God & Country

People call churches for bizarre and random reasons. I’m always curious, but rarely in charge. So I smile nervously whenever I hear Mary Olive answer the office phone and reply, “No he isn’t but we have an intern pastor. Would you like to speak with her?”

My supervisor is in Minnesota for a few days getting to know the next intern and one of these calls came yesterday. By the end of the conversation I hadn’t pieced the whole puzzle together, but I had some idea of what I’d agreed to. A woman’s husband had died and their pastor was unable to provide a graveside committal ceremony at the Veterans’ Memorial Cemetery. When the post chaplains weren’t available either, they decided to call the ELCA church in town. After five or six disappointments, she found me and burst into tears with relief.

This morning I walked through the cemetery toward the ceremonial shelter taking in the Mountain View through the thick heat of May (yeah, yeah - it's a "dry" heat). Today is Syttende Mai, Norwegian Constitution Day. If I were in St. Paul I’d be attending the Norwegian service in Old Muskego Church and eating lefse on the seminary lawn. In college I always looked forward to the breakfast spread sponsored by the Norwegian department, dragging my friends with enthusiasm.

This year’s "celebration" would be different. I gripped my occasional services book praying for the right words to comfort a family saying goodbye. I’ve only attended one graveside committal here, led by Pastor Pike. It was small, short and casual. But when I arrived at the shelter, I realized that I was in over my head. Thirty people were formally seated in front of the coffin, which was adorned with a large flag. The funeral home director met me at the back of the group and asked, “Would you like to go first or should the military?”

I had no idea what the military would do, but I figured God should have the last word. “The military can go first,” I replied as I noticed two soldiers standing nearby. If you approached me during the Syttende Mai brunch in college and said, “Four years from now you’ll be wearing a clerical collar while performing a committal service for a veteran you didn’t know and tearing up as they fold the American flag and present it to his widow,” I would have replied with my mouth full, “What’s a committal service? Whatever. Can you pass the goat cheese?”

While the soldiers performed their duties, I watched the family. One little boy was dressed to the nine and playing musical chairs. He wasn’t the youngest or the oldest. He wasn’t crying or completely devastated. He would plop down next to an aunt or cousin and watch them intently. When he realized that his emotions didn’t match theirs he would move, looking for a place to belong.

Perhaps so many people had assured him that Grandpa was in a better place that he actually believed them. Perhaps he was wondering why the very people who assured him seemed to need assurance themselves. Perhaps he was trying to figure out how to give it.

This is why they called the church. They were looking for assuring promises from God. They were looking for the truth that comforts and frees. As the family left the shelter after the service, I noticed the young boy with his arm around a distressed cousin or sibling. Maybe he believed the promises he’d been given about Grandpa and was passing them on. The widow ran her fingers over the stars with care and sorrow, listening to her grandson’s words. That’s an image I’ll glean from this year’s Syttende Mai – God’s comforting promises at work in the children and widows clutching the flag.

The Norwegian national anthem begins, “Ja, vi elsker dette landet” (Yes, we love this land). We were surrounded by graves – men and women who would say the same thing about this country and flag in the serenity of the Mountain View. It is a good place to rest, to honor and to give thanks for both beloved country and God.