A funeral is not so different from a wedding; both are love stories
Image by iStock
Image by iStock
In its own way, a funeral, like a wedding, is also a love story. Both involve a ceremonial expression of devotion. But sometimes the love displayed in funerals has been more tested, and thus seems of greater depth. In most cases, it has weathered storms. It has probably been ruptured at some point, and perhaps restored.
That may be why I prefer funerals to weddings. At their best, funerals are exercises in truth-telling. The life is considered in its fullness and breadth. Essence trumps appearance, and reality trumps fantasy. The setting is undecorated and dignified. The clothes and voices are modest and respectful. Inwardness prevails.
In contrast, many weddings involve pretense. “This is who I am and who we are,” is the message, despite the exhibition of indulgence, exaggeration and impression management. One doesn’t often leave a wedding asking if anything has been learned or resolved. On the other hand, it is hard to leave a funeral without looking at one’s life and considering its direction.
I have been a rabbi for 38 years. I’ve participated in more than 200 funerals. None affected me as much as the virtual funeral I am about to describe.
I heard about Mark’s death two weeks ago. He was and always will be the son of my close friends, Ellen and Steve. Mark was a very promising young man who became mentally ill in his 20s. His decline didn’t become unrelenting until a decade later. For the past few years, Mark lived on his own, isolated and struggling, in San Francisco. His profoundly loving family stayed in touch and tried to help him, but without success. His demons had taken hold and weren’t letting go.
Two weeks ago, Ellen and Steve learned that Mark had been attacked while walking near his home, and he would remain in surgery for several hours in an unsuccessful effort to stop the cerebral bleeding.
Life support was provided, then withdrawn, and he died peacefully with dozens of family members “at his side” via Zoom. Holding vigil, they talked, sang, prayed and cried around him for the last five hours of his life.
Had Mark’s death occurred in “normal” times, his body would have been brought home within hours so that the funeral could occur according to Jewish custom, shortly after death. But not much is normal these days, and so the delay in bringing Mark home, while excruciating in many ways, allowed time to ponder the challenge of a Zoom funeral.
What emerged was the decision to include a vast network of friends in an online funeral at 9 a.m., to be followed a few hours later by a private burial.
Over 500 people logged in, and what many of us were dreading — the coldness of it, the distance, the warped-ness of trying to create intimacy in an onscreen event, did not materialize. Instead, we were all stunned that this virtual gathering felt personal and comforting.
Had we been able to convene in person, many could not have come because they lived too far away. Only a few who attended could have sat or stood near enough to witness the family’s love and pain. If the funeral had been in a chapel or hall, it would have been cold and unfamiliar to many. Had we been standing at the grave, there would have been weather, noise and movement to blur our focus.
Paradoxically, because we were each nestled in our own homes, we could be fully present. We could see the anguish of the speakers. We could cry and dab at our noses and eyes without being a distraction; we could listen without being interrupted by an undisciplined cell phone or by a not-so-hushed comment between adjacent mourners.
We could hear about Mark while his family was sitting in the room he had played in, laughed in, grown up in and suffered in. And we could see the confusion in each other’s eyes as we asked ourselves unexpected questions: How could this have happened? What don’t I know about the people loved by the people I love? How would I handle this tragedy with the grace, generosity and honesty of Ellen and Steve, remarkably intact even now?
It wasn’t only the words spoken and the expressions seen that were so powerful. As the ceremony was ending something unanticipated began: People started writing in the chat, thanking Steve and Ellen for sharing what legitimately could have been private grief. Some praised Mark’s kindness, gentleness and brilliance; others spoke about the cruelty of mental illness; many acclaimed Ellen and Steve for unflinchingly supporting their son through his torments; and many said how humbling it was to be present as the family wept through their final good-byes.
One after another the comments came in, and the silence took hold; we were quiet for 30 minutes. 30 minutes of looking at each other’s faces in the gallery as more and more comments filled the screen. Then, slowly the number of names and faces began to diminish. 450, 423, 380, down, down … silence, silence. We who remained didn’t want to let go. The stillness was redemptive: aching souls bonded, holding each other, no words or sounds, only stillness and transparency, Presence. 342, 295, 254, down, down … silence, silence. By 11, only four of us left. Not willing to let go of our brokenness, of each other, of the hope or belief in Somewhere where Mark’s soul is resting peacefully, where we all desperately want to meet again.
Lenore Bohm is a rabbi in San Diego.
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