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.