Two Funeral Processions…

I drive in a lot of funeral processions.  It’s an odd part of my job.  Usually I’m placed between the funeral director’s car and the hearse.  Most of the time the processions are short: from the funeral home to the cemetery, or from the church to the cemetery.  Occasionally the cemetery is out of town and the journey is a little longer.   

Funeral processions do not move quickly, usually about thirty or forty miles an hour.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it feels more mournful.  In most of the South, the procession is escorted by police.  If you’re driving in the South and you see a funeral procession, it’s customary to pull over.  It’s a sign of respect.  You honor a life and a family when you do. 

Last week, I was asked to officiate the funeral of a man whose family attended our church.  He did not attend, but I had met him a time or two.  The man had put in twenty-four years of active service in the Air Force and went back to work as a civilian contractor.  A motorcycle enthusiast, he was killed when his bike hit a concrete median.   

When I pulled up to the church for the service, I was amazed.  There were at least a hundred Harleys in the parking lot.  The deceased was part of a bike club that rode together and socialized together.  His biker buddies had shown up in force for the funeral.   

After the service, the bikers mounted up and a hundred Harleys roared.  The lead escort of bikes was followed by a biker with two American flags flying from the rear of the bike.  The police escorted us to the county line at the normal funeral procession speed, but once we crossed the Wateree River bridge, with the motorcycles in the lead, the pace picked up.  We were headed to the Fort Jackson National Cemetery.  As I drove behind the Harleys, I thought about the bikers.  Most of them were over forty.  You could tell some were retired, but most appeared to still be working.  They were decked out in leather and denim, and there were more tattoos than average, but they were there to honor their buddy and support his family.  They had taken off time from work or from home to be there. 

At the cemetery, the bikers dismounted, stood in quiet reverence during taps and the rifle volleys, and listened to Psalm 23.  When I said the final “Amen,” and spoke to the family, they moved forward to offer hugs, offers of help, and once again, share their own grief.   

The next day, I was headed to North Carolina to pick apples with my wife.  At Newberry, I saw an enormous fire truck, a ladder truck on an overpass.  Its ladder was extended full length and an American flag was flying from the top.  Then I remembered:  Greenville County Deputy Sherriff Conley Jumper had been killed in the line of duty.  His funeral was in Greenville, but they were burying him in Newberry.   

We drove further up the interstate and I noticed State Troopers blocking entrance ramps, so Deputy Jumper’s procession would not be interrupted.  People were standing on overpasses, waiting to salute. 

Then we saw the flashing blue lights.  Two State Troopers were in the lead.  Then some Greenville County Sheriff’s vehicles.  Then the hearse and the family limo.  Other family cars.  Then more police cars.  And more. And more.

If you’ve never been to a law enforcement funeral service, brother and sister first-responders come from all over the country to form an honor escort.  Deputy Jumper’s service was no different.  I saw cars from just about every city and county in South Carolina.  There were fire trucks and ambulances.  Not every car had a sticker, but you could tell some were from out-of-state.  The procession stretched out at least ten miles or more.   

These law enforcement officers were doing exactly what the bikers had done: they gathered to show support, to be there, to share the grief.  I think, but I’m not sure, that bikers and officers share a bond with each other.  Unless you’ve been on a bike, you can’t really understand what it’s like.  Unless you have responded to a call, siren blaring, you can’t really understand what it’s like. You have to be there.   

When God sent his son Jesus to earth, he was emphatically saying, “I do understand what it’s like.  I’ve been there. I sent my Son to earth so you would know I know what life is like.  I know grief.   I lost my Son.  But I raised him from the dead.   I do not want you to grieve as people without hope.  In the face of death, put your hope in me.” 

God has been there.  God is here.  And God will be there.