One
summer morning in Nashua, I took my four little children to a neighborhood playground. Along the way we drove past
the Edgewood Cemetery. As the children
gazed out the car windows, they spotted a bright white cross on a hill on the
far side of the cemetery. Their
curiosity aroused, they asked if we could go in and see it up close. Since we were on a fairly loose schedule that
morning, I agreed and turned into the cemetery.
Along
narrow winding roads and over gently rolling terrain, we proceeded slowly and
reverently through the necropolis. On
the far north side we ascended the hill and stopped at the edge of the property
near the white cross. I got out with the
four children and we walked the short distance to the stone. Steven and Michael, the younger of the four,
asked what it said, and I read the inscription to them. The deceased was someone whom we had not
known. He was Scott Alan Brehm, and he lived
from March 22, 1971, to April 6, 1995.
Lower down, near the base of the cross, was inscribed “Forever Young.”
Standing
about four feet high and the only stone situated between two large pine trees,
this white cross was obviously well attended.
A circle of pine bark formed the base of a garden around it. Neatly arranged flowers of every color
surrounded it, and there were no weeds.
Looking toward the south, the white cross commanded a view of the entire
cemetery. A universally recognized
symbol of the Christian faith, it was easily visible from all quarters.
To
the right of and in line with the white cross but on the other side of one of
the pine trees stood a dark gray stone.
This marked the grave of someone we had known. Herman Guiterman, described as a “Beloved
Husband, Father, and Physician,” lived from April 2, 1938, to June 7,
1995. The founder of Nashua Pediatrics,
he had taken very good care of all our children. James and Karen remembered him well; Steven
and Michael less so. The sight of his
grave stone intrigued them. Like the
white cross, it stood near the top of the hill and beheld a view of the entire
cemetery. Also, atop the family name it
bore the Star of David, a universally recognized symbol of the Jewish faith.
The
home of these two graves, the Edgewood Cemetery, is an oasis of peace and quiet
in a busy and noisy city. Just outside
its front gate lies the traffic-saturated intersection of Broad and Amherst
Streets where the din of motor vehicles resounds all day and half the night. Inside the gate beneath the pines and poplars
this commotion seems very distant. On
the hill where the white cross stands the traffic jam is inaudible and, for
that matter, mostly invisible. Standing
on this hill and taking in the view, one feels spiritually at ease. The cemetery serves as a harbor of refuge
from the secular world, a place of faith, hope, rest, and quiet
contemplation. One can feel the thinness
of the veil that separates oneself from the deceased, and one can feel a
closeness to them. Since my first visit
with the children all those years ago, I’ve gotten in the habit of visiting the
Edgewood Cemetery a few times every summer.
I like it there.
On
another hill far away there stands another white cross. Overlooking the small seaport and village of
Twillingate on the north coast of Newfoundland, this towering white cross was
erected in 2003 by the Salvation Army as a monument to all the merchant seamen
and fishermen from Twillingate who had been lost at sea. From the cross’ base at the top of this high
hill, one enjoys a magnificent view of the village, the harbor, the open sea,
and the rugged countryside that rolls down from the sky to the waterfront. Not a typical seaside resort, Twillingate and
neighboring Crow Head are cold, foggy, overcast, and wet in the summer. Nonetheless, the natural beauty of a place
settled by man but not spoiled by him recommends it to anyone with a love of
the sea. The large hill where the tall white
cross stands is a spiritual harbor of refuge, an oasis of peace and quiet,
faith and hope, stillness and contemplation.
At the base of the hill to one side lies a small cemetery. Hidden from view from the street, it is
accessible only by a narrow dirt road. A
dirt trail leads up the hill to the white cross. As spiritual havens, these two spots
complement each other very well.
Not
an easy place to reach, Twillingate is very literally “far from the madding
crowd”[1] of
the commotion-saturated secular world.
From the white cross on the hill it seems that the very edge of the
Earth must be nearby. Indeed, as one
looks at the sea from this elevation, the thinness of the veil and the
closeness to the deceased become obvious.
