resting in the rituals...

We stood as Jane’s casket was rolled into the sanctuary. Her grandson, who looks a little like her, helped unfold the white and gold pall covering the casket. He then led the processional holding the cross tall. White and gold... the colors for Easter and resurrection...She loved her church, St. Mark’s Lutheran, and we worshiped as Jane had planned. Around us hung spike filled crowns and a cross stood draped in purple at the front of the sanctuary. Lent, the season of death and suffering, is now ended for Jane. We sang, her sons read scripture and gave the eulogy, Michael read the gospel reading and told of his connection to Jane and her family, the pastor spoke. And at the front of the church the casket waited, a visible reminder of the reason for our gathering.
As we drove to Lewis Cemetery, cars pulled over, stopped and waited as the funeral procession passed by...the age old custom of the south, a ritual of respect for the dead. When we gathered at the grave side, the old words were read and prayers were offered. The artificial grass was pulled back and the casket lowered into the grave. The pastor spoke the words "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" as he sprinkled dirt in the grave. Jane’s sons took the shovels and began filling in the grave. It was one last task, one last service offered to their mother.
When I was younger, ritual was a dirty word for me. They were dusty, meaningless, backward, antiquated. I wanted fresh, new, different, modern words and ways in worship. Communion with chips and coke? Great! Folk songs with guitars? Wonderful! Jesus Christ Superstar? Right on! Bring on the rock music, the slide shows, the dance and the new translations of the Bible. Push the old words and the old ways to the back of the shelf. Bring them out for special occasions but let’s move on to newer, better ways of doing things.
Life has a way of changing you imperceptibly sometimes. Without noticing, my need for those old words and rituals has been resurrected as my life has been lived. The crosses I drag around get very heavy and sometimes, especially during times of crisis and grief, the old words and ways remind me I am not alone. I am not the first and only person who has struggled to find meaning in illness and death. I am not the only mother who has wept for her children and grandchildren. I am not the only believer who has faced the wilderness of disbelief and despair. I am not the only one who needs the assurance of community and grace in the face of anonymity and judgement. The old words and the old rituals remind me as they comfort me.
For me now, ritual is the skeleton, the framework for my expression of faith. Rituals provide a pattern, a resting place where your soul can set a spell and catch its breath.Sometimes it is a new ritual, one that speaks to my soul in a fresh way, provides light where there was darkness. Often it is a ritual from the past that I hear, really hear, for the first time. I get it. Communion...This is my body, broken for you. This is my blood poured out for you in remission of sins. Relationship, connection, separation, forgiveness that comes because of lifeblood poured out in anguish and tears, love and forgiveness that knows no end, a pattern for living with each other and with God.
"In all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, not things present nor things to come, not powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." Good by, Jane. You are present to the Lord while absent from us. We were graced by your presence in our lives.

Squeaky Wheel Prayers

Dammit, God, enough already. We leave to go to Georgia to pick mama up and bring her back to the mountains with one friend dying and another friends son facing death. Our friend dies Friday afternoon. Saturday afternoon mama and I drive to see my little home village of Clyattville. Then we go to the Baptist Home to visit Mrs. Clara Dukes, one of mama and daddy’s friends. Mr. Dukes had died a few years ago and Mrs. Dukes had a stroke. This visit was something mama really felt a need to do before she left.
I sat and watched those two old women remember days past... good days, blueberry picking at the Duke’s home, shared vacation time in the mountains, news of children and grandchildren, tough sad days, days of illness and death. As we stood to leave, Mrs. Dukes began to cry, quiet tears tracking down her sad face. We held each other, tears being sopped up by wads of Kleenex, bound together by grief and anger. It isn’t fair that the old have to lose home and place and connection in order to be safe and physically cared for.
Mama has lost her home just as surely as Mrs. Dukes. She, however, does have the consolation of still living in her home here in the mountains near us. Even though it will never be truly the home she longs for in her heart, she has work to do and family close by and grandchildren and great-grandchildren for consolation prizes.
The trip back up the mountain was hard. Traffic was heavy. Michael was pulling a trailer carrying mama’s truck and lawn mower. We were all tired and frazzled from loading up and catching cats and saying good by again to home. After the third traffic jam on the interstate left us crawling along again at the speed of a turtle, I began to get a little angry with you, God.
What tipped me over the edge was the news of our friend Andy’s illness. He is one of yours, God. Who he is and what he does has been important for the advancement of your work here on earth. Because of him, others have seen you in action and felt your love because Andy has loved them. He needs a miracle now and I am not picky about what kind of miracle you send. I would prefer it, of course, if you could heal him overnight but I would settle for gifted doctors and modern medicine curing him.
You haven’t heard the last of this from me, God. Jesus did tell the story about the woman pestering the judge until she got what she needed. So I am going to be a squeaky wheel in your ear reminding you that these folks I love need some help down here. King David, one of our most gifted complainers in prayer, wrote "Give ear to my prayer, O God and hide not thyself from my supplication! Attend to me and answer me. I am overcome by my trouble." Listen up, God, to these children of yours who are overcome with trouble right now. Make haste to come to their aid. Break into the fear and hurt and loneliness. Bring them hope and light and warmth and healing for your Name’s sake. Amen.
P.S. I’ll be talking with you about this again tomorrow, Lord. Brace up. I am going to be a pain in the neck for awhile.