There are many contrasting approaches to the arrangement of funerals, from the relgious to the secular. But after five deaths and four funerals over the last two years, it seems to me that the humanist way of death is the most salutary.
This is because it accepts one simple truth. Human life is constructed like a story. It has a beginning, high points, low points and then ends – definitively.
The humanist way of death recognises the fact that you will die and that when you do, that will be the story of you. From the viewpoint of a our human, third person narrative, isn't the idea of heaven a little irritating? A life, like a good book, should never end in: " ... to be continued." Life only really makes sense as biography.
In contrast, religious funerals, where a stranger usually officiates and witters on about heaven, often fail to commemorate a life well lived properly. Religious funerals can be a whimpering anti-climax.
When Uncle Heini died this month at the age of 99 there was a lot to celebrate about his life. He survived two world wars honourably. Heini was flamboyant and kind. In his 80s he was still travelling from Machu Picchu to China. He even went climbing in the Himalayas at the age of 85. Heini was a well-known actor and a famous clown in the Munich theatre.
But his funeral was completely out of keeping with this, and I blame religion and its obsession with the afterlife for that. It put a damper on an occasion that should have been far more representative of who he really was. The crematorium orchestra played Albinoni and Bach, an actress read out a poem, the theatre administrator gave a thoughtful speech, and then a Lutheran pastor stood up with a wan smile and gave her homily. It was full of religious platitudes. In half an hour Heini's divine reispass was stamped, his celestial ticket clipped. And that was it; curtains.
In contrast, the humanist funerals in our family were completely satisfying and eclectic. They looked backwards and allowed us to see the lives of our loved ones clearly. We did not need to look forwards towards some sort of puzzling postscript. Perhaps the last thing people want after a death, during the messy form of group therapy that is a funeral, is for some sanctimonious stranger to stand up and start talking about a the afterlife.
No one sang The Day Thou Gavest Lord is Ended at our humanist funerals, though there were moments of dignified silence, on the whole we made real fools of ourselves: we wept, we listened to Bheki Mseleku and danced to Baba Maal. We told stories, laughed, sang political anthems and "Dream a little Dream of me."
The point about funerals is that you are there to commemorate a life not indulge in metaphysical speculation.
I have heard many religious people say: "What is the point of life, if in the end it all comes to nothing?" But it is also valid to say that we live – and the very reason why we must live and try to fulfil our potential is precisely because we will die.
This is because it accepts one simple truth. Human life is constructed like a story. It has a beginning, high points, low points and then ends – definitively.
The humanist way of death recognises the fact that you will die and that when you do, that will be the story of you. From the viewpoint of a our human, third person narrative, isn't the idea of heaven a little irritating? A life, like a good book, should never end in: " ... to be continued." Life only really makes sense as biography.
In contrast, religious funerals, where a stranger usually officiates and witters on about heaven, often fail to commemorate a life well lived properly. Religious funerals can be a whimpering anti-climax.
When Uncle Heini died this month at the age of 99 there was a lot to celebrate about his life. He survived two world wars honourably. Heini was flamboyant and kind. In his 80s he was still travelling from Machu Picchu to China. He even went climbing in the Himalayas at the age of 85. Heini was a well-known actor and a famous clown in the Munich theatre.
But his funeral was completely out of keeping with this, and I blame religion and its obsession with the afterlife for that. It put a damper on an occasion that should have been far more representative of who he really was. The crematorium orchestra played Albinoni and Bach, an actress read out a poem, the theatre administrator gave a thoughtful speech, and then a Lutheran pastor stood up with a wan smile and gave her homily. It was full of religious platitudes. In half an hour Heini's divine reispass was stamped, his celestial ticket clipped. And that was it; curtains.
In contrast, the humanist funerals in our family were completely satisfying and eclectic. They looked backwards and allowed us to see the lives of our loved ones clearly. We did not need to look forwards towards some sort of puzzling postscript. Perhaps the last thing people want after a death, during the messy form of group therapy that is a funeral, is for some sanctimonious stranger to stand up and start talking about a the afterlife.
No one sang The Day Thou Gavest Lord is Ended at our humanist funerals, though there were moments of dignified silence, on the whole we made real fools of ourselves: we wept, we listened to Bheki Mseleku and danced to Baba Maal. We told stories, laughed, sang political anthems and "Dream a little Dream of me."
The point about funerals is that you are there to commemorate a life not indulge in metaphysical speculation.
I have heard many religious people say: "What is the point of life, if in the end it all comes to nothing?" But it is also valid to say that we live – and the very reason why we must live and try to fulfil our potential is precisely because we will die.
Life is the point of life, in my opinion, and I agree, the point of a funeral is the celebration of that life.
ReplyDeleteOf course there may be something, but as no one knows and they should stop pretending they do.
ReplyDelete