I decided to visit

my own funeral.

I’d given little thought

to the plan

so, I guess, that’s

why it seemed slovenly

and lacked the crispness

that, for the most part,

was characteristic of my life.

 

None of my friends was there

but then I remembered

they died before me,

and recalled my attempt

at humor when alive by saying

if you want a big funeral,

you have to die young.

 

Even my beloved pastor,

who’d grown old with me

wasn’t there, because he’d

just died, too, from drinking

fouled cactus juice, and the

reprobate ringer in his stead

was making a mockery of my faith.

 

“Shut up!” I shouted,

and marched to the front

and threw open the closed casket.

It was empty.

I turned and asked

the wormy congregants,

“Where is he?”

 

Somebody said,

“We burned him.”

 

 From Allan Cox's collection, “In the Middle of Time."

Copyright 2009 by Allan J. Cox. All rights reserved

I wrote this poem four or five months ago in the way I do most poems—it just came to me. Then about three weeks ago I attended a half-day conference on, of all things, funerals, or better put, considerations for improving the quality of funerals, at least in the Christian tradition. The conveners of this conference believe, partially in overreaction to Jessica Mitford’s powerful book, The American Way of Death, we’ve lost our way in how we say the ultimate goodbye to our loved ones.

 The conference was a joint effort of Fourth Presbyterian Church of Chicago and Christian Century magazine. I was one of the very few among the 150 or so in attendance who were not clergy. John Buchanan, who’s pastor of the church and Editor & Publisher of Christian Century, told me about the day, its two speakers and that they would not disappoint. They didn’t. They each took their turn speaking and then sat down as a panel and ably responded as we peppered them with questions.

 Thomas Long, professor at Emory University in Atlanta led off with a warm, eloquent argument that what’s been lost in the current “celebrating the life of  Mary Smith” mode is understanding the funeral as (1) a sacred journey, (2) the gathering place is a sacred place, (3) those gathered there are a sacred community and (4) they’re to hold a sacred notion of the deceased. He urged “travel” as a baptismal journey; in other words the community goes to the burial grounds or crematorium and sees the deceased “saint” off to the next life.

 Thomas Lynch followed and had us howling—a leprechaun who’s a funeral director in Michigan and writes for the New York Times, his own wonderful books about his craft and exceptional poetry. He echoed many points of Long and persuaded of us that with the rapid growth of cremation we need to return to an understanding of cremation as being in the ancient cultural traditions of sacrifice and purification. He sets himself apart by enlarging his role and thinking theologically. He got me to wondering if the cold and industrial cinderblock crematoriums are candidates for replacement by enterprising newcomers.

 I can’t capture here what these wonderful men did with our thoughts that morning, but can point you to them if this subject has any pull on you.

Long’s link below is a piece in the October 6, 2009 issue of the Christian Century that’s an excerpt of his new book on the subject.

 Lynch’s link will show you his breadth and depth and how any family in the hands of him and his associates are the fortunate ones in such times of loss.

 http://www.christiancentury.org/article.lasso?id=7852   (Long)

 http://www.thomaslynch.com/1/234/index.asp  (Lynch)

 As a post-script, it turns out that in the short time since this conference, I have attended two funerals, both uplifting:

 One for my brother-in-law, age 88, an ex-marine given a military funeral at graveside, complete with 21-gun salute, folded flag, taps and Methodist preacher with heart. The sacred community, as Long puts it, hung around afterwards milling and talking, before heading to a reception at the home of the saint’s eldest son, the one given the flag by a kneeling young marine in full dress during the service. An engaging dramatization of the deceased’s warm gruffness by a daughter-in-law was also a center of conversation for many.

 The other was for mother to friends of mine from high school, a 98 year-old woman who suffered a heart attack in the birth of her third of four children, yet recovered and lived fully to this ripe old age. She suffered from dementia in her final years, and that third child, a daughter, was her main caregiver. She spoke proudly and candidly about the mixed blessing of these closing years and the glorious earlier ones of this spirited woman. A granddaughter spiritedly recited a poem she’d written about times they’d spent in her garden and dissented over which flowers were most beautiful! Again, we went as a sacred community to the cemetery to bear the saint off to her next life.