Having fun... laughing at loud... being silly just because you feel like it... most grown-ups have forgotten how. We take ourselves and our lives and this world much too seriously.
As a child I was admonished to “behave” at church. You were expected to hold to a certain standard of decorum in the sanctuary. It was holy space and to be treated with respect and quiet behavior was the order of the day. If you were going to play, adults and children alike, you went outdoors.
Some churches, thank God, have managed to escape the oppressive hands of the holiness police and the seriousness society. They have a sense of fun and one waits for the party hats to come out during worship. After all, Jesus himself was accused of being a party animal by the religiously correct folks in his day. He ate and drank and laughed with all the wrong kinds of people at all the wrong times.
Michael and I have attended many worships in many different kinds of churches and synagogues. They range from one end of the theological spectrum to the other. They were different colors, different parts of the country, different denominations, different faiths, different economic levels, different styles of worship, different from us in many ways. The ones I remember with affection are the ones who played together.
At our first church out of seminary, Lake Shore Baptist in Waco, Texas, having a party and playing together was a religious ritual. One of the women had a party closet where she stored a communal gathering of tablecloths, napkins, dishes, vases, accessories of all kinds for anyone to use for a church party. This is the same church that loved to play jokes on each other.
One weekend the pastor was out of town and came home late Sunday night. In the wee hours of the morning, an old fashioned alarm clock went off. They looked and looked but couldn’t find it. Every few minutes another alarm clock would sound off. Finally they figured it out. While they were gone, someone had placed the clocks in the walls set to sound off. This same pastor woke up one Saturday to find a crowd gathered in his yard waiting for a yard sale to begin, a yard sale he knew nothing about. Lest you feel sorry for this pastor, be assured he played right back. The first sound one heard when entering this church was laughter and giggles and snorts.
Two of the churches I have loved had joke telling groups. In this age of e-mail jokes, the art form of joke telling seems to be dying out. What a pity. Church is a wonderful place for joke telling. In both churches, little old ladies told the best ones. Mabel Calder, a prim and proper looking old lady, loved to tell slightly naughty or downright dirty jokes. Nina, Judy and I would see each other at church and not say hello but “Have you heard the one about...”
My daughter Alison and her husband have a church with a sense of humor. When you read their order of worship, there is always at least one smiley place. And you will laugh out loud during worship, somewhere, somehow. Good humor, one of my most valued virtues, abounds there. The mothers get together to go out to eat and have a girls night out. Some of the men, including the pastor, are going coasting... riding roller coasters for fun. This same group meets for beer and movies . They are very active in peace and justice issues with light hearts. They cook for a homeless group at their church and have a party doing it. Children and families show up, cook together, eat together and are the family of God for all who come. Their work as a church is colored with hope and laughter even when confronting painful, difficult issues.
A friend sent me a web site for a new church in our community. It is a hip, contemporary, colorful, friendly interpretation of their community. I was struck with a passage that outlined the value they place on having fun together. Once a month, they meet to play. Worship, service and fun... what a revolutionary idea. I wonder if God gets tired of only hearing our angst and anguish in worship and drops in to some of these communities for comic relief? I think I’ll tell my blonde mortician joke at church this Sunday and see if I can get a laugh.
Blessed are you that weep now, for you shall laugh. Luke 6:21b For Leslie, Rob and Michael
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
mourning in America
Mourning in America today is an imprecise process. There are so few rules to follow. In my great-grandmother’s time, mourning was defined and there were graduated periods of release from sadness. One wore black then lighter mourning colors such as lavender and grey. Men wore black armbands. I have some jewelry from my great-grandmother... red glass garnet look-a-likes... that was worn only during a time of mourning.
I remember as a child the custom of family members sitting up all night with the body, sometimes in the funeral home or at home. This custom, rooted in ancient traditions, is no longer practiced much. I recognize now how comforting this night vigil can be. The time is coming when the body, the outer shell of the one you loved, will be gone forever. This is a time to make peace and see how the butterfly soul that animated the body has flown away, leaving an empty cocoon that is no longer needed.
It is also a great time for a party... a wake in the Irish tradition... time to tell stories, laugh, eat, drink, weep and touch. Tears and laughter flow easily as the comfort of physical presence provides the support needed to survive those first shocking days and nights of the changed life. Like life itself, it can be loud and raucous and untidy but vastly satisfying.
