"How to Hijack a Funeral" -- by the Rev. Zachary Drennan

The Archbishop of Kenya, the Most Reverend Benjamin Zimby, came to Katakwa over the weekend for a visit. For the benefit of those blissfully uninitiated into Episcopal/Anglican Church politics, Zimby is a compelling and controversial figure. With Archbishop Akinola of Nigeria, he is at the forefront of the backlash against the Episcopal Church over issues of homosexuality and ‘orthodoxy’. He has made his presence felt in the U.S. by ordaining former Episcopal priests as Kenyan Bishops, all the while providing ‘pastoral oversight’ to over thirty U.S. congregations. Unlike a number of Bishops from Western Kenya, he refused to attend the recent Lambeth Conference, at which many of these issues were discussed and debated. I was a little unclear, even, how he would take to me, a missionary priest in good standing (mostly) with the Episcopal Church and a member of Calvary Parish in Pittsburgh, known for its staunch opposition to much of what Zimby has been up to lately. Bishop Zak’s (Katakwa’s Bishop) advice? “Just sit there and don’t say anything.” Well, he is my host.

Give the man his due: he powered through one heck of a day on Saturday. By my count, we visited six schools, three building sites – two of which were churches, one orphanage, and a medical center. The highlight, for me at least, came when we noticed the lead car in front of us taking an unexpected sharp turn onto an un-improved dirt road. The Archdeacon to my left remarked, “It looks like our program has changed.” “How so?” I replied. “I believe we are going to hijack a funeral.”

Now, how to you pass that up?

Sure enough, we crashed a funeral, a dang big one too. Dodging people and cars and motorcycles, we skidded into the compound of the bereaved to join the other 3,000 people present. Our entourage piled out, and we were escorted to the main tent under which a legion of clergy, evangelists, and choir members were already seated.

Now, for a bit on Kenyan funerals: Burials are always held on the deceased’s family compound. Large tents populate the open areas to keep people out of the equally devastating sun and rain. Though mourners will trickle in and out throughout the day, by tradition most visitors arrive around ten in the morning. This includes an abundance of clergy, who’s arrival signifies the official beginning of all Kenyan funerals. As with political rallies, an M.C. presides over the gathering, working his way through introductions and the list of family and friends chosen to speak. He is aided by both a choir and a keyboardist, whose amplifier, powered by the freshly charged car battery next to it, hums quietly to itself. Those called to speak get as much time as they wish and use it to introduce, by show of hands or rousing chorus, all the members of their particular clan. Given that many older Kenyans come from polygamous families and have enough children to field competing football teams, this can take a while. After no less than three hours of speeches, with the occasional interlude from the choir and keyboard, a close relative will give the ‘official’ eulogy, and the clergy will begin the funeral rite: Readings, singing, and (always) a word of encouragement. When the sermon concludes a long procession in which the coffin is carried to the grave site, usually in a corner of the same compound. Amidst prayers and songs, we lower the body into the grave and sanctify it with a final blessing. Afterward, somehow, enough food materializes to feed the entire crowd, which, as noted earlier, can number in the thousands. The family will remain and pray over the body, off and on, for the next few days, and visitors and family members who were not able to make it the day of the funeral will continue to drop by and visit.

We barged into this particular funeral right in the midst of the speeches. The Archbishop was immediately ceded the mic, and he gave a few words of consolation. Though I missed much of what is said (largely in the local vernacular), I was struck by how warm the ‘sharing’ was and how much laughter pervaded the ceremony. Certainly people were grieving, particularly over by the coffin where a small crowd was gathered. But I’ve learned that one of the primary coping mechanisms Kenyans employ in dealing with hardship is humor. It seems that best thing to do – perhaps the only thing to do - when confronted with the all-too-common tragedy is to gather in the company of loved ones and have a good chuckle. It is one of the traits that, to my foreign eyes, makes the Kenyan spirit so compelling and (I suspect) so durable in face of life’s seeming belligerence.

I’m hopeful that in time laughter will help heal other rifts as well. Zimby and I didn’t speak much to each other, but we did share a giggle or two. And while little was done to mend any of the broken fences in the Anglican Communion, I think we both found we could set aside our differences long enough to appreciate a good joke or two. It’s a start.