Ruining A Good Funeral
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Ruining a Good Funeral" by C. David McKirachan
"Where Help Comes From" by John Sumwalt
* * * * * * *
Ruining a Good Funeral
by C. David McKirachan
Luke 7:11-17
So much of life is tied up in the observances of milestones. Birthdays, baby parties, national holidays, graduations, funerals lead us from place to place, time to time. They give structure to the chaotic ebb and flow of moments tangled with moments. They draw us together from the scattered continents of day-to-day survival. I hear, "We have to do this at other times than these." Nodding and looking serious we all agree. But the energy isn't there to make it so. Only the big ones, the monsters have the gravity to pull us, even temporarily out of our set orbits.
In some ways we are pulled between what we are each day and what our milestones say about us. Ultimately the milestones become part of our normality. This is what we do and how we do it, going to work or going to a funeral.
When Jesus walked into Nan, the tragedy that came walking down the road was one of the monsters. It was sucking all the attention the town had to spare. It was headlines for a close-knit small town. It was a living dead end for a family and a woman. Death is there for everybody. But this was more than death. This was a landslide burying all possibility and hope. You better believe every second cousin twice removed came. Every distant acquaintance showed up to offer condolences and a casserole. Nobody would forget this one. But the repast was ruined.
The whole thing was ruined by this guy who wasn't even there for the funeral. He just wandered in. He touched the dead kid, offending everybody, and then the kid popped up, preaching!
So what kind of decorations do we buy for celebrating this event? What kind of card do we send? I don't think Hallmark makes one that says, "Glad you aren't dead anymore." What awkward greeting do we render? How do we look at the kid from now on? How do we get into a conversation with him? How about those Yankees? Kinda weak at this juncture. Once life breaks past death, all other milestones are lukewarm.
Easter's like that. It shatters our carefully maintained structures and demands that we claim life, each moment as the miracle it is. It alters our journey making each day an opportunity for Hallelujah. I know today isn't Easter on our liturgical calendar. OOPS! Ask the kid if it's appropriate.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Where Help Comes From
by John Sumwalt
Psalm 146
Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help... Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord their God.
-- Psalm 146:3, 5
It has been quiet out at the farm this weekend except for the singing of the birds and the gurgling of the creek over the rocks below the beaver dam. The goldfinches and the bluebirds are racing to build their nests. The lilacs and the plum tree are in bloom; asparagus and rhubarb are ripe for picking. We found four morel mushrooms between the peony bushes and the fence that separates the garden from the pasture. Wild turkeys can be seen in the cornfield on the hillside gobbling up seed corn from the neat rows the neighbor planted last week. An old Blue Heron swoops in from time to time along the creek looking for a minnow to pluck from the shallows.
Every once in a while the calm is shattered by the barking of dogs from their respective territories up and down the valley. Our little white suburban dog yips back confidently from the end of the long chain that ties him to the deck knowing that the mini-van will soon carry him back to the safety and comforts of city life.
It would have been a perfect start to a Memorial Day weekend if we hadn't just come from a burial up at the cemetery. Dad called at noon on Tuesday to tell us that my oldest cousin's youngest son had been killed in a car accident on Monday night. He was seventeen years old and a star football player at the high school up the road. He and two of his friends had found a mess of mushrooms in the woods, more than all of their families could eat. They were taking them into town to sell. Morels are fetching a good price this year. He was going too fast on a winding country road and the pick-up rolled over on one of those sharp curves he had negotiated safely a hundred times before. His two friends were hurt but will be all right, at least physically. One of them managed to pry himself out of the smashed cab and go for help. My cousin's oldest was on the rescue squad that night. They didn't let her go down to the wreck when they saw that it was her brother's truck.
We stood in line for an hour at the funeral home on Thursday night. The line extended from the parking lot, through the front door, and across the long room to where the family stood beside the open casket. We were there at eight o'clock. They said there had been a steady stream of people since four-thirty.
There was some comfort in being together with extended family and neighbors. In farming communities neighbors know they can count on each other in times of trouble. This was one of those terrible times that we had hoped never to see. The worst had happened and we were all there, crying out together with every fiber of our beings, "This cannot be!"
The next day out at the family church that sits on a hill overlooking the village and where we have gathered many times for weddings and baptisms, the pastor began the funeral sermon with words from the 147th Psalm: "God heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds."
Then he read from Romans 8: "We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose." Comforting words, but difficult to believe when heard over the casket of a seventeen-year-old boy. How can God work good out of that?
I thought of the text I had been working with all week in preparation for the sermon I would preach on Sunday back in the big stone suburban church -- now from quite a different perspective. It also happened to be from the eighth chapter of Romans: "All who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear."
Falling back into fear is one thing we all know something about. It is what comes naturally in the face of hardship and tragedy. Falling back into fear is what I wanted to do in that moment as I looked over at my cousin's tear-stained face. I wanted to run home and do something to keep my own children safe forever... lock all of the doors and never let them out of my sight again.
* * *
Looking back after some years, our children are now grown, and we have grandchildren. Dad has been in heaven for almost fifteen years. The deed of the farm is now in our names. We still go out there on Memorial Day weekends, now with another little white dog, to tend the graves at the cemetery up on the hill -- and to remember....
I don't remember what I said in that sermon all those years ago. But I do know that at 62 years of age, knowing all that I know now from looking over hundreds of open graves at tear-stained faces over thirty-plus years of officiating at funerals, too many of them for teenage boys and girls killed in car accidents; I still want to fall back into fear every time...
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 9, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Ruining a Good Funeral" by C. David McKirachan
"Where Help Comes From" by John Sumwalt
* * * * * * *
Ruining a Good Funeral
by C. David McKirachan
Luke 7:11-17
So much of life is tied up in the observances of milestones. Birthdays, baby parties, national holidays, graduations, funerals lead us from place to place, time to time. They give structure to the chaotic ebb and flow of moments tangled with moments. They draw us together from the scattered continents of day-to-day survival. I hear, "We have to do this at other times than these." Nodding and looking serious we all agree. But the energy isn't there to make it so. Only the big ones, the monsters have the gravity to pull us, even temporarily out of our set orbits.
In some ways we are pulled between what we are each day and what our milestones say about us. Ultimately the milestones become part of our normality. This is what we do and how we do it, going to work or going to a funeral.
When Jesus walked into Nan, the tragedy that came walking down the road was one of the monsters. It was sucking all the attention the town had to spare. It was headlines for a close-knit small town. It was a living dead end for a family and a woman. Death is there for everybody. But this was more than death. This was a landslide burying all possibility and hope. You better believe every second cousin twice removed came. Every distant acquaintance showed up to offer condolences and a casserole. Nobody would forget this one. But the repast was ruined.
The whole thing was ruined by this guy who wasn't even there for the funeral. He just wandered in. He touched the dead kid, offending everybody, and then the kid popped up, preaching!
So what kind of decorations do we buy for celebrating this event? What kind of card do we send? I don't think Hallmark makes one that says, "Glad you aren't dead anymore." What awkward greeting do we render? How do we look at the kid from now on? How do we get into a conversation with him? How about those Yankees? Kinda weak at this juncture. Once life breaks past death, all other milestones are lukewarm.
Easter's like that. It shatters our carefully maintained structures and demands that we claim life, each moment as the miracle it is. It alters our journey making each day an opportunity for Hallelujah. I know today isn't Easter on our liturgical calendar. OOPS! Ask the kid if it's appropriate.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Where Help Comes From
by John Sumwalt
Psalm 146
Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help... Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord their God.
-- Psalm 146:3, 5
It has been quiet out at the farm this weekend except for the singing of the birds and the gurgling of the creek over the rocks below the beaver dam. The goldfinches and the bluebirds are racing to build their nests. The lilacs and the plum tree are in bloom; asparagus and rhubarb are ripe for picking. We found four morel mushrooms between the peony bushes and the fence that separates the garden from the pasture. Wild turkeys can be seen in the cornfield on the hillside gobbling up seed corn from the neat rows the neighbor planted last week. An old Blue Heron swoops in from time to time along the creek looking for a minnow to pluck from the shallows.
Every once in a while the calm is shattered by the barking of dogs from their respective territories up and down the valley. Our little white suburban dog yips back confidently from the end of the long chain that ties him to the deck knowing that the mini-van will soon carry him back to the safety and comforts of city life.
It would have been a perfect start to a Memorial Day weekend if we hadn't just come from a burial up at the cemetery. Dad called at noon on Tuesday to tell us that my oldest cousin's youngest son had been killed in a car accident on Monday night. He was seventeen years old and a star football player at the high school up the road. He and two of his friends had found a mess of mushrooms in the woods, more than all of their families could eat. They were taking them into town to sell. Morels are fetching a good price this year. He was going too fast on a winding country road and the pick-up rolled over on one of those sharp curves he had negotiated safely a hundred times before. His two friends were hurt but will be all right, at least physically. One of them managed to pry himself out of the smashed cab and go for help. My cousin's oldest was on the rescue squad that night. They didn't let her go down to the wreck when they saw that it was her brother's truck.
We stood in line for an hour at the funeral home on Thursday night. The line extended from the parking lot, through the front door, and across the long room to where the family stood beside the open casket. We were there at eight o'clock. They said there had been a steady stream of people since four-thirty.
There was some comfort in being together with extended family and neighbors. In farming communities neighbors know they can count on each other in times of trouble. This was one of those terrible times that we had hoped never to see. The worst had happened and we were all there, crying out together with every fiber of our beings, "This cannot be!"
The next day out at the family church that sits on a hill overlooking the village and where we have gathered many times for weddings and baptisms, the pastor began the funeral sermon with words from the 147th Psalm: "God heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds."
Then he read from Romans 8: "We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose." Comforting words, but difficult to believe when heard over the casket of a seventeen-year-old boy. How can God work good out of that?
I thought of the text I had been working with all week in preparation for the sermon I would preach on Sunday back in the big stone suburban church -- now from quite a different perspective. It also happened to be from the eighth chapter of Romans: "All who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear."
Falling back into fear is one thing we all know something about. It is what comes naturally in the face of hardship and tragedy. Falling back into fear is what I wanted to do in that moment as I looked over at my cousin's tear-stained face. I wanted to run home and do something to keep my own children safe forever... lock all of the doors and never let them out of my sight again.
* * *
Looking back after some years, our children are now grown, and we have grandchildren. Dad has been in heaven for almost fifteen years. The deed of the farm is now in our names. We still go out there on Memorial Day weekends, now with another little white dog, to tend the graves at the cemetery up on the hill -- and to remember....
I don't remember what I said in that sermon all those years ago. But I do know that at 62 years of age, knowing all that I know now from looking over hundreds of open graves at tear-stained faces over thirty-plus years of officiating at funerals, too many of them for teenage boys and girls killed in car accidents; I still want to fall back into fear every time...
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 9, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
