Holy Ground

 February 1, 2021

For me, it all starts with a text. “Pastor, would you be available for a service on...?” The names and dates change, but the reality is the same. Someone has died, the funeral director called, and once more I’ve been invited to step into a holy place. 

Being retired, and with the years that implies, I don’t get many calls these days to officiate at weddings or baptisms. It’s understandable; it’s a generational thing. There’s not so many of my generation tying the knot; for my generation, the knot of life has loosened, and it’s my job to pick up all the loose ends and weave them into a proper memorial, and to offer hope. It really is a sacred calling, and one I’ve never taken lightly. 

Funerals have always made me nervous. I search for the right words, the right stories, the right Scriptures that I hope will offer comfort, strength, guidance, and hope, as people navigate one of the most difficult challenges of life. In some situations, it’s easy to step into a minefield of conflicting emotions as people try to make sense of their loss. It’s not always that way, but these months of COVID restrictions have presented unprecedented challenges as families who last year made the difficult decision to place mom or dad in a nursing home now have to say goodbye to loved ones they haven’t been able to see or touch for months. They tried to do what is best, and have been robbed of months of even basic human contact.

This is the second time in a week I’ve gotten that text from our local director. My heart always sinks when it comes in, for most of them are people I’ve known for more than thirty years. These aren’t strangers, faceless numbers, but people I’ve talked with, shared meals with, prayed with. My mind is filled with vivid pictures of living, breathing people. The circle slowly shrinks, and I grieve too, those whose voice I’ll not hear again. 

Ultimately though, it’s not about me. It’s all about those left behind. I’ve often said at funerals that it’s the folks in the front row who are at the epicenter of the blast, and it’s up to those sitting further back to come to their rescue, to call and visit, and let them know they aren’t alone in this dark journey. It’s too easy to fade away from the graveside, leaving the family clutching handkerchiefs and dabbing at tears. After the service, it’s suddenly over, but not for those in the front row. So I remind myself to call. And pray. The One who gave his only Son understands, weeps too, and offers the comfort of his presence through the presence of people who love and remember.