Funeral etiquette

The beautiful matriarch of a wonderful family I knew growing up passed last week. She had been struggling with cancer and, as a woman of faith, was ready to go. The services were held in the Catholic church in Brentwood where she had been a member all of her adult life. Her five grown children and two pews full of grandchildren testified to the great love she shared here on earth, even through horrific tragedy which seemed to shadow her throughout her life. I wore a black dress and closed toe shoes. Having been to any number of memorial services over the past decade, I’ve noticed that this is a dying tradition. People wear all sorts of bright colors, beachy prints, sandalled feet; and of course, no one even uses the term funeral anymore. We call them Memorials or Celebrations of Life. From a theological perspective the transition to heaven is, of course, a joyful occasion, but I still think there is something to be said for the days of sackcloth and ashes and looking Death in the eye. In black.

There were a good 500 people there on a Monday morning. The songleader asked us to open the hymnals and join her in the singing of Amazing Grace. I did. But as I sang—-which I do not do well (see post “Did I mention I can’t sing at all?”)—-I sensed a lack of fullness in the sanctuary. Looking up and around and across the wings of pews I was hard pressed to find a half dozen people who had even made the gesture to take the hymnal out, let alone sing along. Now I understand that people have different beliefs and I don’t think that anyone should be forced to sing something that’s against their conscience. But to not even open the book and hum, that just felt to me like bad manners. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s something else. But when you come to a church to honor a woman who loved Jesus and Mary and all the Saints and Angels, and are asked to sing a song that is so much a part of our culture as to almost qualify as a pop ballad, why would you just stand there and stare blankly? Maybe they didn’t know what a hymnal was, or didn’t want to look foolish searching through it for the right page. I get that. But I suspect this non-participation may be part of a larger cultural issue: a lack of recognition that we each have a small part to play in the whole. That without each one of our voices we cannot hope to reach the fullness God intended, not in our lives, not in the ears of the mourners that day who longed for a choir of angels to comfort them.

OK, so this was not a particularly religious group I’m thinking as everyone was seated, bringing the altar into full view. It was then I realized that there was bread and wine and plans for Holy Communion. This raised a whole other set of issues, ones that transcended etiquette and moved straight into the heart of theology. The Catholic Church does not believe in communing anyone but baptized and confirmed Catholics. I knew this because I regularly visit a Benedictine monastery where they remind us each Mass that “open communion continues to be their fervent prayer for the future.” Those of us who are some other kind of Christian are invited to come up for a blessing. I always do. Suddenly I found myself torn. If this group of mourners was so unaccustomed or resistant to the ways of the church that they couldn’t even open a hymnal, what on earth would they make of Communion. I started to worry that few would come up and that the fullness that one would want as a celebration of a life in Christ would not be there as a gift to the family. I considered my own plans. Would it be better for me to take communion, to set an example, to witness to Christ in this setting? To do so would not only violate the rules of the Catholic church—-which I could not claim in my heart not to know—-as well as the rules of my own church. Although we offer communion to all baptized Christians who seek the forgiveness that the Eucharist offers, there is a major difference in the interpretation of what the bread and the wine mean. And what it means to be part of a church Body. This is not a difference I have a lot of personal issues with but, as the president of my congregation, I’m always cognizant of how my actions might be interpreted or impact others.

These were the thoughts that preoccupied me as the scriptures were read and the Irish priest gave a homily and then slowly, methodically, began to prepare the table. The time for deliberation was over. I decided I would go up for a blessing, nothing more. This I knew I would not end up regretting. The other I wasn’t so sure about. The Father broke the bread and lifted it heavenward. I whispered to my mom and my sister, instructing them about what to do, how to cross their arms to indicate that they wanted a blessing.

The priest then did something I’ve never seen before in my life. He looked out over the packed church and said, somewhat flustered, as if there had been a heart attack at sea, “Do we have a Eucharistic Minister in the house?”

I am not sure how it was that he was just then realizing he could not commune all these people on his own; evidently they were understaffed, unprepared—who knows. I froze. I’m a Eucharistic Minister in my own church, but I was certain he didn’t mean me. He meant someone Catholic. He must mean someone Catholic I said to myself, to God, to whom I’m always tuning into for cues. Could it be that my internal conflict would be resolved in such a startling way? Suddenly, one pew over, a beautiful, elegant, bare-armed woman raised her hand. She had olive skin and my mind went instantly to thoughts of Hispanic, Italian, Portuguese—-all nationalities that tended to the Catholic. Oh good, I thought, relieved, but also maybe just a tiny bit disappointed that the moment had passed and the opening had not been for me.

