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poliphiloThe humanist guy who'll be taking Bran's funeral took the funeral of my sister-in-law's neighbour last week. My bro-in-law didn't think he was solemn enough, but the widow thought he got it right.
What does one want from a funeral?
A reminder that we've all got it coming to us?
A dose of religious uplift?
A celebration of the life of the deceased?
Some combination of the above?
No, this isn't a quiz, but I'd be glad of your thoughts.
When I was a clergyman I prided myself on doing a good funeral. People usually congratulated me afterwards (but they would, wouldn't they?) Here's a (15 year old) poem I wrote looking back on those times..
TWO SERMONS
With time on my hands between two funerals,
Leaving the crematorium chapel,
I made a tour of the old graves.
Their ragged turf was covered with snow.
Blackened stones, the height of a woman,
They had the appearance of cowled figures.
It was a meeting of black robes
As I in my cassock moved down the rows,
Reading the names, the dates, the praise
That could have been uttered of anyone.
These made money in cotton, I thought,
And these kept shop. But try as I might
I couldn't conjure their living presence
For all my thoughts had a coal-face glitter.
I saw them stiff in their gothic houses
With puppet faces and black clothes
And the voices I gave them in my mind
Protested, "You will learn nothing here,
Patronising this underclass.
You deaden us with received ideas.
We were fickle in love, like you,
And insecure in our certainties;
How can you hope to account for us
Until you have thoroughly understood
How you are nothing? Don't bother to ask
The dead for truth. We are even less
Than any makeshift living thing.
As well interrogate drifting smoke
Or melting snow. And as for God..."
Their voices now were the rasp of the wind
On frozen snow; then they were cowls
Lined up as on a river bank
And lastly blackened stone. I turned.
This was before I ditched my love
In love's name, as Augustine did,
Saving myself; I wasn't ready
To hear their sermon. The hearse was coming.
Black tinder fell from the sky.
I wouldn't have noticed it but for the snow.
I had my own brief sermon to say.
What does one want from a funeral?
A reminder that we've all got it coming to us?
A dose of religious uplift?
A celebration of the life of the deceased?
Some combination of the above?
No, this isn't a quiz, but I'd be glad of your thoughts.
When I was a clergyman I prided myself on doing a good funeral. People usually congratulated me afterwards (but they would, wouldn't they?) Here's a (15 year old) poem I wrote looking back on those times..
TWO SERMONS
With time on my hands between two funerals,
Leaving the crematorium chapel,
I made a tour of the old graves.
Their ragged turf was covered with snow.
Blackened stones, the height of a woman,
They had the appearance of cowled figures.
It was a meeting of black robes
As I in my cassock moved down the rows,
Reading the names, the dates, the praise
That could have been uttered of anyone.
These made money in cotton, I thought,
And these kept shop. But try as I might
I couldn't conjure their living presence
For all my thoughts had a coal-face glitter.
I saw them stiff in their gothic houses
With puppet faces and black clothes
And the voices I gave them in my mind
Protested, "You will learn nothing here,
Patronising this underclass.
You deaden us with received ideas.
We were fickle in love, like you,
And insecure in our certainties;
How can you hope to account for us
Until you have thoroughly understood
How you are nothing? Don't bother to ask
The dead for truth. We are even less
Than any makeshift living thing.
As well interrogate drifting smoke
Or melting snow. And as for God..."
Their voices now were the rasp of the wind
On frozen snow; then they were cowls
Lined up as on a river bank
And lastly blackened stone. I turned.
This was before I ditched my love
In love's name, as Augustine did,
Saving myself; I wasn't ready
To hear their sermon. The hearse was coming.
Black tinder fell from the sky.
I wouldn't have noticed it but for the snow.
I had my own brief sermon to say.
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no subject
Date: 2005-05-17 03:13 am (UTC)When my mother died in 2003, I dreaded her memorial service. I knew that I would be surrounded by my brother, his family and extended family, and that this would offer me strength and support, but I still dreaded it.
What I wanted was to be alone with my memories of her.
The officiating priest actually met with my brother and me well before the memorial service, and asked us what we wanted. We wanted appropriate music (played by each of us and my eldest nephew), we wanted remembrance, and neither of us wanted to say anything...because we were sure that neither of us could actually speak without crying. So the priest "interviewed" us regarding our memories of our mother, heard those memories, and delivered his own eulogy (since we could not) that completely, and perfectly, captured her entire being. He did not even really know her that well; but the way in which he captured her essence, in words, that day, for everyone in attendance to hear, and remember, was perfect, and spoke volumes.
It was the remembrance of, and the celebration of, her life, and her person, that meant the most to me that day. And it was his eloquent and intuitive re-telling of her life, that I so appreciated that day.
He allowed us to be alone with our memories of her.
And from what I've read of you, you would have done the same thing.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-17 03:32 am (UTC)I always met the family beforehand and did my best to draw out their memories of the deceased.
I used to feel it was one of the more important things I had to do as a priest...
Today I'm on the other side. We're going down to Ruth's to meet the humanist guy who'll be taking the service. I'm nervous about it....