We visited the white cross and the cemetery in Twillingate on Wednesday
and Thursday, June 23 and 24, 2004, while on a week-long family vacation in
Newfoundland. All of us felt the
presence of the Spirit there. Between
this pleasant sensation of spiritual repose and the magnificent views in all
directions, it was only with great reluctance that we came back down to the
village to get dinner.
Just
as Moses had come down from Mount Sinai only to face the problems of the
secular world, I expected that we would feel a similar letdown. But as all of Newfoundland is an island of
peacefulness geographically removed from the commotion of the secular
mainstream, we experienced no such disappointment. Instead, the sensation of spiritual repose
lingered with us, although less intensely than on the hill.
The
deceased, of course, do not share this concern.
They repose quietly in hallowed ground and in a spiritual realm. They never need to step down from the Mount
and experience reentry into the material world.
In praying for the dead, believers of nearly all denominations ask that
they be blessed with peace, rest, and light in the afterlife. We would like these gifts for ourselves, too,
for we know that this world is not always peaceful, restful, or bathed in
light. No matter how long we linger at
the white cross in Twillingate or at the white cross and the Star of David in
Nashua, we know that we must eventually return to secular society and leave the
peace, rest, and light of these hallowed grounds behind.
An
old Roman supplication for the dead expresses the heartfelt wish of the living for
them:
Eternal rest grant unto them, Oh
Lord, Requiem aeternam dona eis,
O Domine,
and let perpetual light shine upon
them. et lux perpetua luceat eis.
May they rest in peace. Amen. Requiescant
in pace. Amen.
These
beautiful verses also remind us that eventually we ourselves want to share in
these eternal blessings, that we want to join our brethren on the other side of
the veil. At the appropriate time we
will inevitably do this. Until then,
however, we may visit them in the places of their earthly abode, and on their
behalf perform the ordinance work in the House of the Lord.
There
are no white crosses on any of the temples, but a few of the older buildings
have suns, moons, and stars in their stonework to symbolize the heavenly
realms. From a navigational viewpoint
this is beautiful imagery, as a mate aboard ship would use the sun, the moon,
and numerous stars to fix his vessel’s position on the trackless sea. There are no Stars of David on the temples[2],
either, yet this is also an apt symbol as one Jewish scholar explains:
Through the Jewish people’s long and often difficult
history, we have
come to the realization that our only hope is to place our
trust in God.
The six points of the Star of David symbolize God’s rule
over the
universe in all six directions: north, south, east, west,
up, and down.[3]
On
many transoceanic voyages I navigated by the great celestial lights, and in
doing so I recognized “God’s rule” in every direction. From Polaris over the North Pole to the near-diametrically
opposite Southern Cross, every celestial body is both subject to and symbolic
of “God’s rule over the universe.” Infallible
as navigational aids, they form myriad parts of the immense universe. The seaman who follows them faithfully always
stays on course.
The
Southern Cross has long been one of my favorite constellations. Comprised of four stars and situated almost
but not quite over the South Pole, it appears very distinctly as a bright white
cross in the sky looking down upon the Earth.
If a single star can represent “God’s rule over the universe” for the
Jewish people, then how much more can four stars in a cruciform constellation
represent this for Christians? In this
celestial white cross, then, I see four Stars of David, symbolic both individually
and collectively of the Lord’s rule in all directions over all his creation,
and also symbolically combining the truths of both the Jewish and Christian
faiths.
It
is one of the terrible tragedies of history that these two great religious traditions,
both of which recognize a Prince of Peace and whose teachings seek after peace,
rest, and light, have all too often been mired in animosity and violence in
their relationship with each other. But
there is hope for the future.
The
Southern Cross shines down on the temples in one half of the Earth. Atop each temple stands a depiction of the
angel Moroni summoning the diverse peoples of the world to the House of their
Lord. At night this statue of Moroni is
bathed in a soft white light which produces an aura of peacefulness as people
gather and rest from their worldly labors. As these good people come to the temples and participate
in the ordinances for both themselves and their dead, the Southern Cross with
its four Stars of David shines down upon them, verifying, as it were, the
summons of Moroni to ensure permanently the blessings of peace, eternal rest,
and perpetual light for all of God’s children.
