The View from the Church Steps
2/6/10
Went to church yesterday, and it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t Sunday either, but they don’t do too many funerals on Sundays. Sorry, it wasn’t a funeral. That’s the conventional Anglo terminology and the way it had to be listed in the paper. “Funeral services will be held on.....” This was not a funeral. I heard the word “funeral” but once during the several hour service, and that was when the pastor publicly thanked the “Funeral Home” for their services. This was no funeral for the dearly departed. This was her “Homegoing.” And as such it reached down into the depths of despair, down deeper still through death itself, then raised up all into the joyous celebration of Homegoing.
A friend of mine lost his wife to cancer way to soon in their life together. His mid-life crisis has little to do with fast cars, much less fast women. The gentleman who walked the half mile up the road to the church with me, had grown up with the deceased and quickly launched into a couple of stories about their early years. I got the feeling that if we’d had to park ten miles away, he’d have plenty of material for our hike. Stories. Most of the time we are too busy getting to the next thing on our to-do list to indulge in stories. We’ve got stuff to do, places to be and people to see, and can’t afford to sit around listening to some story about the time when the only one who caught a fish over the whole weekend trip was the dog. No, the kids have to be at soccer practice, and we really need to squeeze in a stop at the cleaners, so we glance at our watch several times and politely excuse ourselves to resume the hustle and bustle. We are slaves to the tyranny of the urgent.
But at times like this, the stories are what we need most. She’s gone, and it hurts like hell; but damming up the flood of memories with forty seven pages of things to do, simply won’t do. Everything comes to a stop. Time stands still, until someone says, “Did I tell you about that time when she got sent to the principal’s office?” And someone else follows that one with, “Do you remember the time when she had to give that speech before the Sr. Class and Joe went streaking across the stage, nothing on but his tennis shoes, and she never missed even a word.” And then it goes on, “Oh, she used to make the best....” “And “how about that time when she.....” The stories help us to know she lived and lived a full and fascinating life. Life itself is so full and fascinating, that even someone who’s never lived anywhere but here, who’s never traveled to exotic places, who’s worked the same job for 42 years, made the same bed every morning, and eaten grits and toast for breakfast seven days a week since being weaned from the bottle, is full and fascinating. Their story will be different, and one might have to dig a little deeper through the layers of routine, but the stories are there, for life’s little adventures, surprises, and daily amazements come to us all, and out of such the stories grow.
The place was packed. Standing room only, and I could see I would be one of the those doing just that. The gentleman who’d walked me in invited me to walk down the isle to the front of the church to see her. The casket was open and already I was in the current of well wishers heading that way. Not much choice, really. Normally, I make it a practice to avoid viewings. I took a psychology class once and we studied how actually seeing the deceased in the casket can truly assist family members in saying, “Good bye.” But for everybody else, what was the purpose? Should I go down here and take a good look so I can go compliment the undertaker on his handiwork? “Nice job, she looks pretty life-like. You even got her nails done the way she’d do ‘um. She’d be pleased. Too bad she missed seeing herself like this, and only by a couple of days too.”
It would have been terrible insult to turn around and walk through the flow of onlookers and well wishers, and back out the door. So, I swallowed my qualms and went on down to the front. She didn’t look that bad. But not near as cute and young as she did the couple of times I met her. One of the guys my friend works with had commented, “Have you met his wife? I always wondered how he could have talked someone that beautiful into marrying him.” A deep sadness hit. It was not only the end of her life, it was the end of their relationship. It wasn’t one death, but two.
There was weeping and a couple of ladies were hugging each other between the front pew and the casket and I was stuck. I was standing there in the front of the crowded church, unable to move, waiting to get around the two huggers. I was holding up the line and I just knew everyone was staring at me. One of those ‘forever’ moments. Finally I was able to inch my way past the ladies and there he was. He stood up, grabbed my hand, pulled me close and wrapped an arm around me. “Thanks for coming.” That was all he could get out, and it was three words more than I could say. But sometimes being there says more than one can say. I hoped that was the case then.
I got back to the rear corner and found a place to stand. Slow and low the organ began, one long chord, then another, signaling the upcoming start of the service. After a few minutes a tall woman robed in black with a white clerical collar came to the pulpit. She began to pray. Like the organ before her, she began low and slow; the prayer wound around the organ’s lonely chord progressions, and was punctuated with “Amens” and “Praise Jesuses” from the congregation. As the eloquent and heart felt appeal to God worked toward its crescendo, I realized that I could summarize the content in just a few words: Death sucks, but God saves. My intellectual revelation may have been accurate; certainly it was concise, quick and could be uttered in one breath. But it wasn’t prayer. That prayer from the pulpit drew one into it, it surrounded the congregation and pulled us together and up toward the one God to whom the prayer was prayed. Then came to mind the story Jesus told about the widow who kept badgering the judge until he finally gave in and gave her justice, just to get rid of her . Badgering might not be the right word for this prayer, but this rhythmic repetition, these repeated requests were seeking to accomplish the same goal. Like the powerless widow before the sovereign judge, we were powerless before the finality of death. The choice before us is either prayer or despair. This woman chose for all of us. And at times like this, even if a little prayerful badgering doesn’t get us what we want, it sure gets us in the right frame of mind. “Help us, God. Help.”
And we needed that prayer, because almost as soon as it was over the wailing started. One lady down front threw her head back and let loose, then another on the other side of the room, and then several more. Loud, agonizing, wails and deep, mournful groans were coming from all over the church. The organ stared playing, while several gentlemen wearing white gloves came down to the front. One at a time they ushered family members up to the casket for a final good bye. Her 92 year old mother had an especially tough time. Her husband and daughter stood together weeping and holding one another up. Another woman stood to pray as the casket was closed, but most of what she said was drowned out by the the ever increasing shouts and wails. They brought the lid down slowly. The sorrow mounted, until finally, the white hands latched and locked the lid in place. Silence descended upon the congregation.
