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‘Under Heaven, there is only One Family”
Sermon by Deacon William H. Foster III

10:00 AM, Sunday, October 24th, 2021
1st Church of Christ
190 Court Street
Middletown, CT
 
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The service will also be available on ZOOM
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By Prof. William H. Foster III

This is an unabashed fan letter. It’s me, speaking on behalf of myself and my baby Brother Tim. It’s addressed to Mr. Ray Harryhausen, the man who gave us great cinematic enjoyment back when we were kids. Why? Because he was the master of stop-motion animation.
We became fans of his long before we knew what “stop-motion animation” was. The small black and white TV in our home was where our education began. We were lucky enough to see a selection of Puppetoon shorts. They were funny, and taught us gentle lessons about important societal rules without banging us over the head. We got it, and our parents approved.
Our appetite for something a little bit less tame was fed with showings of classic sci-fi movies, like  Mighty Joe Young, The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, and God help us, King Kong.  The fantastical creatures that paraded across the screen creating mayhem made us laugh out loud and wiggle in pure delight.

 But our taste for something more visceral were his classic works shown on the big screen of our neighborhood theater. The Saturday matinees became our temple of creature worship.

The Leader movie theater was where my brother Tim and I came alive once a week. Tim was the perfect movie partner for me, and I hope I was for him. We loved the same things – sword and blood gladiator epics, the occasional cowboy or jungle flick and of course sci-fi, and fantasy. There in the dark we became bold adventure seekers, lusty pirate kings, and mighty warriors.
In that sacred space, we yelled at the screen for the hunters and explorers to get back on their boat and sail home. But that never happened. They just had to wake up all the monsters and let them know it was feeding time. And just like we knew it would, those dummies got their just desserts and made us both burst into gleeful laughter. That’ll teach you! You just had to mess with King Kong!     

Sadly my brother and I no longer have opportunities to share movie adventures. Tim passed away much too soon, in 1986. I still watch all our favorite classics and keep an empty seat next me to relive our glory days.
Some years later, I got to meet Mr. Harryhausen in person, during a guest appearance at Comic-Con in San Diego. There was a huge congregation of fans in line, like I cared. I really needed to thank him on behalf of my Brother and myself. When my turn finally came to receive an autograph, we got a chance to chat briefly.

He asked which one of his films was my favorite. I blurted out, “The battle with the skeleton warriors (the Army of the Hydra’s Teeth) in “Jason and the Argonauts.” He smiled.

I told him when the Argonauts unfastened their swords simultaneously as the battle was about to begin, my baby brother and I thought that the most badass thing we had ever seen. It was just so cool! And the skeleton warriors were some bad dudes! We both laughed. I told him it never got old.
 
 
  Nowadays, I still occasional treat myself to a nice, rip-roaring Saturday matinee movie. When I do, I am transported back in time to share a fantasy created by the Stop Motion Master, with my baby brother once again by my side. It truly fills me with unbelievable joy.
 
Professor William H. Foster II is a comic book historian who specializes in research on the changing image of African Americans and people of color in comics. His two books, Looking for a Face like Mine, and Dreaming of a Face like Ours are scheduled to be reprinted in new editions in 2021.

  Not long ago, my younger brother, Timothy died from AIDS. I received my share of sympathetic gestures from friends and well-wishers; flowers, plants, fruit baskets, kind notes. But these expressions of empathy gave me very little comfort. How could I possible be consoled, when with every breath I drew I was trying to absorb the reality that my brother was dead?
 
  He was only twenty-five years old. He deserved better. He had just started living, only just begun to pull his life together. He was intelligent, fun-loving, a good brother. Tim was a kind, and thoughtful person. He attended church regularly, and even made sure that younger members of our extended family attended as well.
 
  In a family of nine, he, my two youngest sisters and I were the closest. Because we were the last four kids “left at home,” that seemed only natural.
 
  I was the first son to go away to college, and I am sure, although he never said it, my mother probably wore him out with reminders to follow his older brother’s fine example. But Tim had ideas of his own. Even though he did to go to college for two years, he dropped out to find his own path. He started his own small hair salon and was doing well.
 
  It was his apartment I stayed in whenever I came home. It was one of the few places I felt completed relaxed and comfortable. I often wonder if that was because we were both clean-freak Aries babies.
 
  When I received word that Tim was in a hospital dying of AIDS, I was immediately struck by a wave of helplessness. I rushed home to spend whatever time I could with him, fully expecting to see him as I last remembered – tall, laughing, glowing with health. I was led into the isolation ward to see him and was instructed on how to put on the protective gloves, gown and footwear. Seeing him hooked up to all those tubes and wires was shocking, heartbreaking, and made me mad as hell. I wanted to rip it all away and carry him back home. As he was down to not much more than 100 pounds, it wouldn’t have been too hard.
 
  We talked, that is I talked to him, and he nodded or shook his head, for as long as his strength held out. All he could manage at his best was to write in a shaky scrawl, that yes, he loved me too. He died about a week later.
 
  At his memorial service, I tried to speak about the goodness of Tim’s life, about the admirable type of young man he had turned into, and how our parents would have surely been proud of him. Words failed me. It was too soon, and I was too angry.
 
  The same thoughts kept whirling around and around in my brain: It’s so damn unfair! It isn’t right! This is in no way just! Where the hell was all that “Divine Justice” that I’d been told about since I was a child? Why wasn’t God there to watch over my baby brother and keep him from dying? How the hell does this death figure into the Creator’s Cosmic Plan? I had too many questions, too much pain, and no ready answers.
 
