, John the Baptizer.  Then he starts hanging out with all the “wrong” people--the marginalized, the poor, the sick, the ostracized, the despised—preaching a message of love and a vision of a world turned upside down. “The first shall be last and the last shall be first.” “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.” “Love your enemies.” “Turn the other cheek.” “Don’t worry about tomorrow.”
 
It’s easy to get caught up in the “gentle Jesus, meek and mild” imagery of the nativity, picturing Jesus as a sweet baby who doesn’t cry, growing up to be the ultimate nice guy. The Christian message has often been portrayed that way. But actually Jesus was a radical and his message is hard. He called out the hypocritical religious leaders, calling them “You brood of vipers.” He challenged the political leaders of the day. He told people that they would have to give up everything to follow him. He befriended prostitutes and tax collectors and lepers and criminals. This is the baby Jesus, the Christ child, whose birth we just celebrated at Christmas, and whom we now are called to follow through his strange and challenging life right through to his death on a cross.
 
Jesus came to earth to live among us and to show us a different way to live. He was called Emmanuel, which means “God with us.” He gave us a vision of a world in which all people are loved and valued because all are children of God. He lived a life of sacrifice and a life of service. The challenge to us is to live that life in today’s world. How do we spread God’s love today? Who are the marginalized among us? How can we show God’s love to others, including those who are hardest to love? The work continues and it is up to us to be God’s eyes, ears, hearts, hands, and feet today.
 
Every year, when Christmas celebrations are over and we return to our “normal” lives, I reflect on one of my favorite poems by Howard Thurman. Thurman was an African-American Baptist minister, theologian, scholar, writer, and civil rights leader. His theology of radical non-violence influenced a generation of civil rights activists, including the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Thurman expresses in this poem what “The Work of Christmas” is all about:
 
The Work of Christmas
When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and the princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart.
 
May the work of Christmas continue in your life and in mine.

by Patrick Heery
​Be honest. Some of us started our Christmas shopping months ago. A defiant few were even singing Christmas songs or putting up their decorations the day after Halloween. Today may be the first Sunday of Advent (that time in the church calendar when Christians light their candles and prepare for joy that has yet to arrive), but most of us would prefer it if Christmas Day just hurried up and got here.
Personally, I can't blame the world for wanting to rush ahead to Christmas. Christmas is happy. We open presents and sing carols. It's when all that we've been hoping for becomes reality: The Christ child is born and we are saved. Living through Advent, on the other hand, is tough. The nights grow longer, darker, and each day, the manger is still empty.
Mary, mother of Jesus, must have felt the same way, as she waited for God's promise to be fulfilled. When the angel first appeared to Mary, she was an unwed teenage mother, living in the rural hills of Palestine. God's promise to bless her and to change the world through her probably sounded like a cruel joke. The world she saw wasn't changing. The religious elite still snubbed people like her. The Roman Empire still ruled with iron and shield. The poor were still hungry, and the rich still didn't care.
All she saw were ruins. There are a lot of things in ruins these days. Every day, I pray with people facing cancer, job loss, family crises, depression and just plain weariness.
We look out and see loved ones slipping away because of illness or age. We see a church, once full and bustling, now empty and captive to fear. We see a democracy in crisis — and a world enthralled with greed and power, consumed by violence and poverty, unashamed of its objectification and assault on women, held under the dominion of racism and bigotry.
We may ask why we were born into such times. We may wish that we could go back to the time when we were innocent of this grief — or maybe just rush ahead to the happy ending of Christmas.
Karl Marx once described Christianity as an opium of the people, meant to dull our senses to the pain and injustice around us, to blunt the sharp uncertainty of Advent. And perhaps he would be right if the Bible did indeed rush to Christmas (and later to Easter). But Marx was wrong. Because what we see in Mary is no cowering servant to illusion. We see a woman who does not retreat but meets the reality of life head-on. In her song, she tells the story of struggling people, and of a God who — far from whisking them out of reality — plants them squarely there, amid the ruins, that they, like relentless roses through cracked stone, would push, push and push until those ruins are rebuilt and God is visible to all.
God tells Mary that she was made for such a time as this. Appointed, anointed, called — she is the prophet of a God who does not give up. The prophet of Advent, without whom there would be no Christmas.
And so she praises God, even when there's nothing yet visible to praise. She sings, even when there is no song to be had, because she sees the world not only as it is, but also as it can, and will, be.
A world of mercy, where God scatters the proud and brings the powerful down from their thrones, where God lifts up the lowly and fills the hungry with good things. A world where ruins become the seat of God's glory. Where the unwed pregnant girl becomes the mother of God.
Mary fights for this world. And not just her, but every worshiper in every empty cathedral, every man who won't stop praying, every person who won't stop loving, every first responder who plunges in, every caretaker of the aging and dying, every refugee at the border, every woman declaring "Me too" — all Emmanuel, Jesus coming to us. The heralds of Advent.
Let us sing like Mary. Let us sing our Advent song and not rush to Christmas. We are the poets and makers of tomorrow. We are the shepherds telling everyone, the mother singing, the angel announcing, the child leaping, the star pointing: God is coming.
We are the eyes through which God looks hope upon these ruins.

