The Edge of Forever
We explore the intertwined nature of life and death, drawing on the stories of Orpheus and Lazarus. Through these narratives, we are reminded of the power of love, grief, and resurrection, as well as the hope of eternal life beyond death’s limits.
The Glimpses of Grace podcast is a ministry of Grace Episcopal Church in Gainesville, Georgia. We are passionate about supporting the spiritual growth of souls, and we hope these sermons and conversations meet you where you are and enrich your soul as we all continue to make meaning in the world today.
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Transcript
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Once upon a time, so long ago that it’s woven in the threads of memory, there was a young man named Orpheus, whose music could make stones weep and trees lean closer to listen. He was in love with Eurydice, a woman of gentle spirit. But life is fragile and fleeting, and Eurydice was taken too soon, her spirit drawn down to the realm of shadows, to the underworld, where the living should not follow.
But Orpheus, crippled by grief, took his music and descended to the land of the dead. His music flowed, filling the grave silence of the underworld—smooth enough to bring the River Styx to stillness, soft enough to touch Hades’ hardened heart. Orpheus begged for Eurydice’s return. Hades, moved by the beauty of his music, granted his request on one condition: without ever looking back, Orpheus must trust that Eurydice would follow him back to the world above.
But as he climbed under the weight of darkness, doubt began to set in. Was she close behind him, or was he walking back alone? At the last step—perhaps from loss of faith—Orpheus turned, and in an instant she was gone, her spirit swept back into shadow.
Death and life walk side by side. We’re in a season where many believe the veil between the material world and the afterlife is thin. All Hallow’s Eve—Halloween—has been secularized. The practice of wearing masks and costumes to disguise identities so as not to be recognized by a soul has been subsumed into trick-or-treating. All Saints and All Souls have been conflated. From the fourth century, Christians celebrated feasts to commemorate martyrs, and by the eighth century, the commemoration was inclusive of all saints, martyred or not. Whereas All Souls commemorates and honors all the dead. Together, these three observances make up Allhallowtide—a time to remember and pray for the dead.
Orpheus returned alone to the world. In his heart he knew that entangled sense of beauty and sorrow. Grief is a reminder that we have known love and that those connections of loving kindness matter. They mattered to Jesus. Losing a friend and witnessing displays of grief from another friend in today’s Gospel reading moved Jesus to tears.
We grasp at life’s fleeting beauty; we desire to hold on tightly to what we love, fearing loss or the relinquishing of power and control. Jesus invites us into a different kind of love—a love that doesn’t cling but loosens; love that unbinds.
Where people have stories and loss disrupts stories, when narratives are disrupted this threatens our systems of meaning—our sense of self-identity. Orpheus’s story is suffused with tragedy; Jesus’s call to Lazarus shimmers with triumph. God’s story isn’t about clinging to what is temporary but being willing to let go, knowing that restoration is God’s language—resurrection God’s final word.
In today’s Old Testament reading, Isaiah paints a banquet on God’s holy mountain—a feast for all people. This feast is more than a meal; it’s a grand table of reconciliation where all are welcome, where wounds are healed. God will wipe away every tear, Isaiah says—even swallowing death itself. It’s a scene that speaks of completion—the moment when all of life’s fragments come together in a tapestry: God’s dream.
We feel the pull of something larger than ourselves—something woven into our bones—promising that in the end we will be made whole. Revelation echoes Isaiah’s vision with a stunning promise of a new heaven and a new earth—a place where grieving and pain will pass away. John of Patmos writes of a new order—the culmination of every holy longing. This new world, this new life is beauty we glimpse only as we pass through thresholds of death and sorrow.
So what does death teach us about living? In his book Underland, Robert MacFarlane notes: “We are often more tender to the dead than to the living,” though it is the living who need our tenderness most.
Friends, life is unpredictable; death is the great equalizer. There’s no difference between the wise and foolish when death comes. Wealth, pleasure, status—a fine career—bring short-term satisfaction but we all age; stress and anxieties arise; Monday always comes. The rich die just as the poor die.
Lazarus’s death tells a story about the value of life: each life is deeply felt—it’s about the people around us; how we spend our time; it’s about shared human experience.
Lazarus’s death tells a story about compassion: human connection grounds us—we find meaning in deep experiences with others; we find meaning in seeing the image of God in one another.
Lazarus’s death tells a story about hope: in the face of death Jesus reveals God’s ability to bring life where there was only darkness—where there was literally “the stench” of death—there’s always potential for new life.
Lazarus’s death tells a story about service: “Unbind him; let him go.” Love does not cling but sets free—flowing liberating love lifts up the humble and fills the hungry.
With Lazarus’s death surrendering its grip, death is turned inside out.
Those saints before us point to lives gathered into the hands of God—we don’t need to grasp—all will be made whole; all is being made new.
Allhallowtide allows us to step through the veil—even if only briefly—to see our lives as they are: beautiful, finite but sacred.
In the manner of Orpheus’s melody, we’re reminded that even sorrow can lead us to grace—for beyond this life lies the greatest reunion of all.
Lazarus’s death tells a story about faith: life isn’t bound by death’s limits; life and death are intertwined—we are returned as dust to dust—but today we remember that we are on the edge of forever.