The longest night
A Holy Saturday reflection
Matthew 27:57-61
When it was evening, there came a rich man from Arimathea named Joseph, who also was himself a disciple of Jesus. He went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus; then Pilate ordered it to be given to him. So Joseph took the body and wrapped it in a clean linen cloth and laid it in his new tomb, which he had hewn in the rock. He then rolled a great stone to the door of the tomb and went away. Mary Magdalene and the other Mary were there, sitting opposite the tomb.
The experiences people most commonly associate with life on the streets are addiction, mental illness, living paycheck to paycheck, going between a hotel or a car or a shelter.
But there is an even more powerful force that rears its head when you least expect it; a threat that is often ignored by housed and resourced people but ever present for those in constant survival mode: death.
Death is a lurking presence to those facing homelessness. It creeps around every corner, surprises friends and neighbors, is a real possibility when you’re in taking one day at a time on the streets.
It’s such a present concern that when I greet people and ask them how they are, a common response is “God woke me up this morning.” They know they aren’t promised another day, but they are alive today and it is worthy of praise.
When people in the unhoused community die, street pastors try to lead a memorial service in the area of town where the community member hung out. After getting confirmation of their death from Boston Health Care for the Homeless, they pick a date, make some bulletins, and spread the word.1 There is no body, nor is there a burial. But there is a time for people to share and remember the beautiful life of the one lost, amidst the brokenness of their situation.
Additionally, The Longest Night is an annual service many street churches hold on or close to the longest night of the year, December 21st. They come together as a community to name and honor the lives of those lost on the streets, who most likely didn’t have a funeral or memorial service.2
To name the pain and injustice of too-early death due to overdose, violence, suicide, or living outside through extreme seasons.
To say the names of those who often died alone, without anyone noticing.
To proclaim that these people had mothers and were children and were not defined by their suffering or brokenness.
To remember that their life was a gift to the world and our communities.
To preach that the cross is not the end of the story.
All people are worthy of this kind of remembrance.
These communities - just like any other - grieve their friends and neighbors, and through their grief, incorporate their memory into the community’s life together.
At an event I was at in November, Christy3 walked around with a sharpie and drew a heart on everyone’s hand. I was hesitant at first, because I don’t love the idea of putting permanent marker on my skin, but later learned from Rev Tamar that it was the first year they were doing this event without a dear friend and this was Christy’s way of remembering him.
common cathedral has a Memorial bookshelf in their office with pictures of community members who have died.
Last fall, an anonymous formerly unhoused donor gave a financial gift to purchase a photo printer, so that all the memorial bulletins could have real photos on them.
Another community member has been actively trying to get the city of Boston to create a physical memorial in the park for those who died on the streets.
These communities want their friends to be honored and remembered, not ignored and forgotten.
So much of the ministry that is done on the street is ensuring the humanity of all people. This is true even in their death.
Many social services walk alongside these people over the course of their lives, assisting them with resources that can ease their suffering, and working with them in ways that a church isn’t designed or equipped to do.
But it’s the Church who stands at the tomb, who shows up at the very end when everyone else has moved on, and names that even though the cross took this neighbor too soon, they are a child of God. Named, claimed, and chosen, and who we will meet again in the resurrection.
Even in the longest night, God’s light has shown through the beautiful lives of the ones we lost.
Even in the longest night, death does not have the final word.
🪦
Today we find ourselves in the liminal space between cross and resurrection. May we faithfully sit with Mary and Mary at the tomb, holding space for the death, grief, and new life to come.
These reflections, experiences, and dedicated time for writing is thanks to the generosity of The Reverend Janet Karvonen-Montgomery Preaching Fellowship from Luther Seminary. You can learn more about Rev Janet and the Fellowship here.
Enjoying these Holy Week reflections? Consider subscribing to support my ongoing writing.
Pastors usually hear of people’s deaths from other community members, but wait for confirmation from Boston Health Care for the Homeless or another street ministry.
I was told by the San Francisco Night Ministers that they would be honoring over 500 people who died on the streets of San Francisco in 2023.
Not her real name.
You bring the lives & deaths of the homeless into our minds & hearts. Your words are a testament to their lives as they live & die. God Bless you & all the devoted on this Holy weekend. God Bless.