ASHES TO ASHES
Hanns F Skoutajan
Cobwebs, pumpkins and tombstones with the letters RIP (rest in peace) adorn
the lawns of our houses. Children and others not so young dressed in scary
costumes roam the streets knocking on the doors of homes begging for goodies.
“Trick or Treat” is the password of the night.
October 31 is Halloween, the eve of All Hallows, a time in the Christian calendar
when it has been customary to remember the dead, including “saints , martyrs,
and all faithful departed believers.” However, the traditional focus of All Hallows'
Eve revolves around the theme of using humor and ridicule to confront the power
of death.
A few days ago TV screens all across this wide country allowed people to
experience the funerals of Cpl. Nathan Cirillo and Warrant Officer Martin
Rouleau-Couture, and to witness the tears and respect which these two soldiers
elicited in fellow soldiers, dignitaries, friends and family.
On watching the funeral in Hamilton’s Christ Church Cathedral it recalled for me
the many times that I was called on to preside over this sober event. In my forty
years plus of ministry I have performed this ritual at least a thousand times, on
occasion three times in one week.
They were both large and small events. The largest took place in Kingston when
I was the student minister at a small clapboard church building on the north side
of town. The sanctuary could not contain all the mourners and the cars following
the hearse to the cemetery seemed to stretch the entire length of Princess
Street.
The undertaker, an elderly gentleman, had a very strong conviction that all
oncoming traffic should come to a halt in respect for the deceased. It was his
custom to take matters in his own hands by steering straight for the offending
motorists. There was at least one clergyman in the city who refused to drive with
him.
The undertaker always took a circuitous route through the Cataraqui Cemetery
that allowed him to pass the tomb of Sir. John A MacDonald whom he held in
highest esteem. It also lead him past the grave of his beloved wife. He would
always roll down his window, wave and call “Hi there sweetie!”
The smallest funeral took place in the chapel of the funeral establishment in
Toronto just kitty corner from my church. The director was a good friend of mine,
an elder in my congregation and a staunch Mason who made a valiant effort to
recruit me but with no success. He believed strongly that every funeral should
have the benefit of a clergyman. Thus on one occasion the only attendants were
the hearse driver, an estate lawyer, the mortician and me. All I knew about the
deceased who was not a member of my congregation or resident of the
community, was his gender, birth and date and nature of his decease.
On another unforgettable occasion our cortege had to proceed north to a
memorial garden. As we approached the airport where Highway 427 was under
construction I heard the funeral director let out a gasp. He had taken a wrong
turn and found himself leading the entire train of some forty cars through
“Departures,” how appropriate, and then back to the highway. On arriving at the
cemetery there were few straight faces in spite of the solemnity of the occasion.
I also vividly recall the funeral of four small children who had perished in a fire. In
my mind I still see their white coffins before the pulpit in the church. The entire
community was in shock and grief.
Undoubtedly the most significant funerals were those of my parents, ten years
apart. I conducted them because I felt I knew them best and could not
countenance listening to someone who scarcely knew them and whose narrative
might not be quite accurate. However, there was another reason, perhaps more
significant, speaking about them allowed me to unburden my feelings before our
friends.
From time to time we witness state funerals. Who will not forget seeing the lone
and black clad figure of Olivia Chow following on foot the casket of her late
husband Jack Layton to Roy Thomson Hall.
Funerals are for the living, we have heard it said. Unlike Catholics and some
Anglicans I believe that nothing is being done about the eternal fate of the
departed by these rituals. They do, however, reassure and comfort the bereft.
I recall standing by a graveside. The casket had been only partially lowered and
was suspended by strong cords when a soft breeze wafted across the grounds
causing the casket to gently sway. As I said the words of the committal “ Ashes to
ashes and dust to dust...” I had the thought that a loving Giver of All Life was
rocking the cradle of the beloved. Whether I believe it or not it was a source of
comfort to me that I shared with the bereaved.
Death is both a very private but also public phenomenon. The bereaved need
time to experience and express their feelings and receive comfort. The public
need to acknowledge that the deceased is one of us.
Doubtless the mass funerals are a sign of honour and respect but I cannot help
but wonder about the appropriateness of such huge and elaborate gatherings.
However, I needn’t worry, it won’t be happening for me.
Spirit Quest
Oct 31, 2014
more stories can be found at skoutajanh.blogsot.com
