Reflections on a Memorial Service
I had the occasion to attend the memorial service for a young man who was tragically killed in a car accident. While it was in a church and presided over by two local pastors, it was in essence a secular service. Oh, there was an opening and closing prayer of indistinct liturgical and theological derivation, as well as a very poor congregational rendition of “On Eagle’s Wings.” But there was no scripture and no homily. All the speaking was from friends and family. While the reasons for this remain obscure to me, one of the pastors intimated that it they were trapped in some family politics and a negative memory in the town of another funeral for a high school student that was considered offensive because of strident fundamentalist sentiments expressed. Better no God than to offend the mourners. I feel sorry for the bind that the pastors were in and give thanks that I can always fall back on the Book of Common Prayer to offer Christian content.
My reason for noting here this service is not to complain about the de-Christianization of the liturgy, but rather to note a strange dynamic that emerged in numerous comments people made that afternoon. What happened several times was that people spoke a message from the deceased from beyond the grave. It was not “If John were here I think he would tell us….” Rather “John speaks to us and wants us to know….” It was more the language of séance than that of memory. And it was peculiar in its specificity. It was also couched in therapeutic language.
On the one hand, it was just downright creepy, and presumptuous. Yet it also suggested to me that at this critical moment in people’s lives we need more than words of love, support, and comfort. We need a message from beyond the horizon of this life to break through the hopelessness, especially when a young person dies. A word from outside needs to break through the pall.
That afternoon we longed for a word from outside, but as God had been banished we heard from John. Or rather, we heard from ourselves, and put it in the deceased’s mouth.
I bring this up because this should embolden us to speak the true word from beyond the horizon of death, that of our Lord. It is absolutely essential that the voice of Jesus is heard: “I am the resurrection and the life;” “I go and prepare a place for you;” “the sheep hear my voice;” “no one comes to the Father but by me.” Here is something solid and abiding: the Word spoken by one who died and lives again. One who has the authority to speak from beyond the horizon. Any words about the deceased only have meaning if spoken from within this gospel context.
I have never had any complaint about preaching on the death and resurrection of Jesus at a funeral, even when the one who died or those who grieve had a less than firm grasp on that truth. To use Kyle’s phrase, people want a God who raises the dead. A Christian funeral is the place where those other gods meet their match. The victory is won, and people are glad to hear it. No, they need to hear it.
But what of the offensive Christian funeral, the type of which so affected the family of the young man we mourned? While I wasn’t at the specific service the pastor referenced to me, I have been to others of that ilk. The problem lies not in the scandalous particularity of the gospel itself, but in making the death of the person a cautionary tale for others. The outline is simple: we have confidence that our loved one is with the Lord. Why? Not generally because God raised Jesus from the dead, but because the dead person accepted Jesus as his personal Lord and savior. And if we want to see him again, we had better do the same before our number is called.
The result of this sort of proclamation is a strange one. First, it has the effect of marginalizing the action of God. The focus is on the decision made by the deceased. Even if the preacher mentions that Christ died for the person’s sins (usually omitting the resurrection, by the way), the emphasis is upon the act of faith itself. To a good extent, the word from beyond the horizon is not offered, or if offered, it is obscured.
Secondly, even the deceased recedes into the background, since his life is rendered insignificant except for that one epiphenomenal moment, that blink of an eye, when he accepted Jesus. The result is rather Gnostic. A whole life is rendered inconsequential. The proclamation of the work of God in the passion and resurrection exalts the life of the one who has died as the story of an object of eternal love redeemed and sanctified in a way that utilizing the language of personal decision cannot.
Let us be bold to proclaim Christ at funerals. Let our “alleluias” for what God has done shake the rafters at the same time our tears flow like a river. Let us hear the word of promise calling out from beyond the horizon we both long to peer over and are terrified to approach.
