Erl Purnell Sermon

All Saints Sunday ~ November 4, 2007 ~ A sermon preached by The Rev’d Erl G. Purnell at Old St. Andrew’s Church, Bloomfield, CT

Ecclesiasticus 44.1-10, 13-14; Psalm 149; Revelation 7.2-4, 9-17; Mathew 5.1-12

In our church calendar, All Saints Day ranks right up there with Easter, Christmas, Pentecost and Epiphany. Of course in our own day, we’re chiefly trained to celebrate All Hallows Eve—Halloween. So much of our attention and money is given to creating ghoulish horror and collecting candy that we scarcely consider the origin of this holy time let alone what the next day—All Saints Day—actually means. Indeed, Hallowmas, as the day was once known, means saints’ mass. It was the day a special Mass was celebrated in honor of those good people, known and unknown but now dead, who lived exemplary and faithful lives, those who were saints and martyrs in their time.

These days, Halloween blows by like a leaf in a nor’easter; and, without so much as a moment to slip out of your rubber Frankenstein suit, Wal-Mart, Target, Best Buy and myriad other retail stores slash prices by 50% and implore you to begin Christmas shopping in celebration of another holy day given over to commercialism—Christmas or Christ’s Mass.

But, for us, for the faithful here at Old St. Andrew’s, this is the Sunday, we celebrate All Saints Day. Today, we do pause to remember those who have gone before. Today is not about costumes and candy; rather it’s for all the saints who from their labors rest.

From Ecclesiasticus, we hear about the famous who have made names for themselves and also others, of whom there is no memory. The brave and intelligent, leaders and historians, the rich and no-so rich, musicians and poets. These are the godly, poet Jesus ben Sirach tells us. All are remembered even when their deeds are forgotten. Memories swell in the hearts of children and grandchildren, thus carrying those who have gone before into the future. And, isn’t that what we did last month when we remembered those who had gone before us in this place. They were saints to give us what we now have. Thanks and praise to them from generation to generation.

The rest of my sermon this morning is quite personal. Yet, I need to wonder if, perhaps you, too, have had such an experience as mine. In any event, I believe we are called to remember and honor our forbearers, knowing that we’re eternally connected to them. Although I don’t know what happens when we die, something powerful, interesting, and holy has been happening to me for the past year or so.

Last fall, Jim Oliver ran into me at Barnes & Noble in Canton on a Saturday evening. He showed me a book by Marc Wortman titled The Millionaire’s Unit and asked, “Wasn’t your grandfather one of those guys?” I picked up the book and sure enough the picture on the cover was one I had seen hundreds of times. The handsome fellow in the second row on the far right is indeed Erl Gould, my grandfather and namesake. Let me take a minute and give you some background … just in case you don’t read The Millionaire’s Unit.

In 1916, the Great War had been raging in Europe for two years. The United States was officially neutral. A young Yale student, Trubee Davison, son Henry P. Davison the head of J.P. Morgan in New York, had just spent the summer of 1915 as a volunteer ambulance driver in France. He had seen the carnage of war first hand. That spring of 1916, Trubee started the Yale Flying Club. His objective was to create a cadre of aviators for service in the Navy as a coastal patrol unit spotting German U-boats.

As the group got organized, he petitioned Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels in Washington to support this effort. He was turned down flat. Daniels was blind to Trubee’s vision. Because he was well connected, Trubee went down the hall to visit with the assistant Secretary of the Navy, one Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Roosevelt understood exactly what Trubee was thinking and supported it. But FDR had little influence at the time.

To make a long story short, these young Yale students bought the Mary Anne, a flying-boat aero plane, and paid for their own flying lessons. The Davison family housed them in their mansion on Long Island and supported their training there and in Palm Beach, Florida. Finally, in the summer of 1917, now with the endorsement of the Navy, the First Yale Unit officially was recognized as the founding Naval Aviation Reserve Force. Di Gates was the first to qualify and so he was designated Naval Aviator #65. Then came Bob Lovett #66, Allan Ames #67, and Erl Gould #68. Eventually, there were twenty-five who received their wings of gold. Sadly, Trubee Davison did not as he crashed on his check ride and was badly hurt.

There is so much more to this story but that’s for another time. Many of you know that I, too, was a Naval Aviator. My number was T-13124, not a very distinguished number, although I wore my grandfather’s gold wings from Tiffany’s with the #68 and his name and mine engraved on the back.

Last spring I finally met Marc Wortman and we’ve since become friends. He put me in touch with Ron King, grandson of John Vorys Naval Aviator #73. Ron is pitching a movie version of the story about these incredible and incredibly brave young men. We too have struck up a friendship based on the common experience of our grandfathers.

In the meantime, I’ve read and reread The Millionaire’s Unit and I’ve gone through what memorabilia I have about Grandfeathers, that’s what I called my grandfather, Grandfeathers. I’ve also been in touch with my uncles and aunt, digging for what ever they might be able to tell me about Erl Gould. Sadly, I’ve learned precious little new information.

For months now, when I wake in the wee hours, my mind fills with wonder and questions about who Grandfeathers was. I’ve replayed every single encounter with him I can remember. In my mind’s eye, I’ve studied his face and hands, his walk and his quick wit. I’m dying to have known him when he was nineteen and learning to fly the Mary Anne. I know every picture he’s in during those halcyon days of World War I. I just want to step into them and sit with him for a while, maybe go have lunch together. I want to watch him take the Mary Anne apart and repair the engine. I want to sit next to him as he water-taxis out from shore and takes off.

Of course I’ve kicked myself for not spending more time with Grandfeathers while he was alive. I just didn’t know how important it was to know this pioneer. I’m jealous of him and his adventures as one of the earliest Naval Aviators, of his taking the very first flight between the United States and Cuba, of his being the commanding officer of Naval Air Station Key West as a twenty year old Lieutenant, the youngest C.O. in Naval history. Why didn’t somebody—my parents?—tell me to sit with him and listen to his stories, learn his wisdom, ask him every question imaginable? My heart breaks when I realize what’s lost.

And so, in those wee hours, occasionally I’ll drop into a semi-sleep, and sometimes, sometimes Grandfeathers will become animated and alive again. We’re always the same age, young men, young aviators, friends. We’re present to each other in the mystical body of the saints in light. There’s always comfort there and my loss these many years since his death gets pulled away in the slipstream between the wind-whistling wings of the Mary Anne … or is it the downwash of my Seasprite helicopter’s rotor blades?

Amen.