Throughout the various stages of my life, I have spent a great deal of time in graveyards. When I was growing up, my family lived directly across from a graveyard. My sister and I used to play there. Our parents probably would not have approved; nor would have the graveyard keeper, for that matter, so my sister and I had an unspoken agreement not to divulge where we were going when we said we were going out to play.
But in fact, I can state from personal experience that graveyards are great places for children to play. We could sense the rich and varied ambience that graveyards exude. Graveyards are at once peaceful, mysterious, poignant, beautiful, sad, hopeful, and sometimes a bit frightening. And we were cognizant too, of course, of all the souls at rest who surrounded us. We used to pretend that we knew them. Somehow I think that they would not have minded our presence there.
When I grew up and became a pastor, I continued to spend a great deal of time in graveyards. It’s part of the job description, albeit found only in the fine print. Pastors preside over graveside services. One year, in the early days of my ministry, there were upwards of twenty of them. And too, pastors accompany the grieving to graveyards. It helps those who have lost a loved one to hear a psalm or a prayer, to connect their loss with the biblical promises.
And as I grow older, there is an additional reason to spend a great deal of time in graveyards. The generation behind me is now being to be laid to rest. As the Bible expresses it, “That generation was gathered to their ancestors.” And I have even begun to go to graveyards for those in my own generation who have been laid to rest. No doubt I will continue to spend a great deal of time in graveyards for the rest of my life. And when I am laid to rest, of course, I will spend endless time in a graveyard.
I am not complaining. There’s much to be said for graveyards. Just as there are no atheists in foxholes, there is no superficiality in graveyards. No hiding behind roles or masks. No avoidance through busyness or distraction. No denial through triviality or pretense. Graveyard’s declare life’s greatest mystery; for in graveyards, life confronts death. Emily Dickenson wrote, “The distance that the dead have gone does not at first appear.” In graveyards you can’t help but wonder about the distance the dead have gone. I remember once standing before my father’s gravestone and murmuring to myself, “Where are you now, Dad?”
Spending all this time at graveyards, I have read many a gravestone. In fact I have become something of an expert in the area. There are a couple of standard types of gravestones. One situates a person in his or her family – loving wife, beloved son, this kind of thing. The other situates a person in his or her career or vocation. There’s a special insignia for a lawyer or a doctor, for instance; and of course, for a soldier. But then there is the type of gravestone that deviates from the standards. I have decided that’s the kind I want, and I even decided what I want my gravestone to say – “She was her father’s daughter.”
I want it to say that because I heard it so much growing up. “You sure are your father’s daughter!” And that always gave me comfort and happiness. I knew who I was, and I knew whose I was. So I will take final comfort and happiness believing that I am my heavenly father’s daughter. She was her father’s daughter.
The reason that I have already decided what I want my gravestone to say is not that I am one of these people who has everything planned with regard to her death. I run across a lot of these kinds of people. They have every single imaginable detail and contingency planned. Either they don’t want to burden their relatives, or they don’t trust their relatives not to screw things up. They have the outfit they want to be laid out in, including the jewelry. They have the readings and hymns they want performed at the service. They have the restaurant where they want the reception and even the courses of the meal. They have the coffin and the plot. Their finances are in impeccable order. That’s not me. My hat’s off to them, but that’s not me. I have already decided what I want my gravestone to say because I saw a gravestone once, one of the deviations from the standards, and it moved me. It continues to move me even to this day. The reason I have already decided what I want my gravestone to say is simply that I am copying a good idea.
The gravestone said, “He was his brother’s keeper.” That’s how some man wanted to be remembered, or how someone remembered him. Either way. He was his brother’s keeper. It boiled down the Bible in such a human way. "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you." " This I command you, that you love one another." "Bear one another’s burdens." " He was his brother’s keeper."
It’s ironic really that those words were first voiced in a negative light. Cain had just murdered his only brother in cold blood, and God came looking for him. When God caught up with him, Cain was like a defiant little child - trying to stick his chest out, trying to maintain his position , trying to hide his fear. “How would I know where he is?” Cain mouthed off. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” But unwittingly Cain testified against himself. His words disclosed that he was indeed to have been his brother’s keeper.
Undeniably, there are many Cain’s in our own generation that still, in their own ways, construe those words in a negative light. There are those who would say that to be a brother’s keeper is to set a standard for him to live up to, a standard of course, that’s probably based upon nothing more than their own ignorance or passion or prejudice, a standard that they embody but that the brother does not. They are their brother’s keeper by standing fast and firm against their brother’s sin.
And then there are those who would say to be a brother’s keeper is to avoid or ignore him. This way of being a brother’s keeper still assumes a set standard or one kind or another. It says I’m white, or I’m straight, or I’m healthy, or I’m sober, or I’m rich, or I’m educated, or I’m saved, ….and you aren’t, so rather than standing fast and firm against your sin, I’m just going to pretend that you don’t exist. It’s kind of a skewed version of that bumper sticker you may have seen that reads, “Co-Exist.” Let’s Co-Exist in the same way islands coexist.
And then there are those who would say to be a brother’s keeper is simply a matter of getting out the check book. Send something off to this cause or that - to deal with the brother abstractly or mathematically and so avoid personal risk or unpleasantness. You can be your brother’s keeper and never have to look him in the eye. Yes, there are all sorts of ways to construe those words in a negative light, and so, like Cain, deny our obligation to be our brother’s keeper.
But I don’t think that man in the graveyard denied his obligation to be his brother’s keeper. I think he really was his brother’s keeper. I think he took people’s burdens -whoever they were and whatever they were - upon himself. My grandmother knew how to do this. Whenever I told her about a problem I was having she’d say, “What do you think we should do about it?” My problem instantly became her problem too. I think that man was just this way. And I think he was just this way because he was possessed of a God given respect for the dignity of all people. And even in his death, he is still serving as a model as to what life is all about.
Graveyards. Maybe the reason they intrigue me so is that they call to mind our common destiny as human beings. We are born. We struggle through this life for a span, and then we die. Death awaits us all. But whether we struggle together or alone seems to be the decisive thing. He was his brother’s keeper. He would not let anyone struggle alone, just as Jesus Christ would not let anyone to struggle alone. Holy Lord God, Let it be said of us. Amen.