Welcome to Pastor Jack Buckley's weekly blog and podcast.
You have three ways to hear his weekly message:
- Read Pastor Jack's GODblog.
- Listen now to an audio of the scripture reading and Pastor Jack's sermon.
- Listen anytime. You choose the time and place. Download Pastor Jack's GODcast to your MP3 player.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Hear Those Harleys
The voice on my answering machine was the groom from my most recent wedding. I thought he wanted to talk about my messing up the wedding license (which I had corrected with the county recorder, by the way).
But no, when I called him back he told me his father had died suddenly a couple of nights before. At the age of 52. (I'm way older than that, for God's sake!) What he thought was heartburn at bedtime turned out to be a heart attack waiting to happen in the middle of the night.
I remembered the father, a big burly guy full of life and oh so proud to sport a tuxedo for his son's chance of a lifetime wedding. Handlebar mustache, full head of unruly hair, bright eyes and a monster grip of a handshake.
Robert Allen Blackburn, Jr. was his name. His son, the groom, was Robert Allen Blackburn III, known affectionately as Bud (which I learned only on the wedding day itself).
So Bud called to see if I might officiate at his dad's funeral service. I said an immediate Yes to the invitation and set up a meeting with the grieving family. From there we laid out the plan for a viewing, a funeral, and finally the burial at a cemetery up on the hill above the city of Hayward.
Entering the mortuary for the viewing, I walked in on about 70 people seated reverently among the pews -- about 40 of them in Harley Davidson tee shirts, Levis, and not a few do-rags. Talk about your handlebar mustaches, unique facial hair, and assorted tattoos.
Turns out Buzz (the dad's preferred ID) was a most serious Harley devotee. And here were his brothers and sisters of the road, gathered to honor his memory in their own unique ways.
I felt like a fish out of water, dressed up in my suit and tie, reading from my prayer book and all. But I inwardly thanked every person there for opening my eyes and my heart to the bigger story of Buzz's life and what it meant to so many who valued his meaning in their own lives.
Next morning, we held the funeral service at 10:00 sharp. One man accepted my invitation to say a few words in honor of Buzz's life, by reading an eloquent prayer he'd written longhand, asking God to guide, protect, and make good use of Buzz cruising around heaven on his Harley. Several others spoke or had me read aloud words they weren't quite up to reading for themselves. Then off we drove to the cemetery.
The procession was led by about 20 Harleys in front of the hearse, followed by at least as many cars including my modest pastoral sedan. I parked a good city block's distance away from the gravesite, in front of which, at curbside, stood Buzz's beautiful charcoal gray hog in all its gleaming glory.
I said a few words, read a few scriptures, said a few prayers. Then, just before the benediction, a Boy Scout honor guard presented the flag to Buzz's widow Linda. Not a United States flag, mind you, but a smaller black banner bearing the famous Harley Davidson logo. God bless those scouts, they treated that flag with just the kind of respect they'd have given the stars and stripes in a military ceremony.
After I gave the benediction, the workers began to lower the casket into its final resting place. But...
One of the biker dudes called out, "Wait a minute! We're gonna do one more thing before you lower that coffin!" And he gave instructions to every person who had ridden a Harley up that hill that morning.
Buzz's brother would lead the way, he said, by revving up the engine on Buzz's bike. And every other rider would join in at his or her bike, until the casket was finally as low as it could go.
And that's just what they did. For what my memory tells me was at least three minutes, all you could hear was 20 or so Harley engines roaring out their own kind of blessing on Buzz, dead and gone all too soon, and on his wife and kids and extended family and scores of friends who'd come to say one last goodbye.
The earth trembled beneath my feet, registering at least a 2.0 on the Richter scale. Looking around, I caught sight of all those bikers revving the throttle with one hand and holding the other high in a full-fist salute. I also saw the ear-to-ear smiles on all their face, and the tears streaming down their wizened cheeks. And I laughed with them, and cried a little with them, too.
From the cemetery I drove to San Francisco for the first autumn meeting of our Presbytery. Sitting there in the stained glass splendor of a historic sanctuary, I took in report after report and I cast my vote on any number of important matters of policy and procedure.
Even so, every now and then my face went a little crooked with a quiet grin, and I could almost hear again -- and vibrate with -- the surprisingly angelic sound of 20 Harleys pronouncing one of the most profound benedictions I've ever received in all my life.
Vroom and amen!
posted by Jack Buckley at
4:24 PM
<< Home
|
|
 |
|
|