The Jewish tradition of sitting Shiva also has comforting patterns to follow. When visitors come to the house of grief, they wait for the mourners to speak first to them. Sometimes silence is all that is needed or wanted. It is up to the mourners to signal what they need. Often the grieving ones will sit on the floor or a low stool as a visible sign of being brought low by grief. During the seven days of Shiva, you are given permission to grieve and rituals for the process.
Orthodox Christians have a forty day period of mourning punctuated by special services. The third day is the funeral with the ninth and fortieth days also having special worships. The forty day period that is so familiar to all Christians from Jesus’ life story is used as a set apart time to wander through the wilderness of grief.
The first funeral mentioned in the Bible is Sarah’s, wife of Abraham. The twenty third chapter of Genesis tells the story of her death and burial. Abraham was living in the land of the Hittites and did not have a place to bury his dead. He was held in such high esteem by his Hittite neighbors that they wanted to give him the place of his choice. After some back and forthing, he insisted on paying Ephron four hundred shekels of silver for a cave and the field that went with it. There he buried his beloved Sarah, the laughing one who bore a son for him in their old age.
So... for all of you out there who might still be around when I fly away, here is what I want. Sit with my body and be together. Laugh, drink, eat, weep, listen to music and sing, dance, tell stories, hug and hold each other just in case I am still close enough to enjoy your presence. Don’t forget to pray for my soul and my new life on the other side of the river. I will still need praying for. Take seven days or forty days, whatever you need, and do your grief work. Choose your rituals and use them to help you let go of my presence on this earth so that you might move on to your new life without me. You can cremate my body if you want to but put what’s left in an old graveyard and plant some flowers or a tree. Put a stone there with my two favorite hymns... the third verse of Amazing Grace and the first verse of Oh God Our Help in Ages Past... inscribed for future graveyard walkers to read. And occasionally, if you are passing by, stop in for a visit and leave a small rock on the tombstone, smell the flowers blooming and say a thank you prayer. Peggy Calhoun Cole Hester
I remember as a child the custom of family members sitting up all night with the body, sometimes in the funeral home or at home. This custom, rooted in ancient traditions, is no longer practiced much. I recognize now how comforting this night vigil can be. The time is coming when the body, the outer shell of the one you loved, will be gone forever. This is a time to make peace and see how the butterfly soul that animated the body has flown away, leaving an empty cocoon that is no longer needed.
It is also a great time for a party... a wake in the Irish tradition... time to tell stories, laugh, eat, drink, weep and touch. Tears and laughter flow easily as the comfort of physical presence provides the support needed to survive those first shocking days and nights of the changed life. Like life itself, it can be loud and raucous and untidy but vastly satisfying.
The Jewish tradition of sitting Shiva also has comforting patterns to follow. When visitors come to the house of grief, they wait for the mourners to speak first to them. Sometimes silence is all that is needed or wanted. It is up to the mourners to signal what they need. Often the grieving ones will sit on the floor or a low stool as a visible sign of being brought low by grief. During the seven days of Shiva, you are given permission to grieve and rituals for the process.
Orthodox Christians have a forty day period of mourning punctuated by special services. The third day is the funeral with the ninth and fortieth days also having special worships. The forty day period that is so familiar to all Christians from Jesus’ life story is used as a set apart time to wander through the wilderness of grief.
The first funeral mentioned in the Bible is Sarah’s, wife of Abraham. The twenty third chapter of Genesis tells the story of her death and burial. Abraham was living in the land of the Hittites and did not have a place to bury his dead. He was held in such high esteem by his Hittite neighbors that they wanted to give him the place of his choice. After some back and forthing, he insisted on paying Ephron four hundred shekels of silver for a cave and the field that went with it. There he buried his beloved Sarah, the laughing one who bore a son for him in their old age.
So... for all of you out there who might still be around when I fly away, here is what I want. Sit with my body and be together. Laugh, drink, eat, weep, listen to music and sing, dance, tell stories, hug and hold each other just in case I am still close enough to enjoy your presence. Don’t forget to pray for my soul and my new life on the other side of the river. I will still need praying for. Take seven days or forty days, whatever you need, and do your grief work. Choose your rituals and use them to help you let go of my presence on this earth so that you might move on to your new life without me. You can cremate my body if you want to but put what’s left in an old graveyard and plant some flowers or a tree. Put a stone there with my two favorite hymns... the third verse of Amazing Grace and the first verse of Oh God Our Help in Ages Past... inscribed for future graveyard walkers to read. And occasionally, if you are passing by, stop in for a visit and leave a small rock on the tombstone, smell the flowers blooming and say a thank you prayer. Peggy Calhoun Cole Hester
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
graveyards and grace...
