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.
