Faith: The bagpipes and the banjo

Live music has always held a fascination for me and this morning I was intrigued by the deep bass sound of a euphonium. I went to investigate. Three cars were parked outside our house and the occupants were already out and warming up hands and instruments. Standing next to the euphonium player was a man with a banjo, and a few yards away a man arranging his bagpipes. I have always held the greatest of admiration for bagpipe players, not because of the sound they make, but because of their skill in getting all the various bits of the instrument in the right place. It’s up there with people who can set up a deck chair at the first attempt. I was keen to hear how such an unusual combination of different instruments would blend together.

It was a bitterly cold morning; one when the weather forgot it should be spring. Within a few minutes there were cars arriving and parking in every spare bit of road and verge available. Some were more considerate than others. Clearly something was going on in the neighbourhood. Then it clicked. A neighbour had told me only a few weeks ago that a local business man who lived nearby had died. All these people had turned out to say farewell to him.

A low loader lorry which was normally seen with a crumpled car on it’s back was decked with neatly arranged floral tributes from grieving relatives. Suddenly from around the corner came the sound of music. The bag piper, in full Scottish national dress, played a haunting tune. It wasn’t the best day to be wearing a kilt. The coffin was loaded onto a glass encased carriage pulled by six horses. Each horse looked immaculately groomed and was decked in full regalia of almost royal significance, with red plumes, white socks and shiny black coats. The hearse slowly moved into the main road led by an undertaker on foot. He was more adequately dressed than the piper given the weather. A floral tribute inside the carriage read Goodbye Grandad.

Local traffic, which had already been severely impeded by the presence of cars parked everywhere, ground to a complete halt to enable the funeral cortège to move off. Immediately behind the hearse a band, comprising euphonium, clarinet, banjo and trumpet, played a trad jazz version of Just a closer walk with thee. It was a such contrast to the earlier drone of the bag pipes. I wondered what the connection was for these minstrels, and that song, with the man now lying in a coffin not more than ten feet in front of them. The low loader followed, and then relatives in the more familiar stretch limo funeral cars. And gradually the cars which had been parked slipped quietly into the procession as it made its way to the funeral ceremony at the local church.

Death always puts things in perspective. It always draws out reflection on your own life, even though the focus is supposed to be on someone else.

Tomorrow is Good Friday. A time when some remember when another man died. No stately funeral procession for him. No music, poignant or lively. But there was an air of bitter sweetness to these events too. In the hot dusty climate of Roman occupied Jerusalem, he had unjustly suffered a criminal’s death for challenging the ideas and behaviour of prominent people.

A large crowd gathered around, including his mother and brothers. Men and women from all walks of life were there. He had had a profound effect on many, despite his short life. Some were so inspired by his teaching that they had left their jobs to follow him wherever he travelled. They had given three years of their lives listening to his wise teaching and believing his promises of freedom and justice for those held captive, witnessing blind people made able to see and the lame able to walk. But their dream was now shattered. They couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t how it was all supposed to end. They lurked on the perimeter of the crowd, hiding their faces, fearful of reprisals or further unjust trials, deeply aware that they might have made the biggest mistake of their lives.

He had said things no one had dared to think before, he had made them feel important and valued, burning away years of tradition, oppression and confusion. It had all made so much more sense than all they had ever known. He had given so much hope in a hopeless world. The local power brokers were there too, smugly congratulating one another that they had rid their community of someone who challenged their control and hypocrisy, yet strangely jealous of his popularity and influence among ordinary people.

At times like this, although we may be standing in a crowd, we each stand alone in silence with our own thoughts and reflections. The weirdest of memories and emotions can surface. Life is short; death always comes at an inappropriate time; always catches us on the wrong foot. We’re never fully prepared. But, in the aftermath there comes a time when a life is celebrated rather than a loss mourned. When joy replaces sadness; when hope replaces shattered dreams; when brokenness gets restored; when emptiness becomes fullness; when water is changed to wine.

The bagpipes and the banjo, were a reminder that life can be both bitter and sweet. One day it will all make more sense.

An extract from Beyond the Banter by Bob Fraser.

Main Photo Credit: Brad Starkey via Unsplash

Funeral procession photo: Used with permission from The Good Funeral Guide.