  I cried a lot for Tim – long and frequently. Yet somehow, I felt that something, some part of my mourning was left undone. This seemed only to increase my anguish. However, the last vivid memory of my brother occurred the week after his memorial service.
 
  I dreamed I met my brother. He appeared to me the way he looked when he was only about nine or ten years old. As his family-appointed guardian and babysitter, it was a time I remembered well. Tim asked me if it hurt to see him again, now that he was dead. I said yes, and I missed him very much, and I started to cry. He went on to say that from where he was now, he could look down on me, as well as visit all the places our family had lived while we were growing up. He said he was in touch with our mother (who had died some six years earlier). She was impressed that I was realizing my dream of becoming a writer. The exact phrase Tim said was, “You were always the one who was heavy at the typewriter,” an expression he typically used. Suddenly the pleasure and pain of receiving a message from my mother, delivered by my deceased brother, became too much. I fought my way out of the dream and clawed into wakefulness. My pajamas were drenched with tears.   
 
  The experience left me physically and spiritually drained. But as the days passed, I began to experience a sense of completeness in my mourning. I realized that until this dream visitation, I had never said aloud, “I miss you.” Speaking those words was something I needed to say.
 
  I will never completely recover from Tim’s death. But I am told by people who have experienced a similar loss that while the jagged hole in my heart will never heal, it won’t throb so much after a time. Love, particularly family love, does not end at the grave. It can reach out and touch you with warmth and caring for years.
 
  Of all the realities that I ever imagined for myself, none included surviving the death of my baby brother. And yet, with his help, somehow I have. Not easily to be sure. It’s ironic that while I used to watch out for him, Tim is now watching over me. And sometimes, that knowledge eases my sleep. Thanks, baby bro. I love you, too. 

By William H. Foster III
 
  It was 1973. I was sitting in a beautiful suburban home just outside the city of my birth. I had come to this place at my mother’s request. Seated by my side, she beamed happily at the opportunity to show off her well mannered, well educated son to her “other family.”
 
  I was raised in a family of nine kids. One of the strictest rules of our household was to always show appreciation. There were few sins worse than showing ingratitude. Another important lesson was never being afraid of hard work. There is no job beneath you when you have a family to support.
 
   My mom and dad both worked at a number of different jobs with no complaint, and always took extra work when they could get it.
 
   When I was in junior high Mom was hired as a maid by a Jewish family in a nearby suburb. The Steins always insisted that Mom was just like a member of their family. But no matter how many times it was said, it made me want to gag. You don’t hire a member of your family to cook and clean for you. I carried too many negative stereotypes about Black maids working for White families. Despite the level of financial comfort my Mom’s extra income afforded our family the whole situation still made my stomach churn.
 
  And there was more. The Stein family called her “GLADYS.” They addressed my mother by her first name. In my family, this was a sign of unbelievable disrespect. As kids we were always taught to address elders with the title of “Mrs.,” “Miss.,” or “Mr.” – no exceptions. To ignore this rule was a serious infraction of manners, and cause for an immediate physical reprimand. Yet these people apparently didn’t need to be respectful to my mother. It particularly stung when the Stein kids did it.
 
  I remember distinctly a phone call I took for my mom. “GLADYS is such a wonderful worker,” some strange young voice gushed on the other end of the line. “We just love GLADYS! Please let GLADYS know we need her to work this weekend.” At the time, I could barely keep from shouting into the receiver, that’s my mother you are referring to!
 
  I told myself I didn’t hate the Stein family, But I was most definitely eaten up by the naked disrespect. I hid these feelings from my mom because they were bitter, and ugly, and smacked of ingratitude. Time passed, and my Mom moved on to other jobs. It was a chapter of my life that didn’t end soon enough.
 
  When I completed high school, I won a scholarship to a prestigious state university. My acceptance to college was seen as my parents’ reward for years of struggle and sacrifice. Years later I was home on vacation break during my sophomore year in college when Mom shared some exciting news. The eldest son from the Stein family had asked her to come back to work. He was attending medical school and his wife had just given birth. Could GLADYS please come and help out? She insisted I come out to his home and have dinner. It would be a perfect occasion for her two families to finally meet. She insisted.
 
  The past washed over me in an ugly, disgusting wave. I was fresh from the college classroom, and full of righteous indignation. I had held my peace for too many years and was more than ready to be the deliverer of justice. It would be a perfect occasion alright. I would finally be to correct the sins of the past.   
 
  Yet for all the fire that burned in my chest, I stopped, and forced myself to take a deep breath. And then several more.
 
  In a rare moment of clarity I thought about my mother’s request. She asked me to spend a few hours and share a meal with her friends. She wanted to show off her son. This occasion wasn’t about me -- it was about Mom, and the people with whom she had a long, close relationship. I had to re-think my definition of what makes up a “family.” Angry or not, it was time for me to show appreciation, and gratitude. 
 
  It was raining heavily the day of the dinner and the address was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I refused to use either as an excuse to turn around and cancel.
 
  The result? I didn’t have a bad time. They weren’t demons nor insufferable snobs. I met a friendly young couple and their beautiful newborn baby. I met the family who simply wanted to continue enjoying my mother’s love and attention. They were the people who trusted and loved GLADYS. I saw how she doted on them. There was good food, polite conversation and even laughter. Damn it.
 
My Mom had always been my source of deep abiding love and support. That day, in one small gesture, I returned some.
 
 That rainy evening she could not have been happier as she beamed at us all.