A Place for You

The Rev. Dr. Skip Ferguson

Manassas Presbyterian Church

Manassas, Virginia

May 26, 2013

A Place for You

Revelation 14:13

It is a lush place, verdant,

with towering trees, rolling lawns,

a meandering creek,

a large pond in the center.

It is a park, a lovely park,

270 acres of beauty,

the majesty of God’s creative hand

displayed in a rainbow of colors,

and in particular, green in a host of shades.

Back in 1849 City leaders showed remarkable foresight

when they realized that their growing city needed the space,

and so they went a few miles beyond what was then

the boundary of the city and bought land.

Land that would not be used for any business purpose,

that would never turn a profit,

yet land that was essential, absolutely essential,

to every person in the city,

the whole community.

Once they bought the land,

they gave the place a name:

Forest Lawn Cemetery.

Yes, a cemetery,

a place for the community to bury their dead.

Every community needs a cemetery.

We may not like to talk about it,

but death is part of life,

as natural as birth;

birth one bookend,

death the other.

A cemetery is a place where the dead

can be laid to rest,

a place of peace for all to rest from their labors,

for the mortal body to find eternal sleep.

Cemeteries should be lush, verdant, lovely,

places that display and reflect God’s glory.

They should be places of dignity,

sacred spaces,

hallowed ground.

        

This particular Forest Lawn Cemetery is in Buffalo,

and the words of its name describe it perfectly:

“Forest” and “Lawn”.

It is more park, more urban oasis than anything else.

Where it was originally set on land

that was outside the bounds of the city,

today it is very much in the center of things,

which, to me, is very appropriate.

Our cemeteries should be nearby,

part of the larger community,

as places of remembrance for those

who were part of the community.

It is Matthew’s gospel that gave us the term “potters field,”

that conjures up images of gnarled, rotted trees,

not even a hint of green,

no birds singing,

a dead place for the dead.

Functional? Yes.

Cost-efficient? Yes.

But horrible and wrong,

an affront to life,

an affront to the dead,

an affront to God.

                                                                                

Forest Lawn saw its first burial in 1850,

and it now has more than 155,000 “residents,”

to use the cemetery’s term.

Those residents include the famous, the infamous,

and the unknown.

They include the wealthy, the powerful,

the poor, the immigrant,

the lost, the lonely.

A president of our country, Millard Fillmore,

is buried there;

business leaders, artists,

teachers, laborers,

men by the hundreds who spent their entire lives

scooping grain from ships to elevators

along Buffalo’s waterfront.

There are people who lived to old age,

and, yes there are infants and children.

They are Buffalo,

from north to south,

east to west.

All are at rest,

all are at peace in a place that invites family and friends

to return to visit,

to return to remember.

Among the 155,000 residents of Forest Lawn

are 14 of my family:

10 on my mother’s side

and four on the Ferguson side.

My great-great grandfather on my mother’s side

bought a plot back in 1877 for his family.

He and his wife are there,

as are my great-grandparents,

my grandmother,

and most recently, my mother.

Over in the far corner of the plot lies Uncle Chester,

my mother’s great-uncle.

We know virtually nothing about him

other than he died in 1948.

No one knows why he was buried as far away

from the rest of the family as the plot would allow.

What he did to deserve eternal banishment

from the family

will likely remain known only to God.  

The Ferguson plot is in a newer section of the cemetery;

my grandfather bought the plot reluctantly back in the 1970s.

He was in his 70s at the time

and vibrant as can be,

still working, still playing golf.

He had no interest in thinking about his mortality,

but his children prevailed upon him to plan ahead,

and so he bought a large plot,

with space for up to 15,

and set up a gray granite stone that said simply,

FERGUSON.

Nothing fancy for this son of Iowa

who settled in Buffalo in the early 1920s.

He and my grandmother are there,

along with my father,

and a cousin who died of cancer ten years ago

at much too young an age.

Like most cemeteries,

Forest Lawn has a large area set aside for

service- men and women,

including those who died in combat.

