First "white" funeral

On Saturday I did my first-ever funeral in a white context, which sounds strange coming from a white minister! However, last year and this year I've been serving the Church in coloured communities, where things are done a bit differently than us "whiteys" are used to.

For instance, when someone dies in a coloured community, services are held in the home from Monday night through to Thursday night. Friday the family is given a "break" (a misnomer, since they normally spend the time preparing the catering for Saturday). On Saturday morning, there is a service in the house, followed by the funeral itself in the church. Then it's the service at the graveside, and then back to the house for lunch. As the minister I normally conduct the church funeral as well as the graveside service, and attend one of the mid-week services in order to meet with the family and to support the local preachers. For this, I am rewarded with pride of place at the house on Saturday, having had a gargantuan plate of food placed in fromt of me. I often feel guilty because (a) the families concerned are often not in a position to afford being able to feed upwards of 250 people, and (b) many of the guests are sitting outside, while I'm being treated like the guest of honour inside. I guess it's a case of "when in Rome, do as the Romans do", but it's not a situation I'm comfortable with.

In a white context, on the other hand, funerals are a far more subdued affair. One meets with the family a ciouple of days beforehand to sort out the arrangements for the service, and the funeral itself is normally not much more than about 40 minutes. At one point, when the coffin was being brought into the foyer of the church, I asked the undertaker whether the family had requested viewing, and he was horrified! "If we open coffins inside the church, we'll get fired!" was his response. How was I to know? In my coloured congregations, the viewing of the body is standard operating procedure. Ah, well ... chalk another one up to the learning curve.

The other thing that struck me as strange was the three envelopes handed to me by the undertaker. Somewhat bemused, I gave them to Jean, our secretary, and asked to be enlightened. Her resopnse was: "One for the church, one for the organist, and one for you" as she thrust the envelope marked "Reverend" into my hand. Now I'm not sure what to make of this, as I'm also not familiar with the customs around funerals. Certainly I never considered receiving payment for the funeral - after all, I am the minister, and I do receive a stipend, so technically I've already been paid for doing the funeral. Still feeling somewhat uncomfortable about the whole thing, seeing as the church said that it's mine and I feel it's the church's, I handed the (still sealed) envelope to Neville for the upcoming Mozambique mission.

Being called to do what no minister wants to do

I have never been a morbid person when it comes to death. It is, after all, an inevitable consequence of the passage of time, and something that all of us need to face at some point.

As Christians we believe that we will spend eternity in God's presence, and so because of the redemption that comes from Jesus' sacrifice on the cross, we need not fear dying. I have therefore taken the view that as long as the will and the life assurance policies are in place so that my family is taken care of, I'm not particularly worried about what happens to me.

Now don't get me wrong - I'm not being foolhardy about this. I do buckle up when I get into my car, and even though my trusty Vuka can only reach 80 (unless I lie flat behind the handlebars on a long downhill, in which case I can squeeze 90 out of it), I make sure that I am wearing my helmet and a sturdy pair of jeans. And given a choice in the matter, I'd like to go to bed one night at the ripe old age of around 90, and wake up in the arms of Jesus. However, as for my body, the Organ Donor Foundation must use whatever bits they can, and Wits Medical School can have the rest.

Life should be a celebration that extends beyond death, and many of the funerals that I have been involved in during my fledgeling ministry have been just that. Sure, people are hurting - after all, they are saying goodbye to someone whom they love dearly, and my take on this is that if you don't hurt, you didn't love. But for the most part, such services are a celebration of a long and fulfilling life.

However, this all changed for me this past Sunday, when one of our stewards called me to visit a family that had just lost their baby of 9 months old.

This is the one aspect of our calling that I believe no minister wants to do. When I drove to their house, it was all I could do to choke back the tears. It's just not fair - people aren't supposed to die until they are past pensionable age. What made this particular situation even worse for me is that the child's mother had been coming to baptism classes only two months ago, and it was only four weeks ago that we as a church had the privilege and pleasure of celebrating the baptism of both mother and child.

It also highlighted yet again just how inadequate I feel as a minister. After all, what does one say to parents who have lost a baby so young? Yes, I know that Jesus had a special place in His ministry for children. And yes, I know that children are blessed, and theirs is the kingdom of God. But yet the words just seemed so empty as I visited with the family on Sunday. Not having lost a child, how can I possibly begin to understand what these parents are going through?

Tomorrow I'll be conducting the funeral. And even though "cowboys don't cry, especially in front of their congregations", if the tear stains that are already on my order of service are anything to go by, I'm afraid I'll be breaking this rule...