I love old graveyards, the ones with full grown trees and flowers and shrubs planted by loving hands long ago. The stones sometimes tilt towards Tildy and often the inscriptions are so worn they are difficult to decipher. Old graveyards can be found everywhere, in towns small and large, in the countryside, perched on the sides of mountains and hills, in church yards.
My favorite old graveyard is at Bruington Baptist Church in King and Queen County, Virginia. It was my mother’s family church. Founded in 1793, the old brick two story building stands in the shade of majestic huge oak trees circled with benches. Those trees were the site of dinner on the grounds until the new wing was built. The graveyard, like many of the old burial sites, is gathered in with an iron fence. It is well kept by the congregation and is expanding. Graves mark the lives of people who lived three hundred years ago and three months ago. Pastors who loved that old church are buried there next to those whom they served.
Mama and I drove down to Bruington after Uncle Tud’s funeral and stopped at the old church. As we walked through the graveyard, mama and I looked at the graves, read the inscriptions and remembered the ones we love who are buried there. So much of mama’s past, teachers, friends, family, rest in the warm earth surrounded by all their extended family.
The Minter family plot has the graves of my grandparents and a stone for a baby boy who died at birth. Uncle Bill and Aunt Thelma lie next to them. Great-grandmother and great-grandfather, cousins, great-aunts and great uncles... all gathered together in a family group with inscriptions on each stone. Hymn titles...There is a place of quiet rest near to the Heart of God... Asleep in Jesus... descriptions of lives well lived... dates of birth and death... relationships defined... beloved daughter... loving mother... faithful friend... memories of life entrusted to words written on stone.
To be remembered... this is the gift of old graveyards. When I walk through old graves reading the tombstones, I am remembering and wondering and giving thanks for the lives of those who lie buried there. Walking through a Jewish cemetery, I see all the little stones resting on the tombstones as visible markers of remembrance from those who have visited a particular grave. At Bruington I see flowers and shrubs growing that were planted by grieving families. In the mountains, folks gather at cemeteries and spend a day cleaning and remembering, Decoration Day. In my head I understand the practicality and ecology of cremation but my heart understands the comfort of earth burial, a place to visit and remember.
My Bible fell open to Second Samuel this morning, Chapter twenty three. “Now these are the last words of David: The oracle of David, the son of Jesse, the oracle of the man who was raised on high, the annointed of the God of Jacob, the sweet psalmist of Israel.” Now there is a tombstone inscription that covers all the bases... relationship, work, connection to God, and my favorite phrase, “sweet psalmist of Israel.” Those words were written by someone who loved David. They loved him even though he was a flawed and cracked vessel, remembered him for all of his goodness, forgave and forgot his sins which were many. What a grace filled way to be remembered.
I hope I will be remembered with loving grace for all my life. I, like David, have sins a’plenty but they are not the sum of me, only a part. Perhaps I should begin living like I am dying with careful consideration of my tombstone inscription a part of my daily devotional time. Now there’s a different perspective... grace, grace, God’s grace, grace that is greater than all my sin. Grace and remembrance... Peggy Calhoun Cole Hester
My favorite old graveyard is at Bruington Baptist Church in King and Queen County, Virginia. It was my mother’s family church. Founded in 1793, the old brick two story building stands in the shade of majestic huge oak trees circled with benches. Those trees were the site of dinner on the grounds until the new wing was built. The graveyard, like many of the old burial sites, is gathered in with an iron fence. It is well kept by the congregation and is expanding. Graves mark the lives of people who lived three hundred years ago and three months ago. Pastors who loved that old church are buried there next to those whom they served.
Mama and I drove down to Bruington after Uncle Tud’s funeral and stopped at the old church. As we walked through the graveyard, mama and I looked at the graves, read the inscriptions and remembered the ones we love who are buried there. So much of mama’s past, teachers, friends, family, rest in the warm earth surrounded by all their extended family.
