Perplexed In the Pew
By
Laura Duerrwaechter
My
stories do not usually require a preface, but we absolutely must provide a back
story this time…
I am
battling faith and for me, it’s not all black and white. The palette remains neutral, none the less,
for to give color to it would be unethical.
I had
a Methodist upbringing, at least until my early teens, when it just wasn’t cool
anymore. Mom stopped going to church, and Grandma still attended regular weekly
services and there was always an open invitation to join her. Of course, when I did, it ended up an all-day
affair, dotted with second hand treasure hunting and a meal at our favorite
cafeteria with Dairy Queen for dessert.
Methodism
may have been an offshoot credited to a Mr. Wesley (but again, that may have
been Presbyterian). It was a mild, user
friendly version of basic Christianity.
No
chastisements from the pulpit, plenty of community involvement, summer camp,
chorus, and bible study, but not too much.
My Grandmother was not happy with this watered down version. For her, Methodism meant no cards, dancing,
or too much over excitement in public places.
I am
now not a Methodist. I am a spiritualist
believing in all things possible with no one at the steering wheel. Perhaps an
eventual train wreck in the making, but then again, no one to blame for choices
made and eventual consequences.
…end of back story…
Yesterday
I attended the funeral services for a friend of mine. The call came from President of our hospital
auxiliary and all I knew was location and time.
The
last funeral I attended was Wednesday of last week for my former neighbor and I
hadn’t quite recovered from that loss.
So I was already in the appropriate mind set to say goodbye.
I had
never been to anything remotely Baptist and definitely nothing Southern
Baptist. All I remember was that the man called “John the Baptist” lost his
head in the story. Arriving with a co-worker, we stood in the parking lot of
the church to watch the gathering of the congregation. The women wore black or solid white dresses,
gloves, hats; men in black suits and freshly shined shoes. Children in uncomfortable church clothes with
too many chaperones keeping them from well, being children.
Inside
ushers of all ages tasked with this aisle or that aisle, making sure we had
bulletins and paper fans to keep us from overheating. The hospital auxilians
squeezed into a 7 person pew in the back.
Eventually, we had more members join us and they were welcomed into
available spaces directly in front and just in back of us.
Music
of a quiet nature filled the awkward minutes as more people arrived. Promptly,
the
pastor (for lack of proper nomenclature) stated for us to rise and welcome the
family. I am not overstating that no
less than 60 persons filed in and filled the center pews and the extra seating
now blocking the two side aisles. The
choir was on chorus number umpteenth by the time all family members had found
seating or had been directed to the overflow room in an adjoining building.
The
woman directly in back of me tapped me on the shoulder to assure me that this
was a very small funeral. Since when was
300 a small funeral?
Several
floral remembrances decorated the sides of the casket. There was one in a shape
of a star with each point a different color.
She had been member of the Eastern Stars. I am unclear as to whether her husband had been a Mason. The same star was embroidered onto the lining
of her casket as well.
The
chorus swelled in unison parts and swayed.
The choral director continually mopped his brow. The pastor stopped the music by stating
“stop”. Voices in the congregation
continued a Capella.
Guests
were limited (as stated in the bulletin) to a two minute sharing of their
relationship with the deceased. They were
directed to a microphone…two shared.
More
singing; the lead soprano made up her own words, but the rest of the choir
chimed in with the music as practiced. Again, the Pastor stated “stop” but
added “that was lovely”. The same rebels
in the pews continued on.
Next
were declarations, but they weren’t called as such, they were formal statements
of her services to the church, its sister churches throughout the world and
related fraternal organizations all to be documented as history in the annals
of each organization.
More
singing and audience participation reached a new climax with jumping and hand
swaying above heads. Over the singing
were shouts of “praise” and “joy” and well you get the picture.
All
of this was just the warm up for now he stood with microphone in hand to
deliver the following editorial on God.
That’s correct, not our loved one, but God.
Okay,
now I am dazed and confused and slightly deafened by the sheer volume of
celebration. “Excuse me, you are stating that this service is a tribute to
GOD?”
What
happened to my friend? (I shouldn’t have
asked that question in my mind because he revealed to me the error of my
thinking).
Man
is servant and is duty bound to the GLORY of God. Sister…has been a devoted servant and was
called home last……
His
fervent delivery of sermon, tempered with examples from scripture, caused the
listener to concentrate on the final consonant of each word he spoke. “God- duh”, “Man-nuh”, Je-Zussssuh”. He screamed his message in attempt to bring
us to a state of delirium. I was
expecting paramedics to arrive momentarily.
And I fully expected the recently departed to sit right up and join in.
When
he had reached the point where he could speak no more because he was absolutely
hoarse from vocal abuse, he began to speak in whispered volume which forced the
crowd to calm itself.
My
pulse was racing and I was uncomfortable and penned in against the wall. I’m
sure if there was an expression on my face, it would resemble total disbelief
coupled with anger. The anger stemming from the complete disregard as to the
reason we had all gathered.
Let
me get this straight….she was nothing but a road marker for “glory”? Her life was measured and defined and
constrained by a set of rules written to please an unearthly being?
I
still can’t wrap my head around it. I
didn’t misconstrue either. I know what
he said, I understood what he said, I don’t believe what he said and I miss my
dear friend.
Yesterday
gave validation that my abhorrence of organized religion is rooted deep in my
soul. I cannot be contained; my spirit is free and boundless. I am a good woman;
kind
and respectful, generous and loving.
Evidence of my life will remain in your memory for I will not grant
permission for anyone to measure my contributions on an ethereal scale and I
will not allow MY life’s journey to glorify or give purpose to the unknown.
I
will remember my friend, her touch and smile.
We will continue together separately in constant evolution. And…
There’s
no funeral in my future. I won’t be
there; you’ll find me high in the Rocky Mountains giving life to the sapling of
a splendid Aspen tree.
