I stood in the doorway for a few seconds, waiting for somebody to say something. And then I seen they was waiting for me. It was up to me to step to the front of the room on the subfloor and take charge. The bones in my knees felt like water. All eyes in the church was turned to me, scalding my face. I swallowed and I stepped to the front of the coffin.
But those three steps changed the way I felt. By the time I reached the front of the church I seen I was part of a ceremony. I was not there as myself only, but as a minister in the ceremony of the funeral. Whatever I said, it was the ritual of the funeral that was important. In a way it didn’t hardly matter what I said, because it was Moody’s life and death that was important. Anybody, almost anybody, could be the minister, the vessel. It was the power of the occasion, and the ancient words and everlasting truths, that was important.
When I turned to face the gathering the air got cooler. Their eyes was not on me but on the service itself. We was all there to remember Moody.
“Let us pray,” I said and held up my hand. Every head in the room bowed, even Wheeler’s and Drayton’s. I closed my eyes. “Lord, we are here to remember our brother Moody and to ask your blessings and your mercy and your love to ease his passing. We are here to express our love for Moody and for one another. We are not here to judge or accuse. We ain’t here to place blame. For it is goodness that will be remembered. The wrongs men do pass away like last year’s frost. The good they do is repeated and remembered.
“As we are gathered here to remember Brother Moody, ease our grief and bereavement. Show your mercy on Mama’s sorrow and Fay’s sorrow. For we have lost a son and a brother. Everybody here has lost a cousin or nephew, a neighbor or friend. Give us strength to bear this grief. Give us the wisdom to know thy will and to trust the working out of your plan in the trials and confusions of our lives.”
After I prayed I asked Mrs. Richards and Annie to sing for us. I thought they would have to sing unaccompanied. But Hank took a French harp out of his pocket. I had forgot that he played a harmonica. I’d heard that when he was young he had been a banjo picker. But after he got married he played only the French harp.
Hank cupped the French harp in his hands like it was a flame he was shielding from the wind, and he blowed a low, sweet note, and then more notes, sucking in and out. And I seen it was “There’s a Land That Is Fairer than Day” that he was playing. It was a sad and mystical song. I kept my head bowed as Mrs. Richards and Annie sung.
There’s a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar;
For the father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling place there.
In the sweet, in the sweet, by and by, by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore, by and by.
In the sweet, in the sweet, by and by, by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.
Mrs. Richards sung alto and Annie sung soprano. The voices was like two streams, one silver and one gold, weaving in and out of each other. Their voices was so pure and so simple, and the harmonica so sweet, that it was like the music inside the seconds was released. It was the music of the fresh air, the music already in the air, coming out of their throats.
I stood beside the coffin and seen it was not just talent and skill that made the music so perfect. It was the feeling and intention; it was the occasion of the gathering, the family and friends, in the unfinished church on the mountaintop. The music was also in the loyalty, in the tie of affection and fellowship.
When the song was over it was time for me to say something. It come to me that I should talk quiet and slow. There was no need to hurry and no need to try to be eloquent beyond my practice and ability. Whatever I said from the heart was the right thing. The best eloquence was the truth of feeling. The test of a sermon was its truth for the occasion. It was not a contest. That’s what Hank had tried to tell me, but I hadn’t understood it at the time. A breeze come through the open door and unfinished walls and soothed my face.
“My friends and loved ones, Mama and sister, and cousins, I am not here to preach a long sermon or a fancy sermon. That would be beyond my ability and beyond anything Moody would want. We are not even in a finished church, and there is nobody here but those who loved Moody and are sad that he has left us.
“I will read a few verses, and I will say a few words about what is in our minds and in our hearts. I will say the simple truth as I am led to see it and say it.
“All of you that knowed my brother, Moody, knowed he was not perfect. He had his faults, as we all have our faults, and he had his weaknesses. He was a sinner, as each and every one of us is a sinner. If the church was only for the saints and for the sanctified, there wouldn’t be nobody left. And if heaven was only for the spotless and the righteous, it would be empty, or near empty.
“The good news, the gospel, is that there is grace for us all, and forgiveness for us all, and love for us all. Not just for the pious and perfect, but for the liars also, for the cheaters, and for the doubters, for the violent and them tore by anger and fear and hate.
“I believe there is a great lesson to be learned from Moody’s life and from his death. As I stand here I can see how much I learned from him, and how much more I should have learned. For what Moody taught me with his life was even greater than loyalty. He taught me that we can learn from our mistakes, that we can grow to act on the better part of our natures, that we can change and learn to forgive, that we can go beyond our failures.
“But maybe even harder than learning from our mistakes is learning to forgive. It’s easy to say, ‘Forgive and forget.’ But how often do we really do it, especially if we feel wronged while we’re in the right? Do you forgive them in your family that have took your land, or cheated you out of an inheritance, or been cruel to your mama? Do you forgive them that have insulted you and mocked you?
