I didn't know the guy. He was young by my standards--which means he was younger than I. He had three grown kids in their early twenties and a handful of grandchildren and a bad case of depression. He blew his brains out with a handgun. Two of his children discovered his body the following day.
They were not religious, this family, but for some reason the children decided their father needed Christian prayers said over his ashes. The funeral director called me.
We did the service in Fishtown--a working-class neighborhood in Philadelphia. Just a few blocks off the Delaware River, the streets are crowded, one-way alleys circling tenements built in the days of the horse and carriage. There's no place to park becasue every inch of curb is claimed by automobiles. And even though the hulks of run-down factories have been resurrected as loft apartments for trendy young stockbrokers and web designers, Fishtown still feels worn and old, choked and dirty.
The day is overcast.
Many young mourners are standing on the sidewalk in front of the old family-run funeral home as I arrive. They smoke cigarettes. Inside, the stubborn stench of stale tobacco, trapped on breath and fabric, continues to assault, giving the room the congested feel of a corner saloon.
Eulogies are already in progress, but the room is too crowded and restless. Young mommies have brought infants and toddlers with them--probably becasue no sitters are available or becasue the mommies themselves are too young to know that this is not a place or time for small children. There are hushed conversations on the periphery, interspersed with the squeals of this or that child.
This is a blue-collar funeral. Few of the young men are dressed in the sombre business attire I associate with such moments. Those who have attempted suit and tie find that the costume sits uncomfortably on their backs. They seem like little boys dressed in their fathers' clothes. Piercings and tattoos appear on women and men alike. These are hearty, heavy-set, boisterous people, suddenly hushed into silence by the weight of this tragedy.
The manner of the man's death is not to be spoken. We all know it, but we cannot say it. It hangs in the air around us like the stale cigarette smell.
I wonder what I can possibly say in this moment to these people. What do I know about how they feel? Who am I, a scrawny college boy raised in suburbs on the other side of the continent, to even try to speak to their grief?
But we begin. The buzzing whispers go silent, and a heaviness falls over the room as if a window shade has been lowered. These rough young people still have enough of their Irish ancestors' mystical nature left in them to make the sign of the cross. Grief has become holiness.
I read a prayer. I read a lesson. I try to explain that we turn to these ancient words in moments like this becasue we need to know what we feel has been felt by others down through the centuries--and it will be felt again. We need to know that we are not alone.
I choose a story from the eleventh chapter of John's gospel. A man, a friend of Jesus, is sick. His family sends for Jesus, but Jesus doesn't come. The man dies. When Jesus arrives at the funeral, the family accuses him:
"Lord...if you had been here..."
If.
It's the two-letter anthem of tragedy--If.
"If we had known how depressed our father (or brother or friend) really was..."
"If someone had only been there when he pulled that gun from the drawer..."
"If his doctors had read the signs!"
"If he'd only thought about what this would do to us...!"
"If I'd known that the last time I saw him would really be the last time...."
"If I could only see him again..."
And the "ifs" choke our brains. We think they help us make sense of this, but all they do is bring resentment or regret. The "ifs" are worthless.
"Jesus said to her, 'I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?' She said to him, 'Yes, Lord, I believe...'"
I ask the mourners, "So what do you believe?"
I tell them I believe the dead man was a good man. He was a loving father. He was a hard worker. There was skill in his hands and generosity in his heart. I believe they loved him. I believe he loved them.
And I believe we never say, "I love you" to anyone unless we have given them permission to break our hearts. I believe love and hurt are two sides of the same coin. If we want to rid ourselves of the hurt, we will forsake the love. I believe the love is worth the hurt. I believe God is love. And I believe God is here.
I tell them I believe the dead man is God's child, and that he is now with God. I tell them Jesus recognizes the holiness of their grief, for he too stood at the tomb of a loved one and shed tears.
I say another prayer, and I invite the grieving ones to speak the names of all the loved ones they've lost. They do. Dozens of names. A roll call of loss. There are years of saddness in this room today. I bless the ashes. I bless the mourners. "Thank you, Father," they say as I leave them.
I am arrogant about my ministry. I am honored the funeral director has called me to minister today. I do not want to risk having my God and Savior slandered by another. I don't want these good people told their loved one has committed a mortal sin in taking his own life. I don't want some zealot to pump them full of church doctrine or try to pray them all into heaven. And I don't want prayers read out of a book by someone who won't look the bereaved in the eyes.
