The Pine Box

On the third day following death, the deceased lay in a simple, unfinished pine box decorated only with simple sidebars to assist the pallbearers as they escorted it to and from the hearse.  There was no shiny finish on this box, no carving or other ornamentation.

The deceased had been a casual friend of ours, but also our son’s close friend and mentor.

The day after his death, his priest and eight others prepared the deceased's body for burial - washed it, applied oils to it, and dressed it while another group quietly recited Psalms in the background.  No embalmment, no make-up. The preparation was an intimate, reverent, cohesive experience for those involved.  Our son was one of them, and later assured us it hadn’t been creepy (as one might expect).  Rather, it was good.  Very good.

The funeral service consisted of liturgical worship and beautiful a cappella chants typical to Orthodox tradition.  Following worship, the priest shared a personal tribute.  Then those who had come to celebrate the deceased's life, and bid an earthly farewell, were invited to walk by the humble box and pay their final respects.  I was surprised to see many individuals reach out spontaneously to touch (or even kiss) the body.  These gestures were tender, endearing, bold, and comforting to watch.

I could see this local parish formed a unique community that cherished life and death and the God in charge of both.   This was a submitted, devoted, invested group.

When it was our turn, I expected the corpse’s face to appear drawn and pale, and maybe grotesque.  But that was not the case.  Instead, the deceased appeared rugged and handsome – and sound asleep.  His facial features were peaceful, his skin tone ruddy to match the outdoor lifestyle he’d loved.  Nothing fake here.  I stared at the rough, manly hands clasped over his chest, and remembered his tender, servant’s heart. This man of God was ministering to me even in his death.

At the gravesite, lush spring green grass and trees surrounded us.  The a cappella choir sang “Christ has risen from the dead” (a chant common to Orthodoxy in all cultures), harmonizing various tunes to represent traditions from around the globe.  It seemed almost as if the larger community of believers was there with us in spirit.

After the priest’s final remarks, cemetery attendants slowly lowered the pine box deep into the vault.  The choir continued singing “Christ has risen from the dead” as one by one we filed by to sprinkle representative handfuls of soil onto the top of the box.  Toddlers leaning from their mothers’ arms released tiny fistfuls. Children of all ages eagerly participated, some also dropping long-stemmed roses that landed on the box lid with a soft thud. Several young adult men crushed the dirt in their strong hands before letting it go. A fragile older woman behind a walker shakily gripped a small hand spade and scattered her spray of dust from its pointed tip.  The choir continued singing, their voices angelic.  Everything - earth, sky, people, casket - seemed filled with the glory of God.

* * *

My previous funeral experiences have been comparatively predictable: reserved, sterile, distanced.  I can't help but compare them with yesterday’s funeral that mirrors long-standing burial traditions still intact around the world, and yet not here. 

How did we get to be so antiseptic in our approach to death? So emotionally and physically detached? 

Why do we pay thousands of dollars for embalmment, superficial fix-ups, and fancy silk-lined caskets, but then protect ourselves from true involvement with death rather than participate in it?  

Are our burial traditions (cremation included, the violent burning of flesh and grinding of charred bones into a powder) motivated by pride, ease, independence and convenience, or (as I observed yesterday), humility, sacrifice, co-reliance and mutual integration? 

Do we think funerals and burials should revolve around our expectations and time schedules rather than those that ring true with divine rhythms?

Are we "free spirits" who pride ourselves in individualism but have lost the practical application of community that enriches and binds us when it is time for our bodies to return to dust?

Do we intellectualize life and death, and thus diminish the broader experience of both?

And finally, do we believe Christ conquered death?  Do we love Him and cling to Him as our passage to life eternal? The man in the pine box did.