She took the side that we were on, the dark-skinned woman with the sculpted brown arms. I bowed my head as I approached. She noticed my hands crossed over my chest, set the wafer back in the dish, placed her hand on my shoulder. Wished me every good thing in the name of Jesus Christ. The family smiled as I walked back to my seat. The line for communion went all the way out to the end of the aisle. Now I was really confused. The priest had said very specifically that the Eucharist was only for Catholics, that others could come for a blessing but who else would come up for a blessing but someone with some form of faith life? And if they had that, why couldn’t they sing? I watched as person after person took the bread and the wine, but what it meant to them, I couldn’t say. Did the act feel somehow less religious than letting the words “I once was lost, but now I’m found” pass over their lips?

I know there is a lot of confusion about Communion these days. A friend who teaches at a parochial preschool and has been sober for over a decade was with us at my church when my daughter Remy was confirmed. When the tray of wine cups was offered, I noticed that she shook it off. Later I let her know, in case she ever came back, that we had both wine and grape juice. “That’s what the white juice is,” I told her gently. “Oh, she said, “I thought we had a choice now, you know, chardonnay or cab.” She then told me she had taken the bread and just skipped the wine, a whole other form of missing the point.

The songleader closed the memorial service with one of my favorite hymns: Be Thou my Vision. The handful of us who endeavored to sing it did what we could to fill the space. There was a wonderful video presentation—so many photos, so many memories—and then we were off, back to our days, our lives. I didn’t plan to attend the reception. I had my Ethics class to get to, homework to do, chinchilla food to buy on the way home.

I saw her in the parking lot, the beautiful woman who had so graciously offered to serve. “Thank you for helping out,” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder. “That was sort of strange how it came about, wasn’t it?”

“I know, right,” she said. “I would have thought they’d have a team here.”

“I know. I’m a Eucharistic Minister at my own church, but I’m not Catholic.”

“Me neither. Presbyterian.”

“And you went up there?” I said smiling in disbelief, wondering if it was courage or a less exacting nature that had led her to do what I could not.

“Well, he needed someone to do it,” she said as we shared a wide-eyed laugh. “He would have shit if he knew I wasn’t Catholic.”

“Yes he would have,” I smiled, brows raised.

So there you have it. No one knows quite what to do at a funeral anymore, not even those of us who give our lives to the church. So we search our hearts and make our choices and, in the end, trust that God is looking down on us and smiling.

Everyday aches & pains

Last week I had one of those bugs that didn’t fall neatly into a category. I wasn’t coughing or sneezing or throwing up. I didn’t have a fever. But I had body aches and a tension headache that made it hard to imagine that life would ever again be a source of comfort and joy. I tend to get dramatic when I don’t feel well. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to pepper my fretting with the worry over age, and if these aches and pains might be part of some new permanent state——the beginning of the end. Maybe I’m developing arthritis. Maybe this is what menopause feels like. Maybe the energy that has helped define my personality for so many years is retreating and in its stead this crotchety new spirit. Usually warm weather energizes me, but even our late fall burst of Indian Summer in L.A. this week didn’t help. On Wednesday I went for a swim and found I could barely force myself to dog paddle for 20 minutes.

And then it happened. Yesterday, sometime around noon, I looked up and realized that my head didn’t really hurt anymore. And my body had begun to feel fluid and alive again. All the work that had seemed too much to fathom only a day or two before——for school, for a freelance client, for church——was suddenly like lint on a sweater; pluck in off and keep on going.I put on my suit and returned to my mom’s house to see if another try at a swim would be more productive. It was heavenly. The air was still in the 80s as the sun began to set and I lay on my back, kicking, feeling the muscles in my thighs asserting themselves, reclaiming their power. Life was good. The air was soft and warm. And I could feel in my limbs and in my spirit that I would be blessed with this health and energy for many years to come. Or at least until the next little bug or allergy or hormonal shift travels through my system and I forget all over again.

Why is it so hard to remember that our lives are a constant cycle of death and new life. Of stress and relief. Of creation, redemption, and renewal. The Psalms offer me the small consolation that I am no more or less kvetchy and demanding and pitiful than man has been since the dawn of time. And owning up to that actually helps. Next time you’re feeling rotten and just a little bit sorry for yourself you might want to spend a little time with, say, Psalm 6.

