Perplexed In The Pew

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.