Grief observed, grief considered, grief meditated upon

I went to my Uncle’s funeral last week.  My Uncle Bill was my dad’s brother, his closest sibling in age, relationship and geography, and he was also my Godfather, someone who populated—along with his wife, Aunt Ruth—my earliest memories.  This was the first family member funeral that I’d been to in a long time.  I attended my father-in-law’s funeral in 2012; the only intervening funerals I’ve attended have been acquaintances or coworkers. As a child, I attended family member funerals almost annually for several years in a row—my mother’s family is cursed with some terrible genetics, as well as a propensity for smoking, drinking and over-eating.  In a way, I became accustomed to attending funerals:  the liturgy, the hymns, the weeping and remembering, but also the constant theme of comfort, the reminder that “we will see them again, and when we do we will be in heaven and no one will be suffering.”  I was inculcated with that message, and it impacted the way that I grieve.  When I attend the funeral of a loved one who died in Christ, I am able to unashamedly enjoy the company of the family I get to spend time with—we joyfully reminisce about the dearly departed, not just eulogizing but commenting on strengths and foibles alike, remembering quirks and annoyances just as readily as endearing qualities and memories of great generosity and kindness.  We eat and drink and laugh; we do not mourn as those who have no hope.  

As I’ve worked with a mental health professional in my adult life, I’ve realized that I do not process negative emotions as well as I could.  I hide my anger (and clench my teeth, jaw and neck….), I say that I’m fine when I am close to a breakdown, I don’t always say when I’m disappointed or when someone has let me down.  In many ways, it’s because I’m not fully aware of the complexity of what I am feeling; I don’t take time to appreciate the nuances and details of my emotions, the curves and edges, the boundaries and the depths.  I don’t take time to say “I am feeling frustrated, disappointed and sad because this person did not honor their commitment to me and they don’t appear to realize how big a deal it is.”  I don’t take time to say “I am feeling overwhelmed and anxious because I feel like there are too many challenges I have to overcome with too few resources and I need help.”   Because of my inability to fully process what I feel—especially the negatives—I am subject e to apparently “out of the blue” outbursts of irrational anger, followed by deep and sometimes suicidal depression.  These outbursts used to puzzle and disorient me, and dismay and overwhelm my family.  Hence the mental health professional.

In discussions about how I process negative feelings, I had lumped grieving into that same category.  I recall playing happily with my favorite cousin at our grandfather’s funeral and I assumed that I was shoveling down and disowning my grief in the same way I did my other negative emotions.  I believe that I was not taught by my family of origin to feel, dissect, own, articulate and manage negative emotions like anger, frustration, and disappointment.  I still believe this to be true.  I used to lump grief into that list of negative emotions poorly modeled, but I do not any more, not after this funeral.  I came to this funeral as an adult, with increased perspective and awareness of my emotions and also a desire to observe my responses and learn from them.  I observed intense, sincere grief—not disowned or buried, not denied or minimized, but grief that was real and fully owned.  I also recognized fully what I had suspected:  the reason my family grief is so infused with joy is because of the sincere and true hope of eternal life which is shared by my nearly universally Christian family. 

The sermon (not a eulogy, a real, full-bodied sermon) began with a phrase:  “We are all sinners.  Bill was a sinner—you knew it, I knew it, he knew it.”  Not something usually stated so boldly, particularly at the funeral of a respected retired pastor. But it was true, and a low susurration of chuckling went through the full sanctuary at these words.  The phrase ‘bull in a china shop’ could have been crafted for my forceful, blunt and often pride-filled uncle; he was often a difficult person to like.  But no one had to gloss over these realities for this funeral; we did not have to lie to ourselves and each other that Bill was “good” and therefore saved.  This funeral was all about the salvation by grace through faith that Bill—and all of us present—rejoice in.  This funeral was about Bill’s baptism into Christ’s death and resurrection.  This funeral was about Bill hearing the voice of Jesus Christ his Good Shepherd, the Shepherd who lay down His life for His sheep; and about how Bill himself served as an under-shepherd of God’s people.  His rough, loud voice made distinctive by his 50-year smoking habit was memorable to all who knew him—and that voice spent a lifetime proclaiming the good news of God’s love for sinners.  This was a funeral that reinforced to all the hearers the faith that Bill himself preached and taught:  our hope in Christ Jesus, our salvation from sin and our hope for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.

I had felt a prickling of tears at the viewing the night before, looking at my Uncle’s calm face and closed eyes in the casket, seeing the slideshow of old family photos displayed at the funeral home, reminiscing with my siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles, observing the grief of his siblings, children and grandchildren.  But the processional hymn the morning of the funeral triggered the greatest swell of emotion that I felt all weekend.  It was a combination of grief and the sadness of loss, combined with a groundswell of confident hope and joy.  The dichotomy of those two feelings was enough to make my heart ache, but the words of the hymn were really the source of the tears.  “For all the Saints” is an incredibly moving hymn even in neutral times:  the lyrics are simple but paint a powerful word-picture of the great cloud of witnesses, the communion of saints here on earth and in eternity; the music is powerful and easy to sing.  “For all the saints, who from their labors rest….”  On this day, the hymn was sung in a church building full of emotional people who love to sing, along with a procession of pastors determined to sing boldly and well.  The result was a deep, confident, resonant chorus of voices rejoicing together, singing a hymn with depth of lyric and composition.  I don’t think will ever be able to hear that hymn again without being moved to tears, both at the memory and at the meaning.

I may not handle all negative emotions well, but I believe now that I have been taught how to appropriately handle the grief of a death.  There is sadness, yes; no one ever told me not to cry, not to be sad.  There is sadness that I will not see this person again in this life; there may be regret at not seeing them more in this lifetime, or over other regrets; there is sadness at seeing the loss and confusion of loved ones.  But I do not grieve as those who have no hope:  I know that I have not permanently lost this person, only lost them from this vale of tears.  I will see my Uncle Bill again and when I do, he will be in his perfect resurrected body, clothed fully in the righteousness of Christ and no longer troubled by poor circulation and pain, shortness of breath, or a short temper.  Trying to grasp this reality is difficult in this life, but it allows me to face the grief of loss with hope.  I am not debilitated by grief, nor do I have to push it down and disown it; the hope that I have makes grief real and authentic, it also makes grief manageable and gives me a framework to process it.

In a way, I think that grief is unique among the negative emotions.  My anger, frustration and disappointment very likely stem from some sinful center—I’ve been thwarted, I’ve been shamed, I’ve been let down, my plans have been foiled or my expectations have not been met.  Grief is more pure than that.  Grief may represent a selfish sense of personal loss, but I also think that grief represents a push-back against the injustice of death:  this is not how things are supposed to be, this is really not the created order. Jesus wept when faced with the death of Lazarus.  Death was not how life was supposed to end, but death entered the world through sin; without death, sinful humanity would continue on a track of suffering and evil ad infinitum.  Death means there is an expiration date for sinful existence; after death comes judgement, and for those of us clothed in Christ’s righteousness it means resurrection to eternity in a redeemed body and redeemed creation.  After death, there is no more bondage to sin, no more pain, no more anger or frustration or disappointment, and no more grief.  I grieve because death is a personal loss for me; I grieve as I watch the sadness of my loved ones; and I grieve because death is ultimately not natural.  But my hope is bigger than death, because I grieve as one who has the hope of salvation and eternity through Jesus Christ. 

Amen.