by Jill Fandrich
​
We celebrate All Saints Day at Westminster on the on the first Sunday of November by holding a special worship service in which we remember our members, friends, and family members who have died this past year. We light a candle as each name is read, and toll the church bells in their honor. It is a solemn, beautiful, poignant service to remember the saints among us.

Presbyterians believe that all people of God are saints. The apostle Paul in his letters to the early churches addressed the members as “saints,” not because of what they accomplished but because of who they were as followers of Christ. We recognize the holy in all people of faith, not just those who are martyrs or miracle workers.

The Presbyterian Church (USA) website says this: “Rather than putting saints on pedestals as holy people set apart in glory, we give glory to God for the ordinary, holy lives of the believers in this and every age.”
I love that phrase “ordinary, holy lives.” It is best illustrated by the people we will be remembering today. Among the many family members and friends for whom we will light candles today, five we remember were members of Westminster Presbyterian Church. Let me tell you a little about each of them.

Doris Bierer died last year at the age of 102. She grew up in the church, in the days when it was still called Second Presbyterian. Doris’ family was actively involved in the church, and Doris remembered attending Sunday School and youth activities and dances. She continued her love of God and her church throughout her whole life, which she lived quietly and humbly. In later years, when she could no longer attend, she would correspond with my Sunday School students, answering their individual letters with detailed descriptions of what the church meant to her. She was a generous supporter of Westminster in her own quiet way.

Betty Schemerhorn was another lifelong Presbyterian of strong Scottish stock. Betty and her husband Earle were active in so many ways, as elders and deacons, teachers, volunteers, and faithful worshipers-- classic “pillars of the church.” Betty’s severe appearance and tight gray bun belied her warmth and generosity of spirit. She was a woman of few words, but those she used were well chosen and wise.

Marge Pyhtila joined the church later in her life to be a part of the congregation that her daughter loves and serves. Marge had a wonderful smile, and quickly made friends with all ages. She enjoyed being in worship and keeping in touch with her church family after she became more homebound.

Marilyn Fandrich, my own dear mother-in-law, grew up in First Presbyterian Church, where she taught Sunday School, sang in the choir, and was active in their women’s group. She knitted countless blankets over the years to give away to others. She joined Westminster only a few years ago, at a time when her health was failing. Right up to the end, even when other words failed her, Marilyn could belt out the words of all the old familiar hymns.  

John Gary Rhodes sang in the Westminster Choir, filling the sanctuary with his beautiful tenor voice. He especially loved singing duets with his daughter Lori Rhodes Pettit, our organist and choir director. Christmas Eve services will not be the same without Gary’s solo of “Oh Holy Night.” His exquisite voice was matched by his passion for the words he sung, taking us soaring with him as he led worship through the gift of song.

What I’ve just described are the ordinary, holy lives of saints. These and many others are the saints who walk beside us, who teach our children, who take care of the sick, who make us laugh, who feed the hungry, who say kind words and offer smiles to strangers, who give of themselves, who welcome the marginalized and friendless, who share their gifts, who love the unlovable, who follow Jesus’s commandment to “love one another as I have loved you.”

We sing “For all the saints who from their labors rest, who thee by faith before the world confessed, thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest. Alleluia! Alleluia!” We give thanks for the saints of God we know and love, those still living and those who have died.

​Alleluia indeed.