Low and slow again, the organist began to play. Moments later the choir stood, and called us all to stand and sing, “Blessed Assurance.” It felt good to sing right then; it was an emotional release, to be sure, but it also felt like we were shaking our collective fist at the finality of death represented by that tightly shut lid. Death had done its worse. But there we stood singing, “This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior all the day long.” Our story said that what looked like a closed lid, was in reality a door to the other side; one opened by our Savior. It was the door this “heir of salvation” would walk through and into the great and glorious Paradise where she’d be “lost in His love.”
We sat and an aged, rickety, old man stood to pray. He started so low I could hardly hear, but as he went, the volume grew. Once he caught his cadence it all began to flow. He prayed verses from scripture, hymn choruses, and lines from poems; he prayed it all as a breathy, rhythmic offering. And with it he offered up us as well, and the family, and the friends, and the church, all rose from ancient lips up to the heavens and into the heart of God. By the concluding triple “Amen” he was spent; and I felt like I’d run some sort of spiritual marathon.
But what would a funeral, oh sorry. What would a homegoing be without stories and eulogies? And so, the invitation went out to any and all who wanted to come and share a remembrance, or reflection, or offer sympathy to the family. The line formed and as the stories were told this person whom I’d met just twice began to come alive. She was principled and proper, always well dressed though most of her clothing purchases were made at Goodwill. The interconnectedness between church, community, family and friends was strong and stories of one flowed over into all the others. Oft noted was her gratefulness for each day, especially after the cancer had come back with a vengeance. An elaborate story was told about how she and her friends would stand in front of the ladies room mirror after worship to make sure she looked her best before the lunch and fellowship gathering. Making sure they looked their best was only the excuse they needed to stand around and talk about, well... some of that was better left unsaid. The last person to speak was her daughter. With amazing poise, she recalled antidotes and experiences of life with her mother. She spoke eloquently about her mom always being her mom, and only in the last several weeks did she finally let her daughter “mother” her a bit. There was gratitude and humor, but mostly there was joy. Then it hit me. I’d heard not one note of despair, absolutely nothing morbid or morose or depressing since the lid of that casket was shut. A closed lid on this life, but the door was open into eternal life and now joy was the order of the day. And maybe that’s how her daughter was able to give the most loving and honest and joyful remembrance I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing.
The choir sang, and we sang with the choir, and then another one of the pastors spoke, or was he the Denominational Bishop who’d come? I couldn’t tell. He honored a life well lived, while working us into “Amens” in celebration of the eternal life which was now her honor. I noticed folks moving about, some were heading out of the building, and others were walking down the isles to speak to various friends, even hug family members who down on the first pew. Folks seemed restless, so I figured this was about it, and soon we’d be following the casket out the door, which would be a relief, since the heat seemed to be stuck in “melt-your-face” mode.
More prayers, and certain “selections” sung by the choir and then came the introduction; the introduction of the main speaker. Another lady, who happened to be both a friend of, and pastor to the deceased. When she chose as her text one half of one verse, I was somewhat encouraged that we might get out before daybreak the next morning, but I’d grossly underestimated just how powerful Scripture is. I didn’t realize that one half of one verse could generate such a profusion of thoughts and words and stories and celebration of the “loving and keeping arms of God.” This wonderfully articulate woman had fifty years of stories that all clamored for expression, and express them she did; though she did so in the context of her half verse text, which read: “She reached out and touched the hem of his garment.” Touch. The theme was easy to pick out: She dared to reach out and touch her Savior, and then bring his touch to all she met. Again, a good synopsis, but there’s no life in it. This lady, with all her remembrances and reflections made this synopsis into the flesh and blood of a woman so many were now missing. It was a moving tribute, long to be sure, but personal, poetic, and placed squarely within the context of a living faith in the resurrection. And just in case anyone might wonder what resurrection life might look like, she painted the eternity, with all its attendant joys and jubulations, with the brush strokes of golden streets, pearly gates, and light inaccessible no longer hid from our eyes. Surely the dearly departed would be trying on robes to find the one with the best fit, and she’d be checking herself in the mirror making sure her crown wasn’t tilted, and she’d be watching that her wings were properly adjusted with feathers perfectly arranged. It was quite a picture.
But you know, we don’t really know. And if this imagery is helpful, why not lay it out there. Because the point was not what heaven looks like, but that heaven is life, and the woman in the casket with the locked lid, was there. Whatever and where ever there was, it was life and she was alive and that’s what we needed to have painted for us, and with vivid, brilliant colors, the preacher painted a masterpiece.
Then the choir sang its advice about how one might go about building the house of the soul. Several of the thoughts in that song were being discussed by folks around me as we inched our way toward the door. They’d had to conduct the Committal Service inside, due to weather considerations. So, after the casket was wheeled out and the family slowly made their way down the isle, not because of grief, but because of hugs and handshakes along the way, the rest of us stared finding out why folks were here. One lady knew her from work, another had met her several times and seen the obituary and decided to come to pay her respects, even though she didn’t know her very well. “It was just something I felt I should do.” A gentleman walking out with me had been in high school with her. “I didn’t really know her,” I said, “at least until today. Now, I feel almost like family.”
“That’s what we are,” another spoke up and then continued, “All God’s children are family.” Homegoing. One day that casket lid will be shut tight, but the door into eternal life is already open. We are all going home. The real trick is to start living it now.
