Considering theology

I don’t know about you but I think a lot about God. I think about how it is that people throughout time have constructed stories and whole belief systems that explain the creative energy that they feel is present in their lives, and somehow beyond themselves. I think about how the ancient people needed to explain why the sun would come up every day or be assured that the fertile growing season would return.

Now, we have our science and our meteorologists who routinely tell us the schedule of the sunrise, sunset and the movement of the tides. They predict the kind of winter we’re going to have, as well as the path of an oncoming storm. Of course, there is a limit to their, and our, knowledge and often we can brace ourselves for some sort of natural onslaught, only to have winds blow it in another direction. We are saved, somehow, by an energy that we cannot control. We feel blessed.

And even with our science, we are inclined to attribute meaning to things that are outside of our habituated life patterns. We create stories that give us comfort and explain the unexplainable. Such storytelling took place at Bob Wasserman’s funeral and burial this week.

Bob Wasserman was a lifelong Sullivan County native. He was an activist and he had a lot of friends. In fact, Rasmussen’s Funeral Home was packed this past Tuesday. As Bob did not have an affiliation with any religious congregation, I volunteered, wearing my ministerial hat from the Upper Delaware Unitarian Universalist Fellowship, to facilitate the memorial stories at the funeral home. And because Bob had been raised in a Jewish household and had requested on his deathbed the assistance of a Rabbi, the burial was under the direction of the Rabbi Michele Medwin of Temple Shalom in Monticello.

The sky was ominous as the long line of cars made their way up Route 97 and across the river to the Milanville Cemetery. The thunder was getting closer and the wind had picked up as the concrete cover was lowered over Bob’s coffin. The Rabbi had said some prayers and had just explained that it considered a mitvah, a good deed, to help bury the dead. People were lined up to shovel dirt into the open grave when the sky let loose.

First, there was rain, and then we were pelted for about seven minutes or so with hail the size of marbles and golf balls. Huddled under umbrellas, the assembled crowd, at first, thought it was funny. But as the intensity increased and we were stung by these bouncing ice crystals, the crowd grew concerned and humbly stood through the onslaught. When it finally ended, the ground was littered with an inch or two of the frozen crystals that had fallen violently out of the sky. The sun came out and the air filled with steam. People made their way around the large mud puddles to shovel dirt, now wet and mudlike, into the grave.

They smiled, joked and came up with their own version of what had just happened. While there were reports of tornadoes in the area, most people expressed the belief that it was Bob’s message from above that had caused the isolated storm.

“It was a reminder from Bob that we needed to look up and see the world around us, and not be concentrated on the ground and the grave.”

“He loved the 1812 Overture and this was his final send off.”

“He loved stories, and he gave us one more to remember him by.”

In determining the message of a common experience, everyone had a different take on the situation, and I wonder, as I ponder our spiritual nature, whether the different stories are a result of our theology, the way that we find meaning in the world, the way we explain feeling connected to something larger than ourselves.

I don’t know.

But for me, standing in that storm, having consciously left my raincoat at home and having no umbrella, I moved closer and put my arm around Valerie Manzi, whose umbrella I shared, so that we could huddle more tightly and keep the warm rain from falling over the umbrellas’ edge and soaking us more completely.

From that refuge, I saw others holding each other: Bob’s beloved wife, Joanne, held in a protective embrace of her son, Justin; Bob’s brothers, Steve, Dan and Tom, with arms around each other, standing close to the Rabbi, who was sheltered by funeral director Patrick Harrison. In groups of two, three and four, under a variety of colorful temporary roofs of man’s invention, I saw a community of people, united by their love and concern for each other, share a common experience on this fragile and unpredictable planet.

In thoroughly soaked, mud-splattered clothes, we shared life.

And it was good.