Here, I’ll get you started….

Lord, do not reprove me in your anger;
punish me not, in your rage
Have mercy on me, Lord, I have no strength;
Lord, heal me, my body is racked;
my soul is racked with pain.

But you, O Lord…..how long?
Return, Lord, rescue my soul.
Save me in your merciful love…..

Real and present danger

A few summers ago, when my son Graham was interning at a local newspaper, he began subscribing to the police scanner newsfeeds to track developing stories. I thought it was kind of creepy. From time to time he’d send me updates about shootings near our house; nothing stops the rhythm of the day like the knowledge of violent death within your own pasture. When I joined Twitter, he wanted me to subscribe to @Venice311, our area feed for up-to-the-minute crime reporting. I told him I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want my head filled with all that noise and negativity. Still, every time I heard the helicopters circling—-and there have been a lot of late—-I would text him. “What’s happening?” And sure enough, he could check and tell me who and what and where— how close— and I began to find comfort in knowing, enough so that I finally subscribed myself.

My newsfeed is a strange and burgeoning mix of heaven and earth. Tweet after tweet will remind me of the promises of God, of grace, of mercy, of the best ways for writers to connect with an audience, of the latest in science, the arts, education, the economy. And then, just when my eyes have begun to gloss over with a sense of problems too big or promises too distant, there it is: Venice311. A Break-in in progress two blocks from my house. A teenager shot dead on the road I travel to church. A troubled soul raging incoherently, needing restraint, bleeding. And suddenly all the other news seems smaller somehow, overshadowed by the sure knowledge of immediate danger and suffering.

A wise soul once said we should begin every day by reminding ourselves that we will die. That sort of clarity really helps in reworking the ol’ to-do list. I like my lists for the most part. My weakness would be in the evening hours when I’ve crossed everything off and am content to curl up with a glass of red wine and The Good Wife or the Mentalist or back-to-back-to-back Netflix episodes of Friday Night Lights. I can be a little lazy that way. Now, each time I see one of these alerts I am reminded that it could be me and if it was——if someone were to break into my home and hold me at gunpoint as I wrote these words——would the things I had spent the day doing represented the life I had hoped to lead. Did I plan to become more disciplined? More attentive to the poor or the environment? Did I hope to be a better wife, a better mother? Did the things I gave my life to represent my best shot at using the gifts God gave me?

An hour ago the newsfeed reported that a neighbor I never met just died. Don’t know who or how or what they believed about where they might be going from here. Family members will likely say Heaven, because we all tend to say that—-believers and non-believers alike. It sounds nice. It helps soften the blow. But if the claim of heaven hasn’t had any foundation in the life of the departed, it’s ultimately very confusing to children, this sudden wrapping things up in a celestial bow. I had a difficult conversation about this once with a 9-year girl I know well. She knew that neither her parents or her grandparents believed in the things she was coming to believe at her little Lutheran elementary school. Still, when the grandparents died the parents were quick to say that they had gone to Heaven. One day, she asked me if I thought that was true. If I thought that people who didn’t believe in Heaven would get to go there anyway. We were in a large group of people and the room suddenly got very quiet. I told her I didn’t know why people who didn’t believe in Heaven would want to go there. Do you think they would?

A helicopter is beginning to circle outside, part of the new soundtrack of prolonged unemployment in California. I don’t know who is in jeopardy at this moment, but I do know that they— and you and I— will one day die. Knowing that, I lift up the words of the psalmist, “Teach us to number our days so that we may recognize how few they are; help us to spend them as we should.” (Psalm 90:12)

Listen

We hear this word a lot. We don’t heed its call much, but we sure hear it— probably because we do it so poorly. I think we’re bad at listening because we live in a culture where a standard news or talk show format features four people talking over each other from a list of scripted points and calling that dialogue. The fact that these panels are made up of people with diverse opinions is supposed to give us the richness of learning from the other, but learning can’t happen when our mouths are open. Learning comes from listening. And frequently from hearing things that do no corroborate our own points of view.

The other day I was reading my newsfeed on Twitter. This Twitter stuff is all new to me and I’m just beginning to enjoy the gift of having access to the daily thoughts of some really great thinkers. Rick Warren, for example. I’ve never read his books but have read enough about him and the great work he’s done out of Saddleback Church to be a fan. The other day he had two tweets about listening.

