funeral practices
Today while we were studying we ended up talking about
funeral practices. My rabbi recently did a funeral for
a member of an interfaith family, so there was also a
priest or minister there and this led to some things
my rabbi isn't used to, most notably the open casket
and the things said to comfort the mourners.
So he asked me how I feel about all that, given that my
background is different from his.
I think I've always felt weird about seeing bodies at funerals and viewings. I certainly feel weird about it now. But I did as a kid, too; I was raised to never go into someone else's bedroom when that person was sleeping, and this seemed even more an invasion than that. (The analogy for death was sleep.)
The first two funerals in my life were when I was 5 (in one case) and either 5 or 6 (in the other case). One was my aunt Mary, and her death was not unexpected. (Well, it came as a surprise to me, because no one had told me the reason she kept giving things away when we visited, but it was expected by the adults.) The other was my grandfather, who died without any warning at the age of 50. (Heart attack. No prior problems. Died in his sleep.)
Now, especially in the case of my grandfather, we heard a lot of things like "he's in a better place now" (with Jesus, with the angels, etc). Christianity has a lot of focus on the afterlife, so it makes sense that these ideas would be comforting, especially when someone dies young. The religion of my childhood taught me to look forward to the afterlife -- that this time on earth is just a passing thing, vastly inferior to what awaits if we're good. (Yes, I asked the obvious question early on: if you try to hurry things along to reach that goal sooner, you won't reach it at all.)
This sort of thing never comforted me, though. I guess I was, and am, too much of a here-and-now person; especially in the case of my grandfather, I was a greedy child who wanted him back now. I didn't believe he was in a better place, and even if he was, I wanted him to wait. Five-year-olds aren't very sophisticated, but there you have it.
As an adult, I find the theology foreign. We should live good lives, of course, but because doing so makes this world a better place. God gave us this world to care for and live in, after all. An afterlife, if it exists, is a bonus; this world is certain and that one is not. So when someone dies young it's not a comfort to think about the afterlife; rather, I think about all the things that person was doing or might have done in this world and how we're the lesser for his absence.
I don't believe that death is a punishment; people don't die because they were bad and God zapped them. (Well, I suppose it can happen, but it's not the usual case.) But death is not a reward, either; it just is.
Someday, I hope a long time from now, I'm going to have to face the funerals of my parents. I'll be told lots of things by well-meaning religious people that are supposed to comfort me and that won't; fortunately, I'll also have a community that has a different approach, one that seems to resonate more for me. I'm not sure there's anything else that will produce such a sharp division between what my relatives do and what I do.
I'm not sure all this babbling has a point, really, but I found myself thinking about it after our conversation, and I wanted to write something about it.
I think I've always felt weird about seeing bodies at funerals and viewings. I certainly feel weird about it now. But I did as a kid, too; I was raised to never go into someone else's bedroom when that person was sleeping, and this seemed even more an invasion than that. (The analogy for death was sleep.)
The first two funerals in my life were when I was 5 (in one case) and either 5 or 6 (in the other case). One was my aunt Mary, and her death was not unexpected. (Well, it came as a surprise to me, because no one had told me the reason she kept giving things away when we visited, but it was expected by the adults.) The other was my grandfather, who died without any warning at the age of 50. (Heart attack. No prior problems. Died in his sleep.)
Now, especially in the case of my grandfather, we heard a lot of things like "he's in a better place now" (with Jesus, with the angels, etc). Christianity has a lot of focus on the afterlife, so it makes sense that these ideas would be comforting, especially when someone dies young. The religion of my childhood taught me to look forward to the afterlife -- that this time on earth is just a passing thing, vastly inferior to what awaits if we're good. (Yes, I asked the obvious question early on: if you try to hurry things along to reach that goal sooner, you won't reach it at all.)
This sort of thing never comforted me, though. I guess I was, and am, too much of a here-and-now person; especially in the case of my grandfather, I was a greedy child who wanted him back now. I didn't believe he was in a better place, and even if he was, I wanted him to wait. Five-year-olds aren't very sophisticated, but there you have it.
As an adult, I find the theology foreign. We should live good lives, of course, but because doing so makes this world a better place. God gave us this world to care for and live in, after all. An afterlife, if it exists, is a bonus; this world is certain and that one is not. So when someone dies young it's not a comfort to think about the afterlife; rather, I think about all the things that person was doing or might have done in this world and how we're the lesser for his absence.
I don't believe that death is a punishment; people don't die because they were bad and God zapped them. (Well, I suppose it can happen, but it's not the usual case.) But death is not a reward, either; it just is.
Someday, I hope a long time from now, I'm going to have to face the funerals of my parents. I'll be told lots of things by well-meaning religious people that are supposed to comfort me and that won't; fortunately, I'll also have a community that has a different approach, one that seems to resonate more for me. I'm not sure there's anything else that will produce such a sharp division between what my relatives do and what I do.
I'm not sure all this babbling has a point, really, but I found myself thinking about it after our conversation, and I wanted to write something about it.