A Funeral and a Wedding
Attending the funeral of a dear friend, who herself had gone to too many funerals too soon in her family, and gazing upon her beautiful grandchildren, bereft now of what they would not know in the years ahead, our hearts sank.
Death had settled in and begun to make himself comfortable – and the rest of us not.
But then the service began, and the familiar old words of the Book of Common Prayer began to roll out like a lifeline, like a banner unfurling, like a swelling chord that would fill the chapel with sound, an iron cord that would never rust.
Attending the funeral of a dear friend, who herself had gone to too many funerals too soon in her family, and gazing upon her beautiful grandchildren, bereft now of what they would not know in the years ahead, our hearts sank.
Death had settled in and begun to make himself comfortable – and the rest of us not.
But then the service began, and the familiar old words of the Book of Common Prayer began to roll out like a lifeline, like a banner unfurling, like a swelling chord that would fill the chapel with sound, an iron cord that would never rust.
The old-new words came to the rescue, strengthening, lifting up those who were bowed down, bringing us back to life and beyond life. And death was defeated again.
Afterward, I told an officiating priest and, I’d like to think, a friend that there was nothing like the Episcopal burial service – democratic and royal, plain and elevated, honest and graceful, rooted and glorious all at once. He sighed and smiled at the same time, as is his wont. And said something like, “Yes, if there is one thing we Episcopalians do well, it’s bury people.”
His was the tired but nonetheless vibrant voice of a mainstream church, once the mainstream church, still holding on while fully understanding the challenge it faces in these times. And the challenge facing all still holding on to what we shall never, never surrender.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
And yet, like a message in a bottle washed up by the tide, come the words – and the Word. And it is not diminished at all, but made even greater when besieged on all sides. Such is that book for all seasons called the Book of Common Prayer. It may be none too common now, and was exceptional even when first recited, yet it still speaks to each of us wherever we find ourselves, and when each of us most needs to be spoken to. Amen.
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So what was your favorite part of the royal wedding?
I know, I wasn’t going to watch all that royal folderol, either. What has all that pomp and circumstance got to do with us Americans any more?
And yet, from the first blare of the bugles and the click-clack of horses pulling the royal carriage, from the first view of Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, something stirred throughout the whole English-speaking world – wherever Shakespeare and the King James Bible and, yes, the Book of Common Prayer are still read. And wherever the old words can still break through the cloudbank called modernity. Once again all eyes turned to that sceptered isle, that royal throne of kings.
A people united by one language will remain one people come what may. Those whom a language unites will not be torn asunder. That bond was renewed again Friday, whether we were listening to the sonorous bishop or the clamoring cockneys outside Buckingham Palace. (“Kiss! Kiss!”) And many were – throughout the world.
Then, like the strains of “Rule Britannia,” came the mighty sound of long-ago engines coming to the rescue. An old Lancaster bomber of World War II vintage made its flyover – as exhilarating as the remembrance of Britain’s finest hour. It loomed large, bright as freedom. And with the old bomber came a flight of Spitfires straight out of the Battle of Britain. (“Never have so many owed so much to so few.”)
And the realization hit once more: This is a people who knows how to stand alone when it must – and did just that when no other would defy the tyrant.
Winston Churchill would have rejoiced this wedding day, and, who knows, somewhere he may have done just that, cigar in one hand, brandy glass in the other. V for Victory and all that sort of thing, you know. Cheers.
Friday there was still an England.
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A funeral had been succeeded by a wedding, and I had been recalled to life and community. What mainly did it, I suspect, was the Book of Common Prayer, that crystallization of the English language for all occasions,
When the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge became man and wife, it was hard to resist crying out in another tongue with ancient roots, one that has flowered anew in our time. It, too, has words for this happiest of occasions: Mazel Tov! If I may translate the phrase freely: Good fortune, fair sailing, thumb’s up and Cheerio!
© 2011 TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.
