"Nothing presses the noses of the faithful up against the windows of their faith like death." Thomas Lynch
We had another funeral on Monday morning. We came together as a community, sang songs, prayed, heard God's word, and, afterwards, shared stories over ham buns and jello in the church basement.
Twenty-four hours later, the family huddled under a green tent pitched in the middle of a vast cemetery. They sat on their folding chairs, the casket holding their mother and grandmother setting before them--unavoidable--waiting to be lowered into the ground. And again we prayed, we heard God's word, and afterwards shared stories as the family read the names off the surrounding grave stones and remembered those who had already gone to be "with the Lord."
I've been to a few funerals by now (probably participated in twenty or so in my combined two and a half years in two different churches). I hope it doesn't sound cold to say that this was all pretty standard stuff. I don't say anything new or ground shaking; I didn't come up with anything the family hadn't heard before or said in some way to one another (in one form or another). It was one of those affairs of which Garrison Keillor's Pastor Inkfus commented, "The preacher said said the things that preachers always say on such occasion, but the things that need to be said anyway."*
All the same, one of the children came up to me after it all, shook my hand, and thanked me. It was a pleasure, he said. He was very kind. But his comment caused me to fumble for a reply. The pleasure was all mine or Glad I could do it seemed like the natural response to such a statement. But that felt rather "off" for reasons that should be obvious to anyone. It just sounds cruel to say that doing some Saint's funeral was a pleasure.
But the truth is it was. It was a pleasure spending time with the family--being invited into such an intimate moment in their life. But more than that, it was a pleasure because I got to do such a wonderful thing. I got to stand next to a casket that hovered over a grave--just waiting to fill it--and tell the old old story about another grave that remained empty. I got to say words like "hope" and "peace" and "comfort" and, above all "resurrection".
I say those sorts of things every time. And I get shivers--every time.
Before I started leading funerals, I would've assumed that they would be times of spiritual struggle and doubt for me. I assumed that the dark shroud that hangs over us during times of death would make it impossible to see much of God at all. It's true that I've been to a few funerals that have been like that (of children, for instance) and suspect that may be the case for others in attendance. But as a pastor, I find that some of the most nourishing times for me have been at funerals and by gravesides. For some reason, the Spirit seems to be more tangibly present at these affairs. And perhaps more to the point, it is when death presses my nose up against the window of my faith that I see with greatest clarity my risen Lord on the other side. In those moments I am convinced--right down to my toenails--that I have not put my trust in him in vain. And that is always a pleasure!
I've been to a few funerals by now (probably participated in twenty or so in my combined two and a half years in two different churches). I hope it doesn't sound cold to say that this was all pretty standard stuff. I don't say anything new or ground shaking; I didn't come up with anything the family hadn't heard before or said in some way to one another (in one form or another). It was one of those affairs of which Garrison Keillor's Pastor Inkfus commented, "The preacher said said the things that preachers always say on such occasion, but the things that need to be said anyway."*
All the same, one of the children came up to me after it all, shook my hand, and thanked me. It was a pleasure, he said. He was very kind. But his comment caused me to fumble for a reply. The pleasure was all mine or Glad I could do it seemed like the natural response to such a statement. But that felt rather "off" for reasons that should be obvious to anyone. It just sounds cruel to say that doing some Saint's funeral was a pleasure.
But the truth is it was. It was a pleasure spending time with the family--being invited into such an intimate moment in their life. But more than that, it was a pleasure because I got to do such a wonderful thing. I got to stand next to a casket that hovered over a grave--just waiting to fill it--and tell the old old story about another grave that remained empty. I got to say words like "hope" and "peace" and "comfort" and, above all "resurrection".
I say those sorts of things every time. And I get shivers--every time.
Before I started leading funerals, I would've assumed that they would be times of spiritual struggle and doubt for me. I assumed that the dark shroud that hangs over us during times of death would make it impossible to see much of God at all. It's true that I've been to a few funerals that have been like that (of children, for instance) and suspect that may be the case for others in attendance. But as a pastor, I find that some of the most nourishing times for me have been at funerals and by gravesides. For some reason, the Spirit seems to be more tangibly present at these affairs. And perhaps more to the point, it is when death presses my nose up against the window of my faith that I see with greatest clarity my risen Lord on the other side. In those moments I am convinced--right down to my toenails--that I have not put my trust in him in vain. And that is always a pleasure!
*This is a paraphrase. If any Keillor devotees out there know the exact line (from sometime this spring) I'd love to have it.
2 comments:
I understand completely. You use the term pleasure, the term I would use is privilege. As a pastor when you get to stand beside people in their grief, get to participate in their storytelling sessions, get to speak words of peace and grace to friends and family on their behalf, it's a privilege and an honor. It's not always easy, but a privilege and an honor.
Sid
Well said.
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