uZack, umfundisi

People at church have started calling me "umfundisi" (pastor), a term of respect that I don't feel like I have earned. I got started on Friday. Late Thursday afternoon as I was finishing up a presentation for Monday, and was in the office a bit later than usual, Zethu (wife of the pastor) came in and told me that a baby in the congregation had died that morning, and someone was needed to preside over the funeral the following morning. Because Spiwo and Edwin (the two ordained people on staff) are both out of the country, and ministers from other local churches would be unavailable, I was looking like the only person who could do it. I could have said No, and I thought about it for a second (it was very short notice after all!). Then I realized that I have worked with parents grieving dead babies before, and that the Presbyterian Book of Common Worship would have prepared options for a funeral service. Yet another way that my chaplaincy experience last summer has come in handy here in Guguletu. That night I read through the service in the BCW, chose some scriptures, and wrote down a brief order for the service.


I arrived the next morning at the house accompanied by two colleagues. Within a few minutes of my arrival it was clear that the family already had worked out what they wanted to do, and the child's uncle was an elder in his own church with a ready game plan of his own. In a way this was a relief, because working cross-culturally I didn't want the family to be too dependent on me, a foreigner and a white man, to conduct the service. I asked some questions, got the child's name (Chulumanco, which of course had to be something difficult with two "Cs", one of the click sounds in Xhosa), and and learned that he had Down's Syndrome and a chest ailment, which had eventually killed him. Just when I was going to begin what I had prepared, everyone started singing, which I was glad to see. Singing is essential to any service in this community and I wanted to make sure that they had ample opportunity, although I was worried about how to go about asking them to sing at the appropriate "Hymn" moments in the service. I should have known better by now. During worship people here seem to break into song spontaneously, in the middle of a sermon or any other place in the service. I can tell there is some logic for when they do this, but I haven't been able to figure it out. It was yet another sign that I wasn't really in charge, which threw me off, but also took the pressure off of me. I remained standing, and when they had finished singing I read the opening verse of the service. As soon as it was out of my mouth, however, the uncle came to my side and said "It's time to bring in the casket now." So everyone rises and begins to sing again, from memory, in several-part a cappella harmony, while a man carries the tiny casket in under his arm, which was so striking it was almost comical. I wished internally that two people had carried the casket together, just so it wouldn't be so shocking.


I continued to stand around, feeling a little bit awkward since I was not really running things and had to wait for their cue to proceed. Another thing chaplaincy taught me was flexibility, not being a control freak, but allowing things to happen naturally while guiding them as appropriate. I read a prayer, asked the uncle read a passage from scripture in Xhosa, and was ready to move on when there was a mass exodus into the back room where I had met the mother upon my arrival, and where she and some female relatives had remained. The uncle said, "Be patient. Just have a seat." This gave me the opportunity to think again about what I was going to say in my little homily whenever they came out. I knew they would be expecting some kind of sermon, which was probably the whole reason I was there. They know how to do their own service, but an umfundisi is needed to give the sermon, to put the official stamp on the proceedings, as it were. I do not regard preaching as any more respectable or more important than other pastoral duties, and I get frustrated with ministers who are all about the sermon and crap at pastoral care. I wasn't there to preach a fire-brand sermon. I was not out to "bring it", Princeton friends. The service isn't about me saying a good word or impressing anyone with my eloquence or brilliant exposition. This sermon would be a means of giving pastoral care.


As I sat there I could hear people weeping and wailing in the back room, and someone praying fiercely in Xhosa. I couldn't understand the words, but you could tell it was a "Why, Lord?" prayer, asking God for an explanation, or at least some help, in a moment of despair at the absurdity of six-month-old's death. As I am sitting there I am learning and refining what I will say. I dealt with some dead babies at the hospital last summer, mostly still-borns, but there was one very memorable time where I was there from the frantic arrival in the neo-natal intensive care unit to the baby's eventual death. I had been left holding a dead baby for so long that I began to feel really odd. So I could handle seeing a closed, tiny casket. But the shock and senselessness of a child's death is the overwhelming feeling a family has at such a time. Babies aren't supposed to die. When an adult dies, you can recount her accomplishments, her characteristics, stories, relationships, etc. There is not much to say about a baby's life. What is tragic is the knowledge that a child never had the chance to make stories, touch people's lives, succeed in his endeavors, or even really develop a personality like the child at right. For this reason, the funeral on Friday was a much simpler affair than the huge events that adult funerals are here in the townships. Mkhululi's funeral was Saturday, and he also had a memorial service last Wednesday, and when I post about those events you can compare them to the baby's funeral. They don't make too big of a deal out of children's funerals here because there is not much to celebrate. But as I was witnessing in the ten minutes of sitting quietly, hands folded, while people were praying in the mother's room, the lack of accomplishments by the child does not equate with a lack of grief for the family.


By the time they came out, and I resumed my little service outline, I had some good things to supplement the sermon outline in my head. I focused on the things I said to the mothers of dead babies in the hospital: acknowledging the incomprehension, the anger, the questioning, the despair that people feel in that situation. I affirmed them in feeling those things, and said that there were no answers for why this happened. Faith does not answer our questions most of the time, it doesn't tell us why they happened, but it can help us to survive them. God can handle us feeling angry with God, and I don't think it is helpful to stuff our questions and frustrations. If God is for real, God can work with those things that we authentically experience. God isn't sitting up in heaven judging us for being mad. The only God I care to believe in is one who is mature, a big kid, with the grace to handle our anger. If we believe Jesus was God, then his story too speaks powerfully to God's presence in our suffering, feeling every pain that we experience in our lives. God is not aloof, I told them. God is here, and will be here. That is the only answer, the only explanation that can be uttered in a moment of despair. It's not always an answer that I have the faith to give, but there isn't another one. I only spoke for about seven minutes. I believe verbose ministers should not conduct funerals. Besides, I didn't want to drag on, and I didn't want to make myself the center of attention.


So I said my piece, they sang some more, I gave people space to pray out loud, and basically tried to recede into the background as much as possible so as not to get in the way of the different things they wanted to do with the time. When eyes turned to me to resume I went through the steps, prayed the Lord's Prayer, gave a blessing, and... They weren't done. I had to just sit down awkwardly to let them know I was spent. The uncle finished things up in Xhosa, and I waited. Then it was time to go to the cemetery for the burial, which I was not expecting I'd have to do, but there was a format in the Book of Common Worship for the committal. The cemetery was empty, since most funerals are on Saturday. I tried to figure out what was appropriate for me to do in that situation, what was the cultural norm, and asked the uncle if I wasn't sure. Oh yes, they should lower the coffin now, shouldn't they. Do I put the first handful of dirt on the coffin, or the family? I said what needed to be said, and did it quick. No need to linger, or preach another sermon as ministers at funerals here are prone to do. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Between the size of the grave and the sandy texture of the soil, it took about three minutes to fill the grave in. Then I went back to the house for the meal, and while others ate outside I sat at the umfundisi table, like I always do. I like to think it's because people know who I am, or at least know the people I'm with. I always hope it isn't just assumed because I am white. In any case, my rightful place was at that table this time. I felt I had done something to be there. I hope my words helped the family to have closure and move on, but I think the best ministry was done by themselves for one another. Like I said, I was just there to make it official.