Not Funereal

Lovely day, Saturday. Sunshine, clear blue sky. Linda went with friends to Apalachicola for the Tour of Homes sponsored by Trinity Episcopal Church every first Saturday of May. Warm, pleasant. Humidity no sufferance. Sufferance, there’s a word.

Today, Sunday, promises as fine, clear. 

For today's adult Sunday school class I had thought to focus on the epistle called "First Peter," because it’s our second reading all through Easter. But Sunday school is like a sermon: you’re not sure what you’ll talk about until the Holy Spirit is done with you and you step out of the pulpit. And more than holy guidance, my interest in 1st Peter is the scholarly material online debating authorship, intellectual sophistication versus uneducated fisherman, dating (80-130?), theology, pauline influence, LXX fluency, ... versus tired views shaded so what, the Bible says it, I believe it, why discuss it. Not to mention that vestry competes. And Mike is away.  

So, I'm thinking to give Pete a rain check and survey Jesus’ postresurrection appearances. Depending on whose story one is reading, they start at the empty tomb and go for forty days. Some scholars insist the whole thing happened exactly as chronicled, but no mainline scholars that I've read. Some point out that every chronicler has it different and they don’t mesh. Some scholars humph that the whole thing was writers’ fabrication. Interesting to sort through. We'll see. 

but now this ---

Floats through my mind this predawn, “Who knows -- what evil -- luurrrks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows” he said chillingly to open his weekly radio show years ago. Truly, there’s no telling what goes on in the hearts and minds of men, including this man. Along with violent thunderstorms, lightning and heavy downpours of rainy, gloomy weather this past week, I've uncommonly felt myself the very resident of Psalm 130. Why? That’s not the question. But to work through, the umbrella was handy for cover, and the parasol; and wandering Greenwood Cemetery, where God waits to be railed, loved, praised, blamed and cursed, still, nevertheless and always Holy Comforter. Graves there challenge my relationship with whoever or whatever God may be to me, for me. Loved ones, friends and loved ones from long ago in my years, not only here but far and wide. But Sunday has come. 

Sunday has come, and the sunshine. If my mind goes heavy again, I have a grave in mind to focus on, from a funeral I officiated in Apalachicola fairly recently. Comes to mind because of Linda's visit yesterday to Apalachicola, where I used to love roaming cemeteries --

Terminal, a woman had written and asked me to officiate her funeral, in Trinity Church, and to recite some of our old remembrances together. With the rector's consent, I did so. After the ceremony, family and congregation stayed behind for reception in Benedict Hall. I as always, but this time alone, rode out to the cemetery in the hearse with undertaker and casket for the burial. 

It was well that no family were along, because the cemetery scene was a fiasco that would have shattered them. The grave had not been opened. A labor crew was there with a backhoe to dig the hole. On a trailer nearby, behind a tractor, sat the concrete vault to be sunk before the casket was laid. As the backhoe could not get close, enormous shrubs had to be dug up and dragged out of the way, and curbstones removed. Work crew discussed which plants to move. The hearse was in the way of the heavy machinery, too close and so was moved along with a question to me -- instead of waiting, did I want to be taken back to the church while they were moving the hearse anyway? No. Am I sure? they don’t mind taking me back to the church, you know. No, and don’t ask again, I’m here to say words, sprinkle holy water, and invoke God’s blessing on this spot of creation. The day was hot, sweaty. After an hour or so, I removed the heavy vestments I was wearing over my street clothes. 

The backhoe couldn’t quite maneuver, so gravestones had to be moved. The spot was measured, the backhoe stretched its long arm and began digging, dig, scoop, scoop, dig, dig, scoop. Father, could you move back a little, please? Yes. A decent size, length, width and depth hole evolved. Eight years old, maybe ten, a little boy sits proudly and importantly on the backhoe with his dad, the operator. I ask him, and yes, he can operate the backhoe, he has watched, and his dad taught him. Step off the hole, question, tape measure: oops, the hole is not quite big enough for the vault, so crew with shovels do their finishing up, chopping off tree roots, squaring off the opening, patting the floor flat so the vault doesn't rock or tilt. Afternoon stretches on. Backhoe moves away. I sprinkle water and, always at this point mindful of Lincoln at Gettysburg, “we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground,” say the liturgical words. “O God, whose blessed son was laid in a sepulcher in the garden: Bless, we pray, this grave, and grant that she whose body is to be buried here may dwell with Christ in paradise, and may come to thy heavenly kingdom; through thy son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.” 

A tractor pulling the trailer bearing the vault backs as close to the open gravesite as possible. Its crane lifts the vault, swings it over and lowers it into the hole, where it fits nicely. Vehicles shift, and the hearse backs up close. We remove the casket from the hearse and carry it two or three yards to the grave. Straps are put around it, and it is lowered into the vault. I sprinkle more water, toss a handful of dirt, say more words, “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life ... earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless thee and keep thee, the Lord make his face ... and give thee peace.” The straps are pulled free. The heavy vault lid is set, men with shovels do their last. Afternoon has surrendered to dusk, but the muggy heat abides. Should I take off this sweaty collar, or not? Not, then, as waiting back at the church is a wife who does not appreciate when I look like a slob.

Not ready, the gravestone has been ordered exactly to match the enormous flat marble slab, perhaps seven feet by three feet and six inches thick, beautifully cut and beautifully inscribed, on her husband’s grave right next to her, his father next to him, his mother next to his father. These dead are old friends, dear helpers to me in my time. Her husband Frank, in his same pew every Sunday without fail, his mother’s pew before him, Frank slept through every sermon I ever preached at Trinity. I married their children. Baptized grandchildren. Married more childen. Buried him. Now, finally, her. This is a pioneer family of Apalachicola, a founding family of Trinity, their name on the State of Florida historic marker in Gorrie Square in front of the church. Honored to have offered this service to old friends, and feeling a part of local history, I get in the front seat of the hearse and am driven back to the church, where the party is over, church women are cleaning up, Linda waits to drive us home to Panama City. 

My sole qualification to be a bishop is that wherever we go, my wife drives.

Next trip to Apalachicola, it will be my intent to drive out to Magnolia Cemetery and see the grave marker. Anon. No hurry. It will be there a thousand years.

Death is more than what we see. In the face of any future melancholy, I will climb a nearby tree in Magnolia Cemetery and watch this behind-the-scenes debacle again til sadness passes. 

For those we have loved but see no longer, we thank you, O Lord, and we bless you.

TW+ 

Blog posts too long? That's easy. Don't read 'em. I certainly don't.