‘Bring Out Your Dead!’

Monty Python & the Lessons of Time

Jan 01, 2025

Substack AI-generated analog clock, at almost midnight.

Released in 1975, Monty Python and the Holy Grail will turn half a century old this year.

Many of its jokes have become go-to references in popular culture. Some even teach us hard truths about large-scale social organizing; for instance, my anarchist/voluntarist self agrees wholeheartedly that strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government!

One scene in particular is on my mind this New Year’s Day.

Eric Idle plays a Dead Collector, whose job is to push a large cart through town so people can hoist the bodies of the recently deceased onto it. John Cleese plays a town resident who hauls an old man over to the Dead Collector’s cart.

The set-up seems like it only serves to provide a contrast to the last few seconds, when a glistening King Arthur rides through, prompting the Dead Collector to notice “He hasn’t got shit all over him.” But in true Monty Python fashion, they manage to extract something more from what looks like depressing filler.

If you haven’t seen it or don’t quite recall it from a long-ago viewing, you can watch the two-minute clip below or at this link:

The scene reminds me of one of the most annoying trends I see every year as December wanes and January beckons: disparaging the old year and wanting to leave it for dead.

My other most annoying trend is people bashing the upcoming year with extreme prejudice, usually because of something political, whether or not an Arthurian farcical aquatic ceremony was involved.

Cleese’s character insists that the elderly man he carries is dead. The elderly man argues otherwise.

Is ‘good riddance’ good?

Why are people sometimes so eager to kill the old, even when it has much vibrancy to teach, to give? How are people living their lives that they must psychologically rid themselves of the most recent year of their existence? And what of the people simultaneously waxing unpoetic about burying both the past and the future?

To remember is to make present again. Christians especially should take care not to banish from our minds the trials of life. Jesus Himself at the Last Supper told His disciples to make present again His sacrifice, most detailed by Paul in his letter to the Church in the city of Corinth.

Life is challenging, I know. But the past isn’t dead. It lives as long as there are lessons and accomplishments that help us now and later, showing us that living isn’t a series of isolated scenes that can be cleanly disconnected from the whole picture. And thank goodness for this feature of existence!

With this in mind, I leave you with a photo of an old fisherman at sunrise (which magnificently captures the concept of time) and the lyrics to a song I wrote near the start of my indie-music days (about looking back at what had been a “new year”).

silhouette of man holding fishing rod during sunset — A old fisherman at sunrise. Photo by Clay LeConey on Unsplash

NEW YEAR

What did you do with your new eyes?
What did you glimpse? What did appear?
What did you keep and recognize?
What did you do in your new year?

I watched from a window, but it was a mirror.
I looked in a mirror; it was a mirage.
I stared through the haze ’til it became clearer.
I looked in a clearing and saw a collage.

I saw a stranger who became a shoulder.
I saw a shoulder who turned to a foe.
I watched a raindrop bounce off a gray boulder.
I watched, much bolder, in hopes I would know.

—

What did you do with your new ears?
What did you notice? What did you hear?
What made you listen and lean your head near?
What did you do in your new year?

I heard one laughing at another one’s crying.
I heard the cry of a stream turned to silt.
I heard a secret when I was not trying.
I tried to keep it but kept only guilt.

I heard a whisper that shattered like thunder.
I heard the thunder of a storm not so far.
I listened closely in still, silent wonder.
I heard the wonder in a six-string guitar.

—

What did you do with your new feet?
I waited in line. I ran down the street.

What did you do with your new chance?
I half staggered, half swaggered, and called it a dance.

—

What did you do with your new hands?
What made you stretch? Where did you steer?
What did you grasp and understand?
What did you do in your new year?

I shook another to make a new peace.
I shot a new piece to fight an old war.
I caught a snowflake that blew in the breeze.
I waved to the breeze, but it was no more.

I cradled a baby; so heavy with grace.
I held the grace of a sliver of light.
I touched your hair to brush it from your face.
I felt your face and all became right.

—

Oh, what did you see, what did you hear,
What did you touch in your new year?

For we who have memories and imaginations, neither the past nor the future warrants our insistence that it be dead to us.

I bid you all a mindful remembrance of the Old Year and virtuously good neighborliness to navigate the New Year.

May you half stagger, half swagger, and call it a dance.