Funeral for a Pastor...

I was somewhat surprised when I read the packing suggestions for Southern Africa YAGM this summer.  I had heard from several sources that Africans generally dress up more than North Americans, whether in church, academia, or the workplace.  The fact that our country coordinators specifically mentioned that most YAGM wished they brought a set of formal clothes (i.e. black pants, white shirt, etc.) in addition to a good supply of business casual attire didn’t seem out of place.  What did was the reason for this suggestion:  funerals.  At first, I thought this seemed a little presumptuous.  How many people could we reasonably expect to pass away during 11 months?  I had only been to one or two funerals in my life; I couldn’t imagine attending so many that I needed t use valuable suitcase space for an extra set of formal attire.  Nevertheless, I dutifully packed my black slacks, shoes, and white shirt in the bottom of my bag and hoped I wouldn’t need them.

Less than three weeks after arriving in Mapumulo, I attended my first funeral.  Rev. Ngcobo, the deceased, was a retired ELCSA pastor and the father-in-law of one of my co-workers at the church center.  Maybe I’m just speaking from a perspective of very little experience with funerals in my own life, but the service and traditions I witnessed Saturday morning opened up a new window into how to treat and view death. 

The experience began on Friday night, the evening before memorial service.  On this night, the family and friends of the deceased hold a vigil.  The vigil, which can last all night, is usually a combination of singing, praying, sharing stories about the loved one, and encouraging each other.  Before I arrived, I expected the mood to be somber and reflective.  As soon as I climbed out of the back of Baba Mabaso’s bakkie, however, I realized how far off my expectations were.  As we walked towards the door, various Hallelujahs! and echoes of Amen! were easily distinguishable through the walls of the house.  The main room was packed; all the furniture had been cleared away to make room for as many chairs and benches as possible.  I managed to squeeze onto the end of a bench, where I proceeded to attempt to make sense of the story telling and preaching that was going on in Zulu at the front of the room.  The evening was clearly an emotional one, but I saw very little crying.  People seemed happy to reflect on memories of their loved one, and even happier to be uplifted by each other’s presence.

The funeral service was held Saturday morning at 9am.  The church center, which was being used as the venue, was buzzing with activity as soon as it was light.  The meeting halls had been set up for the event on Friday, and somewhere around 500 people were expected to attend.   Sure enough, by half past nine the hall was completely full.  Rev. Ngcobo had worked in the Central Diocese before retiring to Mapumulo, so many friends and colleagues from the Johannesburg/Pretoria area had driven down for the service.  The service was led by two bishops and about 40 pastors, all of whom wore white robes with purple stoles and sat on the stage in front of the attendees.  The service lasted 3.5 hours and included communion, an offering, lots of singing, a sermon, and several speeches by friends of Rev. Ngcobo. 

Rev. Ngcobo's funeral service at the church center.

After the service, everyone walked or drove to the cemetery, which was about 1.5 km away.  After the burial, we walked up the road to a crèche next to Umphumulo Church where some “refreshments” had been prepared.  The refreshments turned out to be a full meal with a dozen or so different dishes: beef, chicken, cow intestines, rice, samp and beans, beets, coleslaw, green salad, and butternut squash.  The atmosphere reminded me of a celebration, not a memorial.

Perhaps my impressions of this South African funeral are shaped by my own inexperience.  Perhaps this service and ceremony was different from most because the deceased was a well known retired pastor.  Either way, it seems to me that in a region where 30-40% of the population is HIV positive, death is much more of an everyday part of life than it is in the U.S.  As the people in my community have shown me, death (for a Christian) is truly a matter to be celebrated.  We celebrate both because our loved one has been called home and because we remember who he or she was during life.  Death still hurts, especially here in rural KwaZulu-Natal where family is the central structure for life.  However, the same community that has been welcoming me to this place proved today that it is equally capable of helping to wipe away the tears of some of its members by celebrating the life of one who passed on.