I want them to know that Jesus wept.
They were not religious, this family, but for some reason the children decided their father needed Christian prayers said over his ashes. The funeral director called me.
We did the service in Fishtown--a working-class neighborhood in Philadelphia. Just a few blocks off the Delaware River, the streets are crowded, one-way alleys circling tenements built in the days of the horse and carriage. There's no place to park becasue every inch of curb is claimed by automobiles. And even though the hulks of run-down factories have been resurrected as loft apartments for trendy young stockbrokers and web designers, Fishtown still feels worn and old, choked and dirty.
The day is overcast.
Many young mourners are standing on the sidewalk in front of the old family-run funeral home as I arrive. They smoke cigarettes. Inside, the stubborn stench of stale tobacco, trapped on breath and fabric, continues to assault, giving the room the congested feel of a corner saloon.
Eulogies are already in progress, but the room is too crowded and restless. Young mommies have brought infants and toddlers with them--probably becasue no sitters are available or becasue the mommies themselves are too young to know that this is not a place or time for small children. There are hushed conversations on the periphery, interspersed with the squeals of this or that child.
This is a blue-collar funeral. Few of the young men are dressed in the sombre business attire I associate with such moments. Those who have attempted suit and tie find that the costume sits uncomfortably on their backs. They seem like little boys dressed in their fathers' clothes. Piercings and tattoos appear on women and men alike. These are hearty, heavy-set, boisterous people, suddenly hushed into silence by the weight of this tragedy.
The manner of the man's death is not to be spoken. We all know it, but we cannot say it. It hangs in the air around us like the stale cigarette smell.
I wonder what I can possibly say in this moment to these people. What do I know about how they feel? Who am I, a scrawny college boy raised in suburbs on the other side of the continent, to even try to speak to their grief?
But we begin. The buzzing whispers go silent, and a heaviness falls over the room as if a window shade has been lowered. These rough young people still have enough of their Irish ancestors' mystical nature left in them to make the sign of the cross. Grief has become holiness.
I read a prayer. I read a lesson. I try to explain that we turn to these ancient words in moments like this becasue we need to know what we feel has been felt by others down through the centuries--and it will be felt again. We need to know that we are not alone.
I choose a story from the eleventh chapter of John's gospel. A man, a friend of Jesus, is sick. His family sends for Jesus, but Jesus doesn't come. The man dies. When Jesus arrives at the funeral, the family accuses him:
"Lord...if you had been here..."
If.
It's the two-letter anthem of tragedy--If.
"If we had known how depressed our father (or brother or friend) really was..."
"If someone had only been there when he pulled that gun from the drawer..."
"If his doctors had read the signs!"
"If he'd only thought about what this would do to us...!"
"If I'd known that the last time I saw him would really be the last time...."
"If I could only see him again..."
And the "ifs" choke our brains. We think they help us make sense of this, but all they do is bring resentment or regret. The "ifs" are worthless.
"Jesus said to her, 'I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?' She said to him, 'Yes, Lord, I believe...'"
I ask the mourners, "So what do you believe?"
I tell them I believe the dead man was a good man. He was a loving father. He was a hard worker. There was skill in his hands and generosity in his heart. I believe they loved him. I believe he loved them.
And I believe we never say, "I love you" to anyone unless we have given them permission to break our hearts. I believe love and hurt are two sides of the same coin. If we want to rid ourselves of the hurt, we will forsake the love. I believe the love is worth the hurt. I believe God is love. And I believe God is here.
I tell them I believe the dead man is God's child, and that he is now with God. I tell them Jesus recognizes the holiness of their grief, for he too stood at the tomb of a loved one and shed tears.
I say another prayer, and I invite the grieving ones to speak the names of all the loved ones they've lost. They do. Dozens of names. A roll call of loss. There are years of saddness in this room today. I bless the ashes. I bless the mourners. "Thank you, Father," they say as I leave them.
I am arrogant about my ministry. I am honored the funeral director has called me to minister today. I do not want to risk having my God and Savior slandered by another. I don't want these good people told their loved one has committed a mortal sin in taking his own life. I don't want some zealot to pump them full of church doctrine or try to pray them all into heaven. And I don't want prayers read out of a book by someone who won't look the bereaved in the eyes.
I want them to know that Jesus wept.
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