ON SPEAKING AT A MEMORIAL
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You
would think I would have it figured out by now. I’m talking about being
the preacher leading a memorial service.
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My first funeral was for a still-born
child, at a graveside. The mother was still in the hospital with all the
hopes of motherhood still-born. They don’t teach you how to “do it right”
in Seminary. At best you have the prayer book services and traditional texts.
There is comfort in them, I suppose, but they speak with assurance where I’m
not so sure. Maybe that’s why they have traditional ceremonies and words ─
to fill in for people like me.
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Here I am, 50 years later, putting together
another memorial event. He had asked for a party with a service of my choice
and style. He was a good friend with whom I had discussed almost everything
over a period of decades (Sometimes with a wee sip of Scotch.)
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There were some things he didn’t want.
No color guard, no 21 gun salute, no Navy hymn, no taps. He had been there
and done that over his career spanning both the Second World War and Korean
War. As a decorated veteran he qualified for burial at Arlington National
Cemetery. But the Commander in him took charge and ordered his memorial to
be held at his beach place.
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So we set it all up in front of his flag
pole, facing his beloved North Bay view, and gathered beach neighbors from
long years back. The content was up to me. What would I do?
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Well, he had some roots in the Episcopal
Church, so we read some prayers for the grieving from the Book of Common
Prayer. I thought the 23rd Psalm might span the great diversity of religious
or non-religious thought in the group. I read a piece from Tom Brokow’s “The
Greatest Generation.” And we spent a few minutes remembering our times with
our friend.
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I knew that he would have expected me
to say something of a spiritual nature. Preachers have a file full of their
best efforts to speak faith in the face of death. I’ve spoken those kinds
of words myself, and sat through services where preachers spoke their “assurances”
about heaven and the prospects for the deceased. These “assurances” ring
hollow, although some hang on to them because they have nothing else. The
trite assurances of folk religion tend to prevail. I’ve never been sure whether
the deceased is “looking down at us now,” or “enjoying bliss in glory.”
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As death approaches, many hold hopes
for reunions “on the other side,” or as Jean’s 97 year-old aunt told us on
the phone the other day, “meeting Ollie in glory.” Ollie was her lifelong
friend. Who wants to cast a shadow over anyone’s hopes?
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When it comes to preaching some kind
of faith the Christian preacher can draw on a number of biblical stories
and texts. The texts from Jesus are frankly, of dubious historical origin.
There is hardly a hint of talk about heaven. I always thought the line, “Where
I am, you will be also,” is a good one. If Jesus is in some other realm of
existence and we share that future, fine. If, however, Jesus goes the way
of all nature and merges into the eternal stream of life, and that is also
our future, that’s fine too. If it’s good enough for Jesus, why not for us?
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Anyway, when you read and think about
all the “assurances,” what they boil down to is speculation. One may choose
a speculation and develop a “faith” in it. I think what preachers do is present
a faith based on one or another form of speculation. The fact is, nobody
knows.
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I paused after a confession of my inability
to grant a carte blanche assurance. I turned and looked out past the flagpole
and out onto the water where we had cast the ashes of others of our beach
neighbors as well as Jean’s mom, and my parents, where we would soon be spreading
our friend’s ashes.
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I confessed that my theology has been
more impacted by my observations of the beach over a lifetime than by all
my university and seminary training. I’ve seen the cycles of life and death,
the miracle of creation and re-creation, the struggle survival of the species,
the turning of living creatures into whitened shells. I have pondered the
gap between the oyster and myself, and marveled at the fact that my species
has the wondrous capacity to be aware, know, wonder, love and know awe for
the very fact of life. On clear nights I look into the stars and think of
our Milky Way corner of one of multi-millions of galaxies exploding into
existence more than 13 billion years ago. And I think of my brief life span.
It is easy to think of us as insignificant as a single grain of sand. But
something rises in my soul and says, “Wow! I’m part of something indescribably
grand!” My friend felt that way. I can honestly agree.
— Art Morgan, October 4, 2005
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