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Personal blog of christian
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The Purpose Driven Funeral?Let me go on record: I’m all about the purpose-driven life. And The Purpose Driven Life, for that matter. What irks me is the purpose-driven funeral. Yesterday’s funeral for the stateswoman Coretta Scott King is a case-in-point. I cannot for the life of me imagine a less appropriate venue for partisan infighting than at the memorial services for one of our country’s most beloved figures—unless, I suppose, Mrs. King or her children specifically requested (unlikely, in my opinion) that the various speakers (including former President Jimmy Carter) diss the current President of the United States, who attended to pay his respects. I miss the good, old days. When I was a kid growing up among Irish and Scottish immigrants, you could go to a wake or a funeral and expect certain elements to be present and accounted for: tears, laughter, the meloncholy singing of Gaelic tunes, mediocre food, and abundant booze. There was a palpable comfort in knowing that you wouldn’t be assaulted with someone else’s superimposed talking points, that even if a few things took you by surprise, the occasion would still be centered around your loved one’s memory. There were no attempts on the part of the bereaved to sanctify their dead beyond the point at which they’d been revered in life, either. In fact, all bets were off once the body had cooled enough to not fight back. In those days, those left behind often got down and dirty, talking about the dearly departed right to his (dead) face, making no bones about his many pecularities, faults, and sins—and occasionally, if rarely, even his strong points. At my father’s funeral 22 years ago, one of his best buddies came up to me to offer his condolences. My father, born in Scotland, and Mr. Bell, born in Ireland, had met in the 1940s, fresh off the boat. Mr. Bell knew my dad better than most, I guess. “I’ve never met a man who had better luck gambling,” he said. “Yes,” I agreed, though his comment startled me since it had been my belief that Dad stopped gambling when I was eight, after a particularly nasty run-in with some Italian businessmen. “He really was something, huh?” I hoped Mr. Bell would offer a bit more information, and I wasn’t disappointed. “That time he pocketed a quick ten grand was fabulous, lass, wasn’t it?” “Unbelievable!” I said. After swallowing that little morsel my father had somehow managed to hide from his family, I greeted an unfamiliar woman with genuine feelings of loss glistening in her moist eyes. “How did you know my father?” I asked. “He was my boss at the bank,” she said. “It was so nice of you to come…” I said. “He was a son of a b—-h to work for,” she finished. “Yes. Well…thank you.” You can’t buy that kind of honesty anymore, people. These days, you go to a funeral and all of a sudden you’re slapped in the face with an agenda suspect enough to make you take another look at the program to make sure you’re at the right church. You find out within minutes of entering the house of prayer that the deceased had ambitions, accomplishments, and principles you’d never imagined. Not only that, but you learn which charitable organization—the more controversial the better—he donated his fortune, time, and talent to, and you’re encouraged to follow his noble example. If he had extreme political leanings in either direction, you’ll hear about it now, and if he didn’t, someone will make sure you believe he did. What’s worse, you can leave a funeral completely confused about the person you thought you knew, because his name hardly came up in the service at all. Here’s what I think: No one’s story should be made better or worse in the moments after death than he would have told it himself in life. And no one’s funeral should be occasion for anyone’s else’s pet peeves, political persuasions, picketing, or profiteering. If it can’t be about the memory of the one who’s died—whether those memories are good, bad, or indifferent—then skip the whole thing. When I die, please, just keep it real.
Posted by Katy on 02/08/06 at 06:00 PM
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