“Novice pastors overvalue speaking skills. Veteran pastors know listening skills are just as vital to the growth of souls.” and “Great leaders are great listeners,refraining from assumptions & snap judgments.They also listen for what’s NOT being said.”

When we talk about listening, we’re not talking about times when someone’s telling a great story, or explaining something that’s of interest: we’re all fairly attentive listeners then. Even in the case of suffering, most of us are able to lend an ear to someone who needs to share their burden—- as long as they’re not saying we’re the cause of it, and as long as they get over it in what we deem a reasonable amount of time. No, the challenge in listening comes when the stakes are high, when the subject is not easy, when the outcome of the conversation is unclear. Or when our head is so full of our own needs, tasks and challenges— and when isn’t it?— that we can’t imagine making room for someone else’s. This is where we’re tested and most often fail. I think it’s because real listening requires us to put ourselves on hold. Just that. To take ourselves right out of the equation while we allow for the thoughts of another person, which may contradict— or even threaten— our own. Good listening means endeavoring to control the synapses in our brains so that we don’t process information in a kneejerk way, but hear the words in the way the speaker intends them, even if that person is not a good communicator. Maybe hardest of all, thoughtful listening means not interrupting, even when you have a really good point to make that you’ll likely forget if you don’t say it right this very minute. In terms of exertion, listening might well qualify as an Olympic sport.

I’m working on being a better listener. As with most things, the more you work at it, the more you’re aware of your own shortcomings. Another tweeter wrote this week that to talk more than you listen is to reveal your own insecurities. I think that may be true. But it’s tricky when what you do for a living— when what you feel called to do in life— is to use words and ideas, both printed and spoken, to communicate a message. In person, at least, I’m trying to use fewer. I have two great role models for this, both of them dead. But their words live on, ideas expressed in ways that were clear and succinct enough to transcend the ages and could easily feel at home in the Twittersphere:

“Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words,” St. Francis of Assisi said. It feels like a paraphrase of what the Gospel-writer John said a thousand years before. “I must decrease so that He can increase” (John 3:30).

Listen.

Ban the backyard

There is a common myth in America that what a happy family needs most is a Big Backyard. (This is similar to the myth that happiness increases in direct proportion to square footage, but that’s a post for another time). Those who do not live in homes at all, or live in homes with little or no yard, envision the big American backyard as some idyllic paradise where romping and ball tossing and having friends over for the annual margaritafest will elevate ordinary familial relationships to a level of almost scripted delight. This is not only not true, but is the opposite of true: Backyards do not breed happiness. They breed isolation.

Ask any kid where he wants to play and he’ll pick the front yard. Why? Cause other kids are there, or might be soon if he starts riding or skating or drawing on the sidewalk with chalk. And once the kids come out to play, the parents are likely to follow. Parents who would otherwise be sitting alone watching their only child on a jungle gym big enough for a class of preschoolers now find, in the front yard, companionship. I have experienced this firsthand in two totally different neighborhoods. The first was a busy little cut-thru street near the Venice canals. We had our son Graham there and Lon and I spent a lot of time walking him up and down the street. We got to know all our neighbors. We enjoyed the company. They seemed to, as well, developing an easy routine of grabbing lawn chairs and plopping down in our patch of sidewalk where Graham shot hoops in his Little Tikes basket. There was a matriarch on the street who organized potluck b-b-ques on all the summer holidays—— and always on her front lawn. A Japanese tourist came across our gathering one 4th of July, and for the next five years, returned as a member of “the family,” setting up his tripod and capturing our growing group of neighbors and friends.

It might be easy to write off our years of joy on Beach Avenue as an anomaly had it not been for our new neighborhood family here on our cul-de-sac. We’ve lived her almost 15 years now and have watched as something quite remarkable has transpired: neighbors who actually know and love and care about each other, who watch each others’ kids, who share each others’ leftovers, who “rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15). Every single day, we practice the art of loving our neighbor as we love ourselves, not because we’re saints— far from it— but because we’re human. And human beings need community a lot more than we need privacy.

Community takes place out front. Where the people are. Where the life is. Where those who rise up weary from their laptops or their fussy infant’s crib can find a friendly face and a break from isolation. So pull up a chair. Better yet, pull up a half dozen. And let the miracle of community begin.