“Think of the sweetness of the morning light on a day we knowed we would not hate or be angry, accuse or fear anyone. That promise is not just a dream. It is possible right here, and it is in ourselves. That is the testimony of Moody’s life. And it is my testimony to you. It is what I know and what I feel. Learn to forgive your neighbor and brother. Not least of all, learn to forgive yourself. Show charity and respect for yourself. For no one is more important than you yourself.”
I opened the Bible to John 14:2.
“‘In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so I would have told you. I go and prepare a place for you.’”
As I read the verse I realized it was not just what the words said that was important. It was what they meant to people because they had been said so many times at so many different funerals. The ancient words and the familiar words had a comfort and a wonder because they had been repeated so often. While I spoke from the heart, the words of Scripture spoke from out of time and beyond time. And when I spoke the words it was the thousands of preachers saying them before me and the millions of listeners hearing them over the centuries that also comforted us. For the words carried the spirit not just of us gathered in the unfinished church, but of all those that had gathered to honor the dead down the years. The words honored Moody not just as a member of our gathering, but as a member of the larger community over the centuries.
Next I turned to John 11:24.
“‘Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.
“‘Jesus saith unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’”
I PAUSED FOR a few seconds. The rough church was so quiet you could hear the breeze in the poplars outside. I felt how the pause got everybody’s attention even more. I could smell the fresh boards and the fresh lime in the mortar.
“My brother, Moody, lays here still and silent in death,” I said. “We mourn him and we are sad. We went with him in this life as far as we could go.
He has gone on a journey where he has to travel alone, and one where we will someday surely follow. To our eyes and ears he has gone into a far country. Where he is now we can’t know. He has gone beyond the wall of time. He has gone beyond the sky.
“But in our sadness we are more alive than ever before. In the presence of death we are more alive. For nothing makes life sweeter than knowing its shortness. Nothing gives the days more savor than knowing they will end.
“My friends and loved ones, the fact is the dead never leave us. They are always in our hearts and in our minds. And at the most unexpected times and places, as we open a door, or listen to the rain at night, they are with us. The loved dead are with us at our moments of greatest happiness, and they are with us in our days of greatest sorrow. They will not desert us as we step forward in our lives. They will not abandon us even though we are forgetful and silly. The dead loved ones give dignity and weight to our confused lives.”
AS I SPOKE in the rough church to those gathered by Moody’s coffin, it was as though a barrier had broke inside me. All the words I had stored up in my thoughts while walking in the woods and working in the fields now come pouring out. All my reading of the Bible and studying about the church, all my worry about what I was going to do with myself, and my thoughts about defeat and failure, about building, come flooding one after another off my tongue. All the anguish and confusion I’d had was drawed in the words I said.
I had spent my whole life preparing for this moment, for talking to this gathering on this occasion. Even when I didn’t know it, I had been gathering things to say. Thoughts come sliding into my mind that I had forgot for years. I seen my fear of speaking, and my fear of preaching, was the block, was the dam, that pushed the stream of words to a higher level and made a hoard to draw on. My terror of speaking was the sign of how much I cared about what to say and how to say it. And the blockage had built up a great head of power.
As I talked I seen I was building an altar of words in the very air. I was building a church of words a sentence at a time. It was slow humble work, like digging a grave or a foundation. The Lord give me the words as I talked. Hank nodded as I spoke, and tears streamed down Mama’s cheek. Annie looked at me and then she looked at her lap.
I opened the Bible to Isaiah 25:7.
“‘And he will destroy in this mountain the face of the covering cast over all people, and the veil that is spread over all nations.
“‘He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces …
“‘For in this mountain shall the hand of the Lord rest …’”
“MY FRIENDS, THE hand of the Lord is in this mountain valley and in this hour. The hand of the Lord is in this moment and in this day to wipe away our tears. It is human to be grieved and human to feel loss. The hand of the Lord is here to lift us up and to help us bear our burden. The hand of the Lord is pointing forever into the promised land of tomorrow and the day after that.
“For when we see truly, the vision of every moment is Pisgah vision. The vision of every moment is twofold, this world and the next, the natural vision and the spiritual vision.”
As I talked I seen that the passion of Mama for the revival services, for the mystical tongues and the holy dance, for the white-hot burning music of the words, was in me, turned into firm sentences. And the strength of Daddy’s belief in steady good work and work to help others. Daddy loved to show goodness through what he done, not what he said. I seen that in me could be the steady stream of witness, not the spectacular sermon, but the plain words spoke from the heart. I seen that Mama and Daddy’s quarrel and work was mingled in me, was coming out as testimony, finally, of forgiveness and steadiness.
