Dearly Departed

4/8/2016

"Iowa Spring Mourning"  © H. Newberry

Given that life and death kinda go together, funerals happen.  We'd rather they didn't.  In fact, that particular summons is one we could happily do without.  Yet everyone - and I do mean everyone - will find themselves at one at some point.  Either as an attendee or the main headliner.  It's inevitable.  These gatherings dot our lives like - well, tombstones.

There's quite a bit of diversity available with which to throw our final party.  Excluding the most outlandish ones (in which someone was buried in a bulldozer or fired out of a canon) or the literal-'Tree-Hugging-GO-GREEN' ones (the beloved is crammed into a decomposable pod made of organically-raised mushroom fibers with an acorn cradled in their hands), I'm pretty sure I've covered the spectrum of what's out there.  Family ones, friend ones - and yes - even strangers.  Hillbilly ones.  Yuppie ones.  Inside.  Outside.  Internments and ashes.  I've cried at Taps and jumped when 21 guns saluted.  Bagpipes have wailed Amazing Grace and rock songs have been played one last time.  There have been speeches, letters, poems, biographies, videos and reminiscences.  Just about anything can be, and has been, brought out to set the tone.  Yet, with all that's possible in the celebration of a life ended, there's one (IMHO) toxic consistency everyone struggles to endure.

This week my city lost an amazing son.  Kind, funny, always there when you needed a lift, advice, or an extra set of hands, he was well-known and well-loved by nearly everyone in our town.  The spouse and I included.  So it was no surprise when we arrived at the funeral home to find every nook and cranny rapidly filling up.  Seated in a side room with a flat screen television and sound system, we watched as the tributes began.  No less than three pastors spoke, offering personal recollections of his benevolence, practical jokes and wild sense of humor.  I mean, in lue of choosing songs from a play list, the family opted for videos of him singing.  At his own funeral!  (How awesome is that!?)  People were sad, but comforted.  It was good, a celebration where even the most restrained individuals chuckled at one point or another.  And, more importantly, in the front row, his family smiled for what looked like the first time in days.

But then, (duh-duh-dun) the PREACHER happened.  HE began HIS 'tribute' to our dearly departed with the announcement that we were now HIS captive audience.  "And", HE bellowed defiantly (clenched fists and hard, challenging glare present and accounted for), "HE didn't PREACH quiet in church so HE wasn't gonna PREACH quiet here!"

And so began a 40-minute siege during which HE proceeded to completely turn the tide.  There was no more celebration.  No more healing.  No more comfort.  Hell, there wasn't even room for our city's beloved son.  Even grief wasn't allowed to linger in the corners.  It was God's party now and, apparently, Jehovah was pissed because blaring indictments of our unworthiness and impending, eternal damnation roared from the podium liberally accessorized with glowering, dire promises of our eminent demise.  The culmination of this one-man platform for conversion was a demand that we recite the 'Sinner's Prayer' - en masse.  (Actually, I was to find out later I was incorrect about the ending.  Apparently, after the prayer, the assault concluded with an invitation to seek HIM out after the service to join HIS church.)

The reason I was mistaken about the ending was because 25 minutes after HE lobbed the first volley we - the spouse and I - stepped outside.  We didn't want to.  We wanted to honor of our friend.  And we tried everything to cope.  Inner dialogue to calm feelings of alienation and outrage.  Reliving memories.  Meditations on peace and love.  Deep-breathing techniques.  When those didn't help I worked a rather nasty blister on my heel against the back of my shoe in the hopes the discomfort would distract me.  It did not.  In the end, we gave up, stood up and exited the building, heart-broken and hurting for his no longer smiling family.

Origin unknown

Unfortunately, this is not a new experience for me.  At my father's funeral, the PREACHER kept addressing him as Alvin (my father's name was William) and assured us if we didn't want to wind up in hell alongside him we'd better prostrate ourselves before the coffin and give our lives over to God. At my Aunt's, we were threatened with the same brain cancer which had killed her if we weren't 100% invested in the Southern Baptist Savior (which confused me because if God was killing non-Southern Baptists with brain cancer why was she dead?  After all, she was Southern Baptist.).  At the service of a teen, we were again tormented with our mortality, our only chance at avoiding a horrible death being spiritual salvation and church attendance.  Nearly twenty kids dropped to their knees sobbing before the casket and I had to hold onto his mother to keep her from screaming or walking out given that throughout the planning she had specifically and repeatedly begged not to have something like this happen.

I could go on, but I've laid enough ground.  So here (if you become a regular reader of Modern Prometheia, you will come to expect this) are my questions.  Why, in the name of All-Hallowed-Things, do we allow this to continue!?  At what point in history did we turn funerals into eternal damnation and conscripted salvation instead of celebrating the life and comforting the loss?  Who came up with the idea that scriptural, high-voltage condemnations of the human condition were in anyway conducive towards helping those who are grieving?  Or even encouraging them to turn to God for comfort?  Has it always been okay for PREACHERS to approach these events like a hard-driven, Vendor Expos for God, Christ and their Mother Church?  And if it has, is this exclusive to Christianity?  Or do other faiths do this?  Are the spouse and I the only ones who find this offensive?  Or are there others who sit, outraged?  Or miserable, damned and condemned?  Or don't go to funerals altogether just to avoid this very thing?  Do we all have similar horror stories tucked away in some steel-reinforced, memory vault because they did more damage than good in the moments we were so emotionally raw?

If you have an answer to any or all of these, please let me know.  Opinions and facts are welcome.  Memories and tales will be honored and appreciated.  Because I deeply suspect the spouse and I are not alone in this.

The only truly comforting funeral I've ever attended was for my mother, the most devout Christian I have ever known.  A joyous commemoration of her, which included her love for God, it was liberally seasoned with scriptures, hymns, prayers, yet also included her sense of humor, her love for people and her quirky personality.  The difference being it was presided over by a pastor.  Fortunately for my family, he was a man who had suffered just such an assault early in his ministry.  As we sat around the table telling him what we did and did not want for our mother's final tribute he shared with us the promise he made to God after his own experience.  To never lose sight of the fact that he was a shepherd, a minister, a pastor and his main charge was to offer love, guidance and comfort.  Instead of exploiting grief in an effort to get us to convert or reaffirm, he led us in a prayer that praised God for her birth, her life and for taking her to a place without pain and fear.

More than any other life event funerals have shown me a definite distinction between a pastor and a PREACHER and when you find yourself at a long, highly-polished table in the hushed, soothing atmosphere of your local funeral home, consider it.  Though it will be one of the most emotionally devastating times in your life, choose wisely.  Look for someone who understands the true charge of his or her office is not to batter already hurting souls into submission in an attempt to boost church membership.

I honestly believe the way you feel when you step out the door after a service is the first move towards recovering from the loss of your loved one.  Not an easy journey, by any means, but the burden shouldn't be exacerbated by a thoughtless, compassionless abuse of leadership.

"Funeral of a Viking" by Sir Francis Bernard Dicksee

As we get older - the spouse and I - and thoughts of our own last rites become more prominent, we leave each funeral with a determined look at our offspring.  "When it's my turn," one of us will say, "get a shaman in a loin-cloth and feathered headdress.  Or a bald-headed Buddhist who can't speak a word of English.  We'd even go for a skald in a winged helmet presiding over a flaming, Viking funeral.  But whatever you decide to do, if you see a PREACHER coming, nail the damn door shut and send everyone home!"