Halloween starts right after the Fourth of July—at least, that’s what many major retailers would have us think. But I still wait for the first touch of fall before I plan my costume. I think of Halloweens past, remembering them like spiritual passages.

At age nine, I dressed as a princess in an old, lacy pink, sleeveless nightgown and gold paper crown. I reluctantly wore a coat over my shoulders as I traversed the streets because temperatures had plummeted into the 40s. A few years later, for a high school Halloween party, I was a devil in a body-hugging black leotard with red horns, tail and pitchfork, trying not to perspire when temps neared 70.

In my neighborhood, a group of us trick-or-treated together, using favorite pillowcases to collect our candy, exchanging Reese’s Pieces for Twizzlers or Baby Ruths for Gummy Bears. Halloween was a shared holiday, distinct from the individual family time spent during Chanukah and Christmas.

When I was teaching high school English, I became Dorothy Gale from Kansas for Halloween, my outfit complete with ruby slippers and white socks, my little dog, Toto, in his basket by my side. In my classroom, I wrote “Ms. Gale” in orange chalk on the blackboard. I hid a smile when students tried calling me “Ms. Sacks” and pretended I didn’t know who she was, but I beamed when I offered them treats.

In seminary one year, my classmates and I hosted a Halloween chapel service. We set a cardboard tombstone reading “R.I.P.” by the entry doors, scattered cobwebs and spiders around the pulpit and piped “Thriller” into the halls. Ushers passed candy around, and we served pumpkin cupcakes for fellowship after the service.

The year following the COVID lockdown, I dressed as Little Bo Peep at my church. Many congregants arrived at Sunday services in their own costumes or Halloween-themed shirts, ties or hats. Energy ran high as cars were decorated for the afternoon Trunk or Treat. Children ran and giggled, and candy flowed. I walked from car to car, joining in dozens of photo ops with families who came from all over town to reconnect and enjoy the day. I went home later that afternoon with tired feet but a happy heart.

So, I felt some sadness when I received a certain letter from someone new to the ministry. He wrote that he’d been trying to decide whether to join the church. He noted a few things he liked: the easy parking, the warm greeting he received each week and the tone of my Sunday sermons. But then he said he was “shocked” that a church celebrated Halloween. He thought it was sacrilegious, an insult to Jesus. He was “disgusted” that I’d worn a costume on the pulpit and said I was “making a mockery of God’s house.” He closed by saying he would find somewhere else “more devout” to worship.

When I reflect on this Halloween yet to come, I remember his words, but they do not dampen my spirit. I honor and appreciate All Hallow’s Eve for its ancient Celtic purpose: a time to celebrate the end of harvest and prepare for winter. I think of the words in Ecclesiastes 3, “To everything, there is a season.” Seasons of loss as well as growth. Seasons of despair and hope. Seasons of tears and laughter. With all the seasons of our lives, those we endure and those we savor, a season for treats holds a sacred place on my calendar. 

As I anticipate this year’s Trunk or Treat, I prepare my costume and the encouraging words I’ll share on Sunday morning. I especially look forward to those few hours when the parking lot is filled with masked and painted faces, the scent of sugar and spice in the air and hundreds of voices, like one gleeful chorus, singing “trick or treat.” 

I close my eyes and feel Spirit flowing. I’m ready for another passage, another season to enjoy the sweetness of community and the bountiful harvest of generosity we want to share. ❧

---