I went to a funeral yesterday. My wife's grandmother, a dear woman who'd lived a good long life, died on Easter morning last weekend. Because she'd lived so long and had recently been battling heart problems, the funeral wasn't as painful as they can be - like when a person dies young before they've had a chance to work through life's questions or when there are too many conflicting feelings about whether we'll miss someone or are glad they're gone or both. This funeral was pretty easy.
I mentally prepare myself for funerals, weddings, and the other life passage events. I expected some tears from the people around me who'd known my grandmother-in-law longer than me, and from people who have a harder time with death. She was Baptist, so I sort of expected a good spiritual song and a good "come to Jesus" sermonette, and maybe some fried chicken and potato salad afterward, because I'd grown up in that denomination and had been to quite a few funerals.
I was a bit curious about the "loved one's reminiscences" section of the service because it was to be given by my wife's aunt, who has a well earned reputation for being a bit flamboyant and dramatic, but it was actually quite sedate. (Though there was little doubt that her account of the family history had been sanitized a bit, as always seems to happen at these things). But the thing that still sits uneasy with me is the sermonette – given by the pastoral care minister from her church.
I often wonder what it’s like to be someone who grew up outside the southern Christian upbringing I experienced as a child. I wonder whether the “church words” I take for granted sound strange or unfamiliar or carry a different meaning for people who had a different experience. In that world I learned that being “saved” (rescued from my own attempts to be God and control my life) was kind of like fire insurance for your soul. I also learned that despite being saved, it was the church’ opinion that I was bound to struggle mightily not to fall prey to my earthly shortcomings, because being saved was all about the future life, not the one I live until I die. Because of this, I was to do my best right now, be painfully remorseful when I couldn’t measure up, but be resigned to a life of trying to do better until I pass on.
The sermonette was like that. The pastor, whom I took to be a very sincere and kind person, repeatedly reminded us that the deceased was saved and had lived a very good life. Due to those things, IF we also shared her saved state (The big IF, that one, and possibly the reason for his whole talk), then we could count on seeing her in the hereafter upon her own passing. Therefore, we should all be happy and encouraged.
I learned a long time ago that funerals are always for those left behind, to somehow help us find meaning and significance in our own lives and help us ease through the grieving process. But I felt myself squirm in light of the notion that the ultimate meaning in this person’s life and ours was to be found in being reunited at the cessation of my own life. It just sounded like a promise of deferred gratification that I didn’t necessarily want.
What about now? Why do I have to wait until my own death to experience meaning? Is some heavenly, angelic, reunion party the best this guy had to offer? Do I have to struggle through life grasping for some rationalized reason for it all until I part the veil and I can face God and ask him what it was all about? I don’t buy it. I wanted to hear that preacher say “pursue God now because it makes a difference now” and then tell us what that difference looks like.
When Jesus walked the earth he said “I’ve come so that you can have life”, not “I’ve come so that you can have life in the life after this one”. Although it’s a bit outrageous to say it, I don’t want more life when I’ve hit the great exit door after the story ends and the credits are rolling. I want it now. So I guess I wanted to hear from that preacher how that woman’s existence had more life because she loved and pursued God, and what kind of difference it made.
I think that when I die I want people to stand around talking about how I had more life while I was living because God was a part of it. The hereafter stuff won’t really matter because everybody I leave behind will still have to get up and go to work or school or whatever they do to fill their days – they won’t be in on the wrap party yet. I want them to talk about what a great story my life was. Then, just maybe, they’ll wonder about the sequel.
