Farewell to Ickford

When Ickford, a long standing member of St James's congregation thought about his funeral he told his family he would really like a New Orleans-style jazz band - and so through the streets of Bermondsey today came Ickford's funeral procession to St James Church, headed up by a horse-drawn hearse, led by the Dixie jazz band, that had local people tapping their feet in time to the music, waving, and filming the joyful spectacle on their phones.

The band led us in and out of church, they played at the graveside, and they gave an impromptu street concert for the members of Age Concern Southwark - Ickford was a regular member of the day centre in Southwark Park Road - who came out to pay their respects to Ickford as the procession stopped there on its way to Camberwell Old Cemetery.

They made a fantastic sound, brilliantly capturing the mood of joy and solemnity that is at the heart of a truly Christian funeral service.

Ickford came to England from the West Indies in 1955 and as such was something of a pioneer, making that big move across the ocean, to a new nation where he was to marry, bring up his children, and live until the age of 87.

For me, it was an opportunity to enjoy and appreciate the distinctive funeral customs that those first migrants brought from the West Indies and, thank God, persist here. I first experienced them as a curate in West Norwood where we had many West Indian funerals, and it was good to be reminded of them today.

At a time when white middle class Christians seem increasingly to be hiding from death - renaming their funeral services 'thanksgiving services' and having that strange thing, a funeral without a body - Carribean funerals face up to the reality of death in the most striking way.

First, not only is the coffin present in church; it is open. Everyone files past, to view the deceased person and pay their respects.

Then at the graveside, after the commital, in a ceremony that never fails to move me deeply, the men closest to the deceased - if it is the death of a parent, the eldest son goes first - take off the jackets pick up shovels and slowly and carefully fill in the grave.

It takes a long time to fill in a grave by hand, but as the men work, the women sing hymns unaccompanied, filling the cemetery with the praise of God.

From my curacy, the song I always remember which seemed always to be sung, was Shall we gather by the river?, a  beautiful meditation on Revelation 22.1-2:

Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod,
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?

Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.

On the margin of the river,
Washing up its silver spray,
We will talk and worship ever,
All the happy golden day.

Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we every burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.

At the smiling of the river,
Mirror of the Savior’s face,
Saints, whom death will never sever,
Lift their songs of saving grace.

Soon we’ll reach the silver river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease;
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
With the melody of peace.

You can hear it here