Different sections reflect different wars,

the tragedy of war so powerfully in evidence

by the sheer number of different sections,

the sheer number of wars we have fought –

five in my own lifetime.

There will be ceremonies there tomorrow,

as there will be in almost every other

cemetery throughout the country

as we take time to honor those men and women

who gave their lives in service to our country.

The church I served before I came here

had a small cemetery,

as did the local Roman Catholic Church.

Each year the local VFW post would organize a

Memorial Day service at one of the cemeteries,

alternating between them: our cemetery one year,

the Roman Catholic cemetery the next year.

The ceremonies were always simple:

a few words spoken,

the priest or I leading in prayer,

taps played.

It was a time to honor the dead,

a time for the community to gather to remember,

a time to gather with a sense of gratitude,

the living with the dead,

all together on holy ground.

Cemeteries help us to remember our dead;

not just those who died in service,

but any and all loved ones who now rest in peace.

Cemeteries help us to know the truth of Paul’s words to us

that love never dies.

Death may take a loved one away,

but death cannot take away the love felt between

husband and wife,

parent and child,

sister and brother,

friend and friend.

Cemeteries help us to find peace,

comforting us with the reminder that

even as we stand at a plot

our eyes fixed on a name carved in stone,

he or she isn’t there –

they rest with God,

in that place we call heaven,

the place Jesus called “Paradise.”

Heaven is a place the Bible tells us almost nothing about,

maddeningly short with facts, details, information.

It isn’t at all surprising to me that we gobble up

every book that purports to draw back the curtain

even just a little bit.

But we should be cautious here:

if there is precious little in the Bible about heaven,

it is probably because God intended it to be that way,

to leave the place a mystery as we walk through this life,

so we stay focused on this life.

Better for us to trust in God,

to learn from Paul’s words,

 “What no eye has seen,

nor ear heard,

nor the human heart conceived,

what God has prepared for those who love him.”

(1 Corinthians 2:9)

Better for us to take the paradise that awaits us on faith.

What we do know,

and what we can rely on,

is the promise from our Lord Jesus Christ

that heaven awaits us all,

that there is a place for us,

a place for you, a place for me,

and that in time we will all find our way there,

that Christ himself will lead us there.

Cemeteries help us to remember this promise;

those places of beauty,

of sweet fragrance,

of tranquility,

of past and present,

of family,

of community,

of love.

But they also remind us that we live –

that we are full of life and breath here and now,

and we are called to live fully into our lives

as disciples of Christ.

In our sleep-deprived world,

the idea of rest sounds so terribly appealing,

but we have work to do, each of us,

to build the Kingdom

as long as we have breath and life.

Our lives here and now

are lives we are called to live with Christ,

in Christ,

through Christ,

losing our lives to the things of this world

so that we can find our true lives in Christ.

(Matthew 16:25)

The cemeteries where so many will spend time tomorrow,

bind this life         

with lives lived

and the life to come

grounded in our Lord’s promise to us,

Those who believe in me
even though they die, will live;
and everyone who lives and believes in me
will never die.”

(John 11:25-26)

What place will hold my mortal remains

is still an unanswered question.

Perhaps it will be Forest Lawn in Buffalo;

perhaps I’ll choose to keep Uncle Chester company.

Or perhaps my ashes will be scattered

in the Green Mountains of Vermont,

a place I’ve grown to love over the years.

Or perhaps my ashes will spiral slowly down

beneath ocean waves.

Wherever that place will be,

it will be a place of rest, eternal rest.

a sacred place,

a holy place

“And Jesus took his own hand …

and … smoothed the furrows from her face,
And the angels sang a little song,
And Jesus rocked her in his arms,
And kept a-saying: Take your rest,
Take your rest.
Weep not--weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.”

James Weldon Johnson’s words

reinforce the promise of life we have in Christ.

A promise that graces us with hope,

graces us with peace.

And allows us to remember with joy.

                 

AMEN