Chapter 45 Funerals

Mr. Dennis, the head elder of the Huntington Church, was my first funeral. It was bittersweet. He had lived well. He was widely respected. The funeral marked the end of a well-lived life. I was not yet old enough to think of a funeral as a celebration, but conducting Mr. Dennis' funeral was not difficult. Kind words about his past came easily and words of hope and confidence regarding his eternal future were perfectly congruent with Christian faith and the expectations of his family and friends inside and outside the church. The only real concern was what was going to happen to his wife and one of her sisters. His wife had severe dementia and his sister-in-law was not capable of taking care of herself. But for the purposes of the service, we could ignore those practical concerns.

Not all the funerals in those early years were so easy. During my second year at Babylon, I got a phone call on a Friday afternoon from a funeral director I had worked with.
“Pastor McLarty, I have a family coming in who needs a minister. I was wondering if you would be willing to help us out. The service will be tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.”
“Ordinarily, course, I couldn’t. We have our services tomorrow, but I have a guest speaker scheduled. So I can make it.” (I remembered the counsel of some seminary professor, I don’t remember who. He said, “Death trumps all. No matter what else you’re involved in, when there’s a death, that’s your first priority.”)
“I would really appreciate it if you could,” the funeral director said. “It’s a real tragedy. They are a Spanish family, from Guatemala originally. They had a house fire. The grandad and two little girls died. They don’t have any church connection here, but they need a minister for their service.”
“Is any chance I could meet the family before I do the service?”
“They’re going to be here at the funeral home about four this afternoon.”
"I'll be there."


When I met with the family I didn't say much. Most of the family spoke English but what is there to say when a family has lost their babies and their grandfather? The next morning I left my church at 10:30. The funeral home parking lot was overflowing. Inside the room was packed. Finally, it was time for me to speak. What to say?
I supposed my job was to voice confidence in God's love and hope of eternal life through Jesus Christ. But what about the grief and chaos of now? In the face of this family's staggering loss, how could I affirm God’s goodness and speak sweetly of a blessed future without sounding heartless were stupid? I played in my mind scenes of fat, old, rich clergy I’d seen in movies.
I have no memory of what I actually did manage to say ,but I have never forgotten the terror of being expected to say something appropriate when there seemed to be no words available that would not add to the pain and confusion.

Then there was Himmel funeral. Mrs. Himmel, the primary organist for the Babylon Church, had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Surgery and radiation provided relief for a year or two, but now the tumor was back. She was in Sloan-Kettering in Manhattan and not expected to come home. She looked terrible. Her hair was gone from chemo, face puffy from the side effects of medication.
Her husband was not a member of the church. He was famous for his rages and general obnoxiousness. Their two sons were deeply alienated from him, but Mom was dying, so the family gathered. The oldest son, Heinrich, came home from the Marines on emergency leave. That evening after they got back to the house from the hospital, Dad and son had a furious, cussing, shouting fight. The son stormed out, climbed on his motorcycle and roared off. He came back home some time after two, after the bar closed. His dad heard him come in and go to his room. The son must have gone to bed and had a last cigarette before going to sleep.
The fire damage was confined mostly to the bedroom. Dad and an uncle who was staying at the house suffered burns and smoke inhalation. They were hospitalized for a couple of days. Heinrich died. He never got out of bed.
Again the funeral home was packed. Mrs. Himmel was there, propped up in a wheel chair, looking awful. Her husband was there with his burns. From the way he talked, it seemed he was proud of his burns. I thought he needed them as evidence of his devotion to his son–see, I risked my life to try to save him. I really did my very best. His bandages were marks of a penance he hoped would atone for that last fight with his son.
I must have said something. After all I was the officiating minister. But all I can remember is my overwhelming awareness of the futility of words. Should I talk about forgiveness or about taking fresh resolve to be careful with our words? To say much about faith would be a mockery. The only evident faith in the family was Mother’s faith. And that had never been very confident.
How do I speak of God in the real world, without mocking either God or the people who live here? We need hope and meaning. It is a hunger written in the very core of our existence as humans. It is the job of the church to be a place where people can renew their hope and find strength to affirm there is purpose and meaning in our lives. But sometimes putting this into words appears either blasphemous or rudely naive.

Then Lori Gambino called. She could barely talk. Through her stumbling, hesitating speech I got the message: her son was dead. Eighteen years old. Suicide. He hung himself in the basement. There was going to be a funeral on Wednesday evening. Their priest doing the service. She didn't want to offend, but wasn't possible I could do something, too? Maybe in the afternoon when the family was going to gather for the viewing?
Lori was a recent convert to Adventism. Her entire family was Catholic, of course. They had to have a service with the priest. I was not offended.
Wednesday afternoon I conducted a service for a small group of Lori's friends from church and close family members. I quoted Jesus words about his friend Lazarus who had died, “He is sleeping.” Louis, Lori's son, must have been in horrific pain. He committed suicide because he saw no way out, no possible relief. The pain had become unendurable. Now he was sleeping. He was resting. He was not hurting any longer.
We bore the cost of his decision. We were now grieving. But we could take some small solace in Jesus’ assurance that Louis was sleeping. He was not in torment. He was resting. And we could leave his future in the hands of a God who loved him so much he died for him.
That evening I attended the funeral. The priest was gracious. He spoke explicitly about the suicide then talked about reasons for hope. Louis had been baptized. He had made his first communion. Through the years he had participated in church, had gone to confession and received holy communion. He had the saints to pray for him, the goodwill and prayers of the church, his mother’s love which mirrored the Blessed Mother’s love. So while his life ended tragically, we could find hope in all the resources of grace God had placed in his church.
I admired the pastoral concern the priest exhibited. He did what a pastor is supposed to do–mine the spiritual resources of his community for treasures of hope in the darkness. I was glad I was not saddled with the theology of his community. I was glad I did not have to imagine some phantom interaction with the church that could serve as a basis for salvation. Based on my Adventist understanding of the judgment, I pictured God examining the totality of a person’s life, looking for evidence of faith. God's ability to save was not limited to the resources available through his church. Then there was our prophet’s famous statement that one’s eternal destiny was not determined by the occasional deed or misdeed, but by the trend of the life. And obviously suicide could not be a trend in someone's life. But whether I was Adventist pastor working with our theology or a Roman Catholic priest working with his theology, pastoral role was the same. Finding hope in the darkness, giving voice to meaning and purpose in the face of tragedy, saying good words on behalf of our people.

The proper role of a preacher at a funerals is not that of a prophet heedlessly declaiming God's truth. Rather, at funerals the preacher is a priest. He/she is one of the grieving. The words of a good pastor are conditioned by his/her deep empathy with the ache and questioning of the grieving. The ultimate purpose of our words is not to declaim truth but to offer solace.