My reason for noting here this service is not to complain about the de-Christianization of the liturgy, but rather to note a strange dynamic that emerged in numerous comments people made that afternoon. What happened several times was that people spoke a message from the deceased from beyond the grave. It was not “If John were here I think he would tell us….” Rather “John speaks to us and wants us to know….” It was more the language of séance than that of memory. And it was peculiar in its specificity. It was also couched in therapeutic language.
On the one hand, it was just downright creepy, and presumptuous. Yet it also suggested to me that at this critical moment in people’s lives we need more than words of love, support, and comfort. We need a message from beyond the horizon of this life to break through the hopelessness, especially when a young person dies. A word from outside needs to break through the pall.
That afternoon we longed for a word from outside, but as God had been banished we heard from John. Or rather, we heard from ourselves, and put it in the deceased’s mouth.
I bring this up because this should embolden us to speak the true word from beyond the horizon of death, that of our Lord. It is absolutely essential that the voice of Jesus is heard: “I am the resurrection and the life;” “I go and prepare a place for you;” “the sheep hear my voice;” “no one comes to the Father but by me.” Here is something solid and abiding: the Word spoken by one who died and lives again. One who has the authority to speak from beyond the horizon. Any words about the deceased only have meaning if spoken from within this gospel context.
I have never had any complaint about preaching on the death and resurrection of Jesus at a funeral, even when the one who died or those who grieve had a less than firm grasp on that truth. To use Kyle’s phrase, people want a God who raises the dead. A Christian funeral is the place where those other gods meet their match. The victory is won, and people are glad to hear it. No, they need to hear it.
But what of the offensive Christian funeral, the type of which so affected the family of the young man we mourned? While I wasn’t at the specific service the pastor referenced to me, I have been to others of that ilk. The problem lies not in the scandalous particularity of the gospel itself, but in making the death of the person a cautionary tale for others. The outline is simple: we have confidence that our loved one is with the Lord. Why? Not generally because God raised Jesus from the dead, but because the dead person accepted Jesus as his personal Lord and savior. And if we want to see him again, we had better do the same before our number is called.
The result of this sort of proclamation is a strange one. First, it has the effect of marginalizing the action of God. The focus is on the decision made by the deceased. Even if the preacher mentions that Christ died for the person’s sins (usually omitting the resurrection, by the way), the emphasis is upon the act of faith itself. To a good extent, the word from beyond the horizon is not offered, or if offered, it is obscured.
Secondly, even the deceased recedes into the background, since his life is rendered insignificant except for that one epiphenomenal moment, that blink of an eye, when he accepted Jesus. The result is rather Gnostic. A whole life is rendered inconsequential. The proclamation of the work of God in the passion and resurrection exalts the life of the one who has died as the story of an object of eternal love redeemed and sanctified in a way that utilizing the language of personal decision cannot.
Let us be bold to proclaim Christ at funerals. Let our “alleluias” for what God has done shake the rafters at the same time our tears flow like a river. Let us hear the word of promise calling out from beyond the horizon we both long to peer over and are terrified to approach.
Labels: funerals, gospel, resurrection
posted by peregrinator at 5:34 PM
2 Comments:
This is well said.
Interesting to read your thoughts. I find myself this week designing a memorial service for a ten year old girl. As I have been working with the text for a service booklet, I have been struck anew by the depth of confidence and joy of our Prayer Book rite. And I find it is the language of the Commendation that fills me the most (and brings me to tears to think of it): All we go down to the dust, yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
It is a proclamation I would give my life for, that I give my life over to. That some make it into a threat is beyond unfortunate. It is almost a blasphemy. And it sets itself a foil not only for all those who would condemn the Gospel as a threat and restriction, rather than as the greatest grace, peace, and joy, but those who would make it a carte blanche rather than a new covenant.
It has drawn me into the Lenten expectation in an entirely new way. Though I have always known that the Burial rite is an Easter liturgy, I never before appreciated how working with the text would so deeply prepare me for the Paschal Feast.
Then I move on to my next task. On the third day after the memorial...a Baptism.
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