Lavish funerals say little about a person
I am of an age when friends and relatives are passing at a frightening rate. I find comfort in their obituary notices in the newspaper; they are recognition of lives well lived.
But lately I have become upset with the nature of obits. Many are virtually full-page ads in heavy-set borders and extensive narrative.
These expensive public declarations are disrespectful to others, who get squeezed into the outer margins. It strikes me as tasteless, arrogant and self-important.
Most of my peers are just getting by on shrinking pensions. To be pushed to the margins by those who can afford to indulge in self-glorification is offensive. Whatever happened to human decency?
Occasionally I get a question that makes me want to yell “AMEN, brother!!!” This is one.
I have a secret for you. Clergy-folk, often from different faith traditions, talk to each other. And back in my day, a frequent subject was funerals. Some stories were sad, some funny. Did I ever tell you about the time the strap broke, and the casket tumbled headfirst into the rainfilled grave?
Or the time a dog knocked a pallbearer into the hole? Well, I digress. One theme, however, dominated more funereal clergy conversations than any other — and that was the theme of pretentiousness. Catholic, protestant, Jew, Muslim, whatever — every clergyperson can tell stories of over-the-top funerals, the primary purpose of which was to show off the prosperity and success of the deceased — or, more to the point, the wealth and self-proclaimed importance of the surviving family. Embellished oak caskets, limos lined up outside the church, coiffed funeral directors dispensing professionally embossed programs, name- brand vocalists, enough flowers to seed a horticultural garden — nothing was too much in these celebrations of “greatness.”
What was particularly humorous/ offensive was the way these funerals became competitive.
If old George had six limos, Harry needed seven — or, better still, a horse-drawn carriage. If the mayor attended Susie’s farewell, then Janet’s was scheduled so the MP could attend. And if the Bishop performed Marcel’s rites, then the Archbishop was, of course, required for Mario — after all, Mario was a great servant of Jesus.
And now that mentality has spilled over into obituaries. The bigger the picture, the blacker the border, the more effusive the adjectives, the longer the list of organizations to which the deceased belonged — all for the better.
“You think your father was great? Wait till I tell the world about my daddy.”
But there’s good news. Death is a great leveller. I buried some pretty rich, “important” people in my time. I did many more services for humble, kind, gentle “ordinary folk.” And I interred a bunch of bad dudes, too. At the end of the day, they were all in the same ground, or sliding through the overheated doors of the same crematoria. Rich or poor, successful or struggling, kind or nasty, the earth takes back its own, and those left behind are saddened and diminished. And at that point, the size of the picture makes not a whit of difference.
I don’t actually know if there’s a heaven up there. But I do know this: if there is, St. Peter doesn’t read obituaries. I also know this: “Bigger ain’t necessarily better.” Send your questions to star.ethics@yahoo.ca.