What was building up in me for years and years had been locked up. Moody’s death, the shock of Moody’s death, was the key that picked the lock. And Hank’s encouragement had prepared me to think again about the meaning and the possibility of preaching. Hank had seen that I was not just a stammering fool with silly dreams of eloquence. Hank had helped me on the church not just because he wanted a new building, but because he believed in me and seen the possibility of what I might do. I seen it clear now, with him and his family and the others setting there.
“Let me share with you what Paul says in I Corinthians 15:54,” I said.
“‘So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and the mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.
“‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’”
“ON THIS AFTERNOON when we are here to mourn and remember our brother Moody, when the shadow of grief hovers even in the brightest sunlight, and the murmur of the river and the breeze in the oaks and poplars seem to mourn, I want us to remember our gifts,” I said. “To have Moody with us for twenty-two years was a gift, and to have the breath in our lungs is a gift. We have the gift of each other, and the gift of the trees and soil and sunlight to nourish us. We have the gift of fellowship and love among us. We have the gift of giving and helping. We have the gift of the next hour and the next day. We have the gift of the church, and the gift of the Spirit stirring in our hearts. We have the gift of our hands, and the work of our hands to sustain us. We have the gift of beauty all around us, in the hills and in the flowers, and in the faces of those around us. We have the gift of pain that tells us we are alive.
“I will close by reading from Revelation 21.
“‘And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them and be their God.
“‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away …
“‘And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely.’”
I STOPPED AND looked around the room. The cold drafty church had been warmed up by all the people in it. It seemed to me that everybody felt better. Everyone had been strengthened. I seen that’s what a sermon was for, to spirit up and strengthen people. There wasn’t no other reason to preach. A funeral was not for the dead but for the living. My sermon might or might not have been heard by Moody, but it was heard by them left behind. A sermon was to bring us together in a feeling of community and fellowship. A sermon was to show people how they supported each other and was important to each other. A sermon was to show people how they could be sustained, how they could be better people.
“Let us pray,” I said. Everybody bowed their heads, even Wheeler and Drayton.
“Lord, as we say good-bye to Moody and carry him to his resting place on the hill, guide our feet and our thoughts. Inspire our hearts to live better, and let us learn from Moody, who has gone on ahead, to be better pilgrims on our own journey. For we are pilgrims finding our way, who must assist and comfort one another. Help us find not only the trials and tribulations of this world, but the glories, the assurance, the mercy of the true way. Amen.”
BY THE TIME we carried the coffin down the mountain and to the cemetery hill in the wagon, and all the company followed behind Old Fan and the creaking wagon, it was near sunset. The west was red as a rose, red as a stained-glass window, beyond the oak trees. The sky overhead was gold and purple. Trees and faces and mountaintops was burnished in the fiery, eerie light. As we sung “We’re Marching to Zion” I felt Moody was there with us, and his spirit was finally at peace. And I felt Daddy was there with us too, and Grandpa, and Jewel, and all the others buried in the little clearing, going back to the first settlers. They was all with us as we sung that sad sweet song.
EPILOGUE
Ginny
AFTER MOODY DIED and Muir preached his funeral in the new church house, I thought Muir would finish the build
ing. After all, I was helping him to buy materials and tools, and Hank was helping him with the work. It wasn’t a week after the funeral that Hank had to take a paying job down in Saluda, for he was broke after the long winter of work on the church. I reckon he had done his part. He had showed Muir how to get the frame up and the roof put on. I was so grateful to Hank I could have kissed his feet.
Hank and Muir nailed on the shingles the week after the funeral. They was tin shingles I paid for, and Hank said they should be painted black to go with the rocks that was mostly gray and white. The roof and the black paint really made it look like a church house in town. And the roof was so steep it looked like a church you might see in a picture.
After Hank left to work for wages in Saluda, Muir finished nailing on the framing. He nailed on oak boards to close in the church, heavy boards sawed from our own trees. It reminded me of building a boat, the way he nailed the planks so tight up to the eaves of the steep roof. It was a boat turned upside down to sail across the sky. It was an ark to carry our faith and our worship to the shores of future years. The lumber was a fabric Muir put together.
Soon as he got the framing done Muir started with the rockwork. It was the rockwork he had planned from the first. It was the thought of a rock church that had inspired him in the first place. I knowed he dreamed of placing rocks in the sky there where they would stay for hundreds of years. He wanted to hang rocks high on the mountain to honor the Lord and lead people to think of higher things. I had caught his enthusiasm and vision of the tabernacle on the mountaintop.
As Muir started working on the rock veneer, I climbed up the mountain to watch. He was mixing mortar in the box Hank had fixed up. He raked the hoe back and forth in the wet batter, mixing the sand and cement dust with water until there was no lumps and the mess turned into mud with just the right thickness and firmness. He pulled and pushed the hoe through the mix until the mortar fell back in place and healed itself after the hoe passed through. The mud had turned a dark green.
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