Two women cried as their two brothers yelled profanities and threats at one another. Some of her extended family surrounded her to comfort her. The two men looked like they were about to become physically aggressive at the slightest provocation by the other. They stood inside the doors of the church which was a converted gymnasium and now served as the location of the funeral I was to officiate.
It was 15 minutes past the announced start time of this memorial service. The sibling were the four children of the man to whom we were suppose to pay tribute. The problem was that following his cremation the urn had been lost. Each sibling blaming the others had agitated an emotional torrent in what had shaped up to easily be a volatile memorial service.
I had arrived about 10 minutes early and was the first one to arrive at the church. I had not been the first choice of the family to do the service as I only knew one distant family member who had called me following the designated minister having a stroke sending him to the hospital. As people showed up for the service I made the assessment that this could be a potentially difficult service.
Most of those showing up arrived in older model vehicles that had probably been through more than the average fender bender. Dents, different color hoods or doors, scratches, & scrapes were a must to blend with the parking lot inhabitants that night. The people who emerged from the vehicles matched their vehicles.
They were a people that had definitely experienced the hardships of life. Faded tattoos and numerous piercings covered exposed skin... and there was much exposed skin for the brisk fall evening we were experiencing. As I greeted the first arrivals their teeth betrayed a drug habit that had taken a toll on their smile and on their family too. Stale cigarette smoke and alcohol was the chosen cologne of the night.
After the four children arrived we entered the converted gym to do a quick set up that included a framed picture of the deceased as well as a vase of single stem fake roses that would sit on a small table in front of the podium. The revelation that no one knew the whereabouts of the urn had precipitated the yelling and what was quickly approaching a physical fight.
Somewhat nervously I asked the two brothers to step outside if they were going to continue to fight and use profane language as they were in the house of the Lord. I was in church, but I certainly didn’t feel like I was in church. As the growing mob moved outside there was some shoving and jostling about. This funeral would probably be best as a short memorial so that I could quickly return to my normal, safe life.
45 minutes after the announced start time I went out onto the front steps of the church and, with a raised voice, let everyone know that the memorial service was starting. I told the daughter, still crying, that the urn was not necessary for a memorial service and that they could find it later.
I walked up onto a makeshift platform and welcomed the 60 or so people who had filtered in the side door and found seats. Family and friends were permitted to share memories of the man whose picture looked back at the people seated across the sanctuary. I cringed inside as another person stood to tell about their family member. “My uncle was a great one to drink with. He is so funny when he is drunk.” Those sitting around him chuckled with nods of agreement. A number stood at their seat and shared inappropriate memories of their departed friend or family member. I squirmed as I tried to figure out how to curtail the current proceedings.
Finally an older gentleman stood to his feet and looked around at those in attendance. “I know that he made it to Heaven because the Bible says most Americans will make it.” I took a shocked moment to process as this claim sunk in. I was on different turf, not my own. I wasn’t even in my local church...
With what little boldness I could muster I stood and approached the podium. The man who had made the statement was continuing in his theological lecture as I interrupted. “Sir, I’m going to ask you to sit please. Thank you for your willingness to share.” The man, with eyes fixed on me, slowly sat down as I continued. “Before I read from the Bible and begin the sermon I need to clarify a couple of things. Number one: The Bible does not say that most Americans make it to Heaven. It doesn’t say anything about Americans. It actually says that the only way to Heaven is through Jesus.”
With that I transitioned, rather awkwardly, into a standard funeral sermon. I opened by reading Scripture and then praying. As I articulated sermon points I realized that there were three men standing by the side door in the sanctuary who had each lit up their cigarettes and began smoking. Children were running around the aisles treating the place more like a gym than a sanctuary. I gave allowance for the fact that many had probably never been in church and we were, in fact, in a gym.
People began perusing their cell phones and others were talking without “church voices” to one another while I was waxing eloquent. For any preacher, being ignored is disheartening but I was physically tired from a long busy week and had reluctantly agreed to oversee this memorial service which had now cramped my schedule due to its longevity. And now the obvious apathy toward me and my subject matter was a bit overwhelming.
As my zeal for the ‘form’ sermon I was preaching began to die down a proverbial bucket of cold water hit me hard. One man in the back stood up walked across the aisle to another man and told him a joke that ended with both of them giving long & loud belly laughs. Not only was I in a sort of self-righteous shock, but no one even seemed to notice them laughing because of the general tumultuous sound level in the gym.
I now spoke with empty words as my mind shifted gear and I lifted up a rather broken prayer. As words continued to come out of my mouth, and be ignored, my mind engaged in prayer. “Lord, help me. Why have you brought me here?” In my plea rising from my weariness and broken dignity, the Spirit of God came.
With a voice not quite my own I said, “Everyone in here right now needs to sit down, be quiet, and pay attention because what I’m about to tell you is the most important thing you will ever hear.” As I waited for a response the words settled into the crowd like a clasp of thunder. Everyone made their way to a nearby seat and those sitting turned their gaze again to the disregarded preacher in the front.
My attention was drawn to the three men who were still standing, albeit with shock on their faces now, by the door. I came up with new orders: “You men need to put out your cigarettes and have a seat because you need to hear what I am about to say.” They flicked the remainder of their
cigarettes out the door and made their way to their own seats.
Now with the rapt and full attention of this rough bunch of social outcasts I realized I had not been called to perform a function for a memorial service. I had been called to be an evangelist tonight. Over the course of the next hour and fifteen minutes I shared the Gospel in its entirety to a crowd of
ruffians who were enamored by a message that it seemed they had never heard. The presence of God was working among tattooed individuals with long criminal records and serious addictions. Broken family lives and addictions were a staple among the crowd to which I now shared the Good News of new life in Jesus Christ!
Silence throughout the message indicated the attention of adults and children alike. As I ended my sermon, I invited those present to come to the front where a niece of the deceased who give them a rose as they paid their last respects. At this point, however, they were looking for something more than a memorial and tribute.
“I will pray then move to the side so that you can pay your last respects. If you would like for me to pray with you I will be standing right over here.” With that I bowed my head and closed in prayer. As I finished they played “My Heart Will Go On” with Celine Dion, but as I looked up from the prayer there was already a couple in their 30's standing before me. “We’d like for you to pray for us,” the woman said with a tone that indicated she was prepared to be rejected.
As I started to pray for them I was shaken out of my prayer by a man in his late 20's who’s shaved head exposed a number of scars and tattoo behind his ear that went down his neck into the collar of his shirt. “I want you to pray for me too.” Excitement at the prospects filled his voice.
“You will need to wait. I’m praying for these folks right now.” I had never been interrupted in prayer by someone who just couldn’t wait to be prayed with. When I finished praying for the couple and opened my eyes in search of the next man I discovered a line of around 50 people waiting to be prayed with. They were broken and most of them had heard for the first time that there was one named Jesus who had offered Himself up on their behalf. They wouldn’t miss it for anything.
That memorial service lacked an urn or a dead body of any kind. It did not adhere in almost anyway to the social or cultural norms of a funeral. But it had something much more important and in some ways even unexpected. God attended that funeral.
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