Bury Me At Glenwood

The grave of my colleague Rev. Horatio Alger Sr. in the yard behind the church.

In my previous post I mentioned that we recently had a couple of deaths in our congregation.  Neither of them were COVID-related.  That, of course, didn't make them easier and the pandemic did complicate things.  The reason I mentioned them in a post here was because it wasn't clear what the families would decide about formally remembering their loved ones.  In the end, one family decided not to have a service of any kind and sent us all a card with a picture of Jim and a moving eulogy folded up inside.  We posted a shorter notice online as did a number of organizations he was connected to.  I still have the letter next to me as I write this.  It was an effective way to remember a remarkable man.

The other family decided to have a slightly-larger-than-usual graveside (outdoor) service.  Not everyone could come, but many people could. I was asked to officiate and so at the appointed time we went over to Glenwood Cemetery.  Clergy people do a lot of work in cemeteries.  This is just a fact of the job.  Yet, It isn't always what lay people expect.  After all, most folks see a clergy person just a few times a year at funerals, weddings, and--if they celebrate it--Christmas Eve (or some other holy day if they don't do Christmas). 

Cemeteries, though, see a lot of action from people like me.  There is usually a small committal attached to a larger funeral.  Often it is just the family either before or after the main event.  That said, a religious professional is usually there. 

Back before the current unpleasantness, these services were simple things. We would say a few traditional prayers.  Maybe one more person would share a story that couldn't be told at the church.  We lingered by the grave.  Then...we moved on.  Honestly the service last week wasn't all that different.  There were more stories and a few more prayers.  Augie was a veteran so the color guard was there.  There were chairs set up among the other graves.  Once again, after a while, we moved on.  It did the job, though, just like the letter and the email posting did for Jim.  They were both rituals of memory and of saying goodbye while recognizing what of them will remain with us.

But...back to the cemetery for a moment...

A walk through this cemetery is full of memories for me.  Many of the gravestones we were sitting among marked the resting places of people I know and buried. I leaned my cane against one such stone for the duration of the service, reassuring the people around it that the owner of the stone and I were old friends. There are a lot of stories there.  One of the first activities my new interns have to endure is the "death tour" when I take them around and tell them about the folks who are buried from the church.  We are holders of memories, after all, and sometimes I walk through there by myself to refresh my own memory.

One time, in fact--and this came up at Augie's service--I was walking through the graveyard while cutting an apple with a knife, stopping at the various graves of people I know.  This freaked out the neighbors and I spent the next hour at the gate of Glenwood with three police officers and their dog--I was deemed a "flight risk"--who really wanted to arrest me for something but couldn't figure out what.  I preached a sermon about it, actually, so it is a bit of a congregational legend now.

This Sunday I am preaching about the sacredness of place.  Though I don't specifically mention them in the sermon, places like Glenwood hold a great deal of significance to people.  They honor the dead, of course.  They make you think of your own mortality, which makes some uncomfortable.  However, when I am there I cannot help but think of the lives that led up to those mortal remains resting under the granite monuments. I am grateful that the cemetery exists to honor those lives.  How better for me to remember them?

Remembering the dead is a bit of a mission for me.  It is why I like history so much.  When I was a kid growing up in Maine, it wasn't that unusual to stumble on the ruins of a graveyard rising up in the woods. Each time most of the stones were turned over and the names hard to read.  Still, against all odds (or thanks to some anonymous hiker) some stones still stood to mark whatever was worth marking when they were originally placed there. I always wondered who the people buried there were.  I also wondered when the memories stopped and no one knew them enough to come visit. 

Turns out the reason--at least where I grew up--could be traced to economic disaster, the American Civil War, epidemics, and pandemics.

You hear about cemeteries falling into disrepair today.  Often they hold the remains of an oppressed minority with a history that has always been put down.  I honor the people who struggle to keep them open in the face of the inexorable march of time.  It is a form of heroism that frequently remains unsung.

Eventually, I think, our contributions no longer need a name or face attached to them.  We live on and on from the instance of our lives into eternity.  Still, we can hold that off for a while...can't we? Until that time when I, too, am forgotten, you can find me at Glenwood witnessing for now and maybe some day being witnessed as I rest among the souls in a sacred and familiar place.

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