The grave art of funeral oratory

A FEW months after my ordination to the priesthood in the early 1980s I was told, “You preach soema k*k.” My homiletics critic was right.

It was something of an out-ofbody experience listening to my sermons, as if sounding from somewhere deep in a washing machine on a spin cycle.

Only a whispered “amen” would free the congregation and me from the incoherent tumble of my words.

I, therefore, gratefully received the kind embrace of Aunty Winnie Jurgen, the St Clare’s, Ocean View organist, as she whispered, “You preach a nice funeral sermon.”

I suspect my sermons on these occasions were a response to and a consequence of, the intentional attitude of the mourners and my own sense-making of that place in life to which death brings us.

Our tears on these occasions, as much as they are for those for whom we come to pay our last respects, are also for ourselves, our memory of our loss and longing.

Over the past three weeks I attended as many funerals.

On each occasion I was reminded of how these gatherings, and here’s a nod to Oscar Wilde, focus the mind on life.

There’s a moment when one gathers one’s thoughts and jots down some ideas about one’s own funeral, the choice of pall- bearers for instance.

This was the case with Leonard Patientia, about whom I wrote last week.

He conscientiously updated his list of pallbearers as, over time, death claimed the chosen ones. Sadly, he would sometimes be a pallbearer for someone on his list.

We also choose to remember the person who has died in visceral and tangible ways.

The family of Joan Hull née Robertson projected a series of slidephotos on the wall of the stage at the Westridge Baptist Church.

The organist accompanied the images with a Josh Groban composition.

This comfortable embrace of popular culture suggestively tests the dogma and conventions of organised religion.

Human desire seeks personal and collective expression through contemporary resources. An especially poignant photo of a young, lithe Joanie striding past the old post office on Darling Street evoked a pleasurable sigh of recall from many in the congregation.

On Wednesday, Father Peter-John Pearson and I stood alongside Father Sunny in the aisle of The Immaculate Conception Catholic Church in Parow.

We were leading the procession at the end of the funeral service for Sydney Ehrenreich.

There was an expectant silence as a CD was placed in the church’s sound-system.

And then we stepped out, solemnly, to the voice of Engelbert Humperdinck singing: “I’ll bet you never thought there’d ever come a day you’d hear me say I’m leavin’ you.”

The definitive moment of such an occasion was on Saturday, July 17 2010 at the His People Church in Goodwood.

The ebullient Pastor Glenn Robertson presided at the funeral of Robbie Jansen. Trevor Manuel spoke with clarity and moving insight, not only about the impact of Robbie on the shape and format of Cape jazz but also his selfless contribution to the Struggle for freedom.

The carnival spirit of Robbie, the son of a Salvation Army bandmaster, pervaded the gathering. His voice and the message it proclaimed had been amplified by its sometimes rambunctious but always lyrical evolvement through his presence in The Rockets, Pacific Express, OsWietie, Spirits Rejoice and The Sons of Table Mountain.

After the service I was heading to my car parked at the far end of the parking lot. Ahead of me were two groups of homeboys chatting away. They grew silent as they became aware of my presence.

I was reminded then I apparently bore some resemblance to Robbie: “Au ouens,” said one clevah, “Robbie has come back as a priest.”

And with perfect timing, a voice in the second group on my path said in tones of mock awe, “Fair praat, Robbie. Jesus had to wait for three day but you soema come back in a day.”