The Minter family plot has the graves of my grandparents and a stone for a baby boy who died at birth. Uncle Bill and Aunt Thelma lie next to them. Great-grandmother and great-grandfather, cousins, great-aunts and great uncles... all gathered together in a family group with inscriptions on each stone. Hymn titles...There is a place of quiet rest near to the Heart of God... Asleep in Jesus... descriptions of lives well lived... dates of birth and death... relationships defined... beloved daughter... loving mother... faithful friend... memories of life entrusted to words written on stone.
To be remembered... this is the gift of old graveyards. When I walk through old graves reading the tombstones, I am remembering and wondering and giving thanks for the lives of those who lie buried there. Walking through a Jewish cemetery, I see all the little stones resting on the tombstones as visible markers of remembrance from those who have visited a particular grave. At Bruington I see flowers and shrubs growing that were planted by grieving families. In the mountains, folks gather at cemeteries and spend a day cleaning and remembering, Decoration Day. In my head I understand the practicality and ecology of cremation but my heart understands the comfort of earth burial, a place to visit and remember.
My Bible fell open to Second Samuel this morning, Chapter twenty three. “Now these are the last words of David: The oracle of David, the son of Jesse, the oracle of the man who was raised on high, the annointed of the God of Jacob, the sweet psalmist of Israel.” Now there is a tombstone inscription that covers all the bases... relationship, work, connection to God, and my favorite phrase, “sweet psalmist of Israel.” Those words were written by someone who loved David. They loved him even though he was a flawed and cracked vessel, remembered him for all of his goodness, forgave and forgot his sins which were many. What a grace filled way to be remembered.
I hope I will be remembered with loving grace for all my life. I, like David, have sins a’plenty but they are not the sum of me, only a part. Perhaps I should begin living like I am dying with careful consideration of my tombstone inscription a part of my daily devotional time. Now there’s a different perspective... grace, grace, God’s grace, grace that is greater than all my sin. Grace and remembrance... Peggy Calhoun Cole Hester
Monday, April 7, 2008
peas, God?
“Peas,Nana,” said Aidan as he held his cup up to be filled. He said “Tank yah,” as he reached for the freshly filled cup. He is two years old and his vocabulary is beginning with the most important words in any language, please and thank you. As he ran around at his birthday party on Saturday, he was practicing gratitude when he opened presents and asked for cake. Sunday morning at church I watched as other adults came to give him hugs and birthday congratulations (it was in the order of worship announcements). His church grandma brought him a toy bag and she got a hug with her “Tank yah”. He is learning how to pray and how to live as he learns the importance of these words.
This Monday morning I am praying please... please let a season of resurrection spring come to my soul... please stand close by those I love who are mourning the absence in body of dearly beloveds... please help the soldiers who have come home wounded in body and spirit from a war that seems to have no end... please let hope bloom in our hearts for the earth you have given us as a home... please renew in us a right spirit of love that we might be a truthful reflection of your love here on earth.
And, I am praying thank you... thank you for two year olds who take joyful delight in all your creation and in their life... thank you for the ties that bind us to each other... thank you for the turning of the seasons that brings the comfort of new life after death... thank you for the gift of my life... and thank you for the laughter and love that surround Aidan in his church home... thank you for poets and poetry whose word songs speak to my soul.
i thank you God for this most amazing day:
for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.
i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;
this is the birthday of love and wings:
and of the gay great happening illimitably earth.
how should tasting, touching, hearing, seeing, breathing
any-lifted from the no of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened.
e.e. cummings
This Monday morning I am praying please... please let a season of resurrection spring come to my soul... please stand close by those I love who are mourning the absence in body of dearly beloveds... please help the soldiers who have come home wounded in body and spirit from a war that seems to have no end... please let hope bloom in our hearts for the earth you have given us as a home... please renew in us a right spirit of love that we might be a truthful reflection of your love here on earth.
And, I am praying thank you... thank you for two year olds who take joyful delight in all your creation and in their life... thank you for the ties that bind us to each other... thank you for the turning of the seasons that brings the comfort of new life after death... thank you for the gift of my life... and thank you for the laughter and love that surround Aidan in his church home... thank you for poets and poetry whose word songs speak to my soul.
i thank you God for this most amazing day:
for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.
i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;
this is the birthday of love and wings:
and of the gay great happening illimitably earth.
how should tasting, touching, hearing, seeing, breathing
any-lifted from the no of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened.
e.e. cummings
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