It is interesting how we honor our dead within our culture and
how we shy away from the discussion of death.
I beg your pardon, but let me rattle that cage just a little.
In my current commute I drive past the Lone Rock
Cemetery. It is an apt name because I
see it as a very lonely looking cemetery. The grass struggles against the weed
growth and the weeds are winning. Some
of the graves are decorated with plastic flowers that are faded and
wind-blown. Flags on the graves of
veterans desperately wait to be replaced by an auxiliary this coming Memorial
Day. Cemeteries by nature are sad. That cemetery by its very neglect is sadder.
Halfway Creek Lutheran Church Cemetery, Holmen, Wisconsin,
on the other hand, is a place of beauty and reverence. I spent my first 9 years as a pastor of that
congregation. The cemetery remains a
source of pride among the people. The
arbor vitae are pruned every year. The
grass is mowed with precision. Floral
tributes, real or artificial, are disposed of after they reach their peak. A walk through the cemetery is an unfolding
history lesson. Luther College spent its
inaugural year, 1861, on that site before settling in Decorah, Iowa, which adds
to the sense of pride the congregation places on this garden of
remembrance. Meanwhile, the church
council would expend a great amount of time and energy each month discussing
the needs of the cemetery. I often
wondered if we were ministering more to the dead than to the living.
We certainly dispose of the dead in various ways. Sometimes it is done with pomp and
formality. Sometimes it is done with
cool casualness. Sometimes it happens as
a callous afterthought. Disposition may
be accompanied with overt grief or quiet resignation. Burial may take place with six strong men
carrying a fine piece of cabinetry to a grave surrounded by astro-turf that denies
the reality of dirt. The deceased’s final resting place may be in an above
ground mausoleum for whom, in life, may not have liked the feel of soil. With an increased choice of cremation, some
churches have designated areas on their property for a memorial garden where cremains (I love that word) may be inurned (I love that word, too). I see
ads in professional magazines for columbariums that are located in a quiet spot
in the church so that Grandpa’s ashes are placed in a little niche in the wall
for eternity. I can imagine, however, Grandpa always checked his watch and
sputtered when worship lasted more than an hour.
Pardon my irreverence but this has been a frequent topic of
conversation for me. My mother was the community funeral singer and my dad was
president of the local cemetery association.
The subject of death and funereal customs were commonplace at our dinner
table. My mother had definite opinions
about what she wanted at her funeral and we abided by those desires. “One step above a county funeral” was the
direction that we were given. Being a
farmer, my dad lived within the “circle of life” recognizing death as a part of
life. He understood that he came from dust and ashes and to dust and ashes he
would return. He just wanted to make
sure he would become good topsoil.
For me, I have not gotten around to determining my
wishes. I, too, shall return to dust and
ashes. Shall I delay the inevitable with
a hermetically sealed casket and waterproof vault? Or shall I, in the words of a sainted
custodian, “hurry up the process” by way of cremation. The one thing I know for sure, don’t let them
put that horrible lipstick on me!
Here’s the point: We
remember those who have gone before us with reverence and affection. We may do so with lavish symbols and significant
physical memorials. Or, we may do so
with very few markers and reminders because the memory is most important. I simply ask that whatever choice is ours; it
is done tastefully and honorably: no
faded, sleazy arrangements, no tattered flags.
Let them say, “He is at peace.”
