By definition, funerals are not funny. But while living, we humans possess the capability to perform and witness some pretty outrageous non-funereal behaviors, even in otherwise serious moments.
I am glad that I was not the officiant who persisted in calling the dearly departed by the wrong name until a family member stood and corrected the egregious error. A former parishioner told me of his uncle's funeral where the first two speakers were not to be outdone in preaching 30 minute 'Come to Jesus', hell-fire sermons. When the third man (!) began his turn, the daughter of the deceased stood and plainly told him, "I wish you would shut up and sit down!"
Years ago, I read Dr. John Killinger's account of leading a funeral procession from a church to a distant cemetery for the interment. After several miles, he became preoccupied and actually forgot what he was doing. Passing a shopping mall, he remembered his wife's saying, "The next time you are by Store Name, stop in and pick up X." He turned on his signal and as he was searching for a parking spot, he noticed a parade of cars with headlights on following him. (In this region, it is customary to have headlights on if in such a parade.) With aplomb, he proceeded through the parking lot and took the first exit and continued on the journey. Apparently no one asked him about the blip. That was somewhat humorous until I almost did a variation of the same thing. The route to the cemetery was the first leg of the same one I regularly drove on my way home. With only a tenth of a mile to spare, I remembered my mission and made a necessary turn.
My brother conducted last rites for a cousin who had been a long-distant truck driver. At the time, the funeral home fronted a major highway that carried a lot of truck traffic. Just as the service was beginning, something inside the casket picked up and broadcast the conversation that a passing trucker was having on his CB Radio. Seemed fitting, given the rapscallion personality of the deceased.
The late Reverend Bruce McIver grew up in this area but spent his long pastorate in Texas. I wish that I could have met him because his book, Stories I Couldn't Tell While I Was a Pastor", recounts multiple mishaps during a funeral in a mid-Winter blizzard. Among other near 'show stoppers', one of the deceased friends had a coronary episode after delivering his tribute. The entire gathering had to sit in silence during the interminable wait for EMS personnel. Once outside, those transporting the casket up the incline to the gravesite, almost slipped and fell. Then the funeral director, spotting a sag in the tent, attempted to nudge it off with the tip of his umbrella; instead, he punctured the tent, sending ice water down his back. His subsequent gyrations turned over an electric heater, almost sending it into the open grave.
This past week, however, I heard a story that wins the prize. Edna's late husband was a prominent Baptist minister. Early in his career, he served a small church in the extreme eastern part of our state. Relatives of the deceased who lived in an adjacent state sent the message that although they would be unable to arrive in time for the funeral, they planned to be present for the interment that would be a 'the old home church', many miles away.
When Tom and the funeral director arrived there, the family was not there, so they agreed to wait a respectable time before proceeding. At last, a cloud of dust from down the unpaved road announced their coming. After a few moments, the funeral director told Tom that the family wished to have the casket opened for a viewing and Tom agreed. Presently, he returned to say that they wanted Grandpa removed from the casket and propped against a nearby oak tree so that they could take photographs. And, as was apparently then the custom, Grandpa was dressed only from the waist up. Regaining appropriate dignity and decorum thereafter was a challenge.
If you have a minister, ask him or her if they have such stories that they 'can't tell'. . . yet.
Satchel
