After Helene, Appalachia feels different.
I am more aware of how precious life is and grateful to have spent time in Erwin, Tennessee, helping my friends and neighbors impacted by the disaster. I have seen God move in profound ways.
I have witnessed an Acts 2, “they had all things in common” sort of movement in the lives of faithful people. I’ve been honored to use my Spanish and counseling skills with people from the Spanish-speaking community. Still, there is a feeling of significant loss.
We see helicopters using schools as landing pads, people walking into shelters with nothing, and anguished cries of loved ones who will never again, in this life, embrace someone taken by the water. We need a funeral and not just for Helene’s devastation.
Our land is being sold off to developers who have no affection for the place, no sense of the people, and no willingness to keep profit and wealth in the community. This isn’t a new story.
I’d be remiss not to mention the Cherokee and others who first lived on and cared for these Appalachian hills, the name of which comes from their language. But the problem is that gentrification in Appalachia, like gentrification and colonialism everywhere and across time, is a story of dispossession and degradation.
The rich become richer and money, not neighbor, is what is loved. There is no greater evil (1 Tim 6:10).
I see kids born in an opioid pandemic making its way into schools without adequate resources and assistance to flourish. I see people giving their best and praying their hardest, yet still floating between relapse and recovery in a cycle of struggle.
I see a culture where politicians and fear make people who should be self-reliant and winsome, locally focused and neighborly, instead look to government or media personalities to save them. I see a media culture that interprets “hillbilly” as backward, incestuous, violent, ignorant and hopeless.
That is not a coincidence. Dehumanizing a population makes it easier to come in and steal the land, tear down mountains and poison streams–and not have anyone on the outside think twice about it.
Much is being lost. So yes, we need a funeral.
We need a eulogy. A “eulogy” literally means “good word.”
It’s the last word spoken for the dead. It’s what happens after receiving friends and perhaps a song or two, when someone gets up to try and tell the congregation who the deceased was– not what they did for a living or who they were related to, but who they were, how they lived. It’s not unlike an elegy in that it reflects on death, but it’s also the opposite.
An elegy reflects on the loss and laments it. An elegy focuses on the past and just sits in its pain. An elegy keeps someone stuck in nostalgia. An elegy must hurt.
But I can’t stay looking backward for too long!
A eulogy, on the other hand, offers truth-telling and inspires all those who listen to live out the rest of their own days in a better way inspired by the deceased.
As the pastor in my family (and probably because I’m the most willing to speak in public, more than any spiritual maturity or preparation), I have had the honor of preaching at the services of my grandparents. They have all been my mentors, confidants, tireless supporters and witnesses to God’s love. They’ve been grace in living color.
I’m lucky that all four of my grandparents were also my friends. My name, “JD,” symbolizes this.
James is the name shared with my Pepaw. Douglas is the name shared with my Pop. I am who I am because of my grandparents.
The task of offering a “good word” at their funerals was daunting, but one I felt prepared for. I knew them. I loved them.
Speaking of a life is difficult when you grieve that life, but the grief also helps you recognize the value of the deceased. My Pop, quoting someone I honestly can’t remember, would frequently say, “A tree is best measured laying on the ground.”
That has been true in my grief.
When the loss was fresh, that ache, longing and gratitude clarified for me just how important my grandparents were. It confirmed that I am who I am because of them, and it made me grateful to God for such a gift, even if it’s gone.
It also made me steely-eyed and stubborn.
I began to say to myself, even subconsciously at first, that I was unwilling to live in a world without Emily’s warmth, Willie Jean’s hard work or Jim’s gentle way. I refuse, as my Pop fades with dementia, to live in a world without his gregariousness and personable wit.
I refuse to live in a world without them, even if it means I must become more like them for them to be in it. I wonder if the disciples felt this sort of way when Jesus died or ascended into heaven.
That is true for us in the aftermath of Helene. Our losses are fresh. And our tears flow easily.
But there is a steel-eyed determination in our people. We are ready to grieve, but not to be perpetually looking back.
We need a eulogy, a good word to speak over our places and people that calls us into a new and better life today.
Hillbilly, to me, is indeed a “good word.” When I hear it, I think of people willing to think for themselves.
My Memaw got herself in “good trouble” all the time by standing up to bullies and calling out any pastor, politician or businessman who mistreated someone else.
I hear “hillbilly,” and I think of my dad and Uncle David taking care of their ailing father and managing to keep good-humored, even with the agony of his decline.
I hear it, and I think about my Nana’s sage wisdom, told in the most winsome ways.
When I hear it, I remember my great great uncle John, who cried like a baby when his wife of 50 years passed away, not apologizing for a single tear.
I think of “hillbilly” and remember all the people who introduced me to Jesus and helped me fall in love with his bride, the church, warts and all.
I hear the word and know the familias and kinfolk working every day to feed people, to dig out, to keep their heads up, and to see heaven come to earth.
The good words for Appalachia are reflective and witty, strong and selfless, thrifty and generous, connected to the land, family-focused and neighborly to all. But our life is at risk.
Our culture is dying. The world continues to change, and I wonder if we’re not already at the wake.
Even if we are, I have staked my life on death and resurrection. That comforts and empowers me in my grief over the loss of my loved ones, as well as my place and culture.
There are powers that attempt to dispossess Appalachians, to misrepresent “hillbilly,” to twist the faithful witness of our Lord into a narrow and simple ideology of control and power. To all that, I can say, with love in my heart, this is not the time to grieve like those without hope.
This is a time to acknowledge who we have been — the good, the bad, and the ugly — so that we can fully embrace the grace of resurrection. In doing so, we can transform ourselves, our communities, and our region into a place of Spirit and truth, bringing heaven to earth.
This transformation will touch every part of our lives— our social structures, family dynamics, daily habits, and worship— fitting us to reflect the beauty and grandeur of the mountains that ground and inspire us.
Pay attention.
Look alive.
There are good words that need to be spoken before we permanently lose who we are and the promise of what we can be.
The God of the living is near. Let’s speak a good word over our losses and then get to work creating a better Appalachia.
Associate Pastor of Children, Youth, and Families at Park Road Baptist Church, Charlotte, North Carolina
