It’s the evening of November 1st, All Saints Day, and I have found myself in one of the oldest churches in Paris, St Severen, 11th century or older. I love the quiet meditative space in the old churches, where people have gathered for centuries to lay bare their souls, unite in marriage, celebrate birth, or honor the dead. The church bells, so very old, begin to ring, and for a long time. Afterwards, sitting here in the quiet, I now see people beginning to arrive for an evening service. Several quite elderly people join the group, bent with age and supported by canes. Well dressed, but in older clothing. The women have pretty pins in their white hair, and rings on, that may have been their great-grandmother’s? Are these lifelong Parisians? Did they experience the horrors of WW2, and the occupation of Paris? I am humbled to find myself with these people. All of us here tonight are united in the moment, and in our humanity. Some have come to confess transgressions, and knowing they are forgiven, pray for the ability to forgive themselves. I feel my own heart open to my own tears. A beautiful pipe organ plays, and we sing prayers, for ourselves, our families, and for the world. Tonight, on All Saints Day.