Wednesday, January 8, 2014

A Great Cloud of Witnesses

                                            
My friend Chelsea lives in a cemetery.  And by that I mean that she’s the pastor of a rural parish, and, as such, she lives in the church’s parsonage.  It just so happens that the parsonage is directly next to the church, and said church is surrounded by a cemetery that dates back hundreds of years.

So, like I said, my friend Chelsea lives in a cemetery.

 In fact, the cemetery also happens to be the final resting place for the last two pastors who served her church before her. One of them died suddenly…while reading the gospel lesson…on Ash Wednesday. Really.

 But when she first moved into her new home, I was the one who expressed a bit of trepidation.  “Aren’t you creeped out by all the graves that are literally surrounding you?” I asked.  “Nope,” she replied, “It’s a great cloud of witnesses.”

This week I presided over my 27th funeral.  Twenty-seven in less than two years. I’m not creeped out by cemeteries anymore.  In fact, I find great comfort and solace in them.  It’s the same kind of comfort I get when I walk around my church alone, and yet not alone.  Because I look around and I see all the people who I have laid to rest over these last two years.  I see the pew in which a particular person sat for ninety-some years.  I see the baptismal font that has stood there for over 120 years, serving as the vehicle which welcomes children into God’s family.  I see the altar designed by the choir director’s great-grandfather and the banners made by sewing women of generations past.

Perhaps one of the greatest surprises to me as a new pastor is the great sadness I have felt at having had to say good-bye to so very many people that I have had the honor to walk with in this world.  The number of people whom I have had the honor to love in this world.  Before I became a pastor, of course I understood intellectually that I would have funerals to preside over.  But I never guessed that my broken heart would also be attending so very many of those same funerals.

This summer, after a particularly shocking and unexpected funeral I had a conversation with a parishioner about these losses.  She told me what the Irish like to say about those they have loved and lost: They got away.

I spent a long time thinking about those words…about that idea.  And in many ways I agreed.  For those who have gone to glory have indeed gotten away—from the pain and suffering in this world, from the monotony of everyday in this world, from the exhaustion of this world…

But ultimately, I also know that those whom I have loved and lost…are not lost.  They have not gotten away from me, and they most assuredly have not gotten away from God. 
They haven’t gotten away from the church…they have simply joined the great cloud of witnesses that surrounds me here. 

And I don’t mean in the bits of pew or font or altar that remind me of this person or that person.  I mean that these folks are still members of the church…the church triumphant.  A great cloud of witnesses indeed.

That’s why we sing at funerals.  And it’s why we sing bold, old church songs that speak of the victory and strength of our God.

A couple of months ago a parishioner—a friend of mine—died from lung cancer.  We sat in the pews together, and we sat next to each other getting our chemo fix.  So I say parishioner and friend because it’s one of those unique blended-boundaries relationships that I find myself in these days.

She was such a scrappy fighter and a classy lady.  And a cradle to grave Lutheran, so I wasn’t surprised that she picked “A Mighty Fortress” to sing on the day of her funeral. After all, it’s the quintessential Lutheran hymn, our fight song…if you will.

But I suppose I really like to think that she chose that hymn for its final verse: “though life be wrenched away, they cannot win the day. The Kingdom’s ours forever.”

My friend battled cancer in this world with the same iron will that she battled every obstacle in her path.  For she so badly wanted to stay in this world…to be with, to care for, to stand amongst her beloved family.

And I am also confident saying that at no point did she give up her battle.  I suspect a more apt explanation is that her life was wrenched away…and yet victory—is hers.

During her last week, I told her that when she did join the church triumphant…it didn’t mean that she was giving up on her battle against cancer.  It didn’t mean that cancer wins.

Cancer can’t win…for God has already won.

We may have a few battles left to fight in this world, but God has won the war.  And because God has, the kingdom’s ours…forever.

In those days just before her death, I told my friend that it was time for her to receive her crown of righteousness.  I told her that she deserved, now, to join in the holy celebration of the church triumphant…and that we would keep on battling the few skirmishes left in this place.  That we would keep battling cancer for her in this world.  That I would keep fighting.

And so I shall.