Have you ever noticed that funerals for younger people are often much larger than funerals for the elderly? Especially if the elderly have been in decline for a long period of time. It seems unfair to me. I know it doesn’t mean much, the funeral size, but people who manage to live to old age have often seen and done more. And by virtue of their many years, their lives have impacted more people too. The world rushes by, and we forget old people, we forget who they were and what they did. All this came to mind attending the modest funeral of Harold, a minister I knew in the late 1980’s.
Harold was a great church pastor, kind and down-to-earth. I enjoyed listening to his sermons.
They weren’t stuffy and full of theology. They were mostly messages of love and acceptance. I remember when Harold spoke, he often addressed the congregation as, “folks.” I far preferred being a “folk” rather than a “you” as in, you should do this or you should be that. I was always a doubter. But Harold didn’t seem to mind. He preached, but never came across as preachy.
One Sunday morning in the church foyer, I shook Harold’s hand and said, “I’m having a little dinner party Saturday night. I wonder if you and your wife could join us?”
Harold wore a long dark robe and a white clerical collar. Friendly blue eyes peered at me behind plastic framed eyeglasses. “Why sure. It’d be nice to get out of town and see your place there on the river. My wife would enjoy a drive in the country.”
“Great!” I said. “I’m also going to invite (another, more conservative minister) and his wife. We can have a lively discussion about our beliefs.”
Harold smiled. “We’ll be there, for sure, but I doubt you’ll be able to get him to come.”
“What? Why?”
“Well,” Harold paused gathering his thoughts. “He and I are friendly. All the ministers in town are. But I just don’t think he’s open to discussing any beliefs other than his own.”
It turned out Harold was right. The conservative minister declined my invitation when he heard what I’d planned for our after-dinner discussion.
I never forgot what Harold said though, how some people are closed to other viewpoints. I wanted to be more open, more receptive to different ideas, like Harold.
As I sat in the church pew listening to people eulogize Harold, I was amazed at what a big life he led. I had no idea Harold met Martin Luther King Junior when he pastored a church in Alabama in 1966. Harold was also a good friend of Millard Fuller, an Alabama native and the founder of Habitat for Humanity.
Midway in the funeral service, Harold was given a three gun salute and taps were played because Harold worked for several years in the military as an air force chaplain. He was stationed in such far-flung places as Italy, Australia, and Greenland. Once, in communist Yugoslavia, he married a Catholic couple in a Greek Orthodox Church. He flew with B52 pilots on training runs and became known as the “flying chaplain.”
Harold’s inurnment is the Veteran’s Cemetery.
I’ve walked through that cemetery. The grounds are lush and green and quiet. But like all cemeteries, there are many elderly buried there, people who lived long, colorful lives, lost except for those of us who remember them—with fondness.
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