It was 1980. At the ripe age of twenty-six I had been settled on a seven-point pastoral charge in southern Manitoba. Forty years later I am accustomed to being “the Reverend”. Then it was all new. Looking back what I remember most vividly are the deaths and the funerals. I had presided at a couple of funerals on a summer field. But this was of a different magnitude. Now I was on call to respond to grief in all of its manifestations.
The first phone call from Hugh at the funeral parlour came soon after I arrived in town. Two men had been killed in an accident on the highway. The driver had a heart attack and his passenger could not pull him off the steering wheel before they swerved in front of a semi-trailer. I was to preside at both funerals. I don’t remember what I said. I do recall the bundle of nerves as I gathered up the courage to knock on the door of each grieving family. Then and there I learned to pray on the doorstep of grief for the presence of the Holy Spirit in such a wounded place.
Many of the funerals were at the funeral parlour which had a culture all of its own. I remember the two hymns that seemed to be chosen by every family: “The Old Rugged Cross” and “In the Garden”. At first both felt outdated to me. Besides, the organist played both slowly while few actually sang aloud, leaving me to attempt to carry the tune. Yet as I listened to the stories of lives that had spanned two World Wars and a Great Depression I began to understand. These hymns that speak of God’s presence through the time of trial and suffering were beloved because they had proclaimed the gospel in the midst of great hardship.
Four decades later there is one funeral that stands out. Doug McNabb had welcomed me with open arms. He was a wise elder who took me under his wing, sharing encouragement and care. It was only when he died that I learned that Doug had quietly offered this same encouragement and care to every minister who had come through town. His witness left a lasting impact on me, as did his funeral. He left clear instructions that the opening hymn was to be “Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven”. Over the years whenever a family has asked for a suggestion of a hymn for a funeral I have taken Doug’s advice and offered this setting of the 103rd Psalm. In a time when funerals have morphed into Celebrations of Life this strong hymn of praise locates our lives within the grand narrative of God’s mercy and grace.
There was one tradition that left an indelible mark upon me. Hugh and I regularly travelled in the hearse at the head of a slow procession along the highway on our way to a cemetery that was often located in a town thirty or forty miles away. As we passed fields where farmers were at work on their tractors or combines they would invariably stop their machine, get off and stand with their hat off. They usually had no way of knowing whose body was on its final journey. It might be someone of high repute … or not. They only knew that death had invaded and that grief was close. It was a powerful liturgical act, carried out in silence and yet it spoke volumes. Later in my ministry I couldn’t help but notice how death seemed so invisible in the urban west coast culture where I served.
That first year in ministry taught me that any sermon I ever preached would have to be worthy of preaching in the face of death. I suspect that it is the reason I found myself drawn increasingly to a theology of the Cross. Every Sunday, every sermon, was and is a matter of life and death. Those home visits and funerals also informed my growing call to be a priest - one who holds back the river so that the people can cross to the other side. That was the answer to my prayer for the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. In God’s great mercy those living rooms and funeral parlours became safe sanctuaries where mortals travelled from life, through death, to life on the other side.
- published in Touchstone (Volume 38